Today I faced a choice: Serbia or Croatia. The Serbian route is shorter but I’d heard tales of mean wild dogs. Croatia is rumored to be prettier along this stretch but according to my map, it has landmines—a forceful reminder of the civil wars.
I said goodbye to Hungary in the only way that seemed appropriate: a final sweetbread and coffee breakfast while I considered my options.
Then I was off on a wonderful ride giddy as my wheels purred along well-paved roads past sunflowers galore while my imagination went in every direction.
I rode up to the route’s decision point. Straight on to Serbia, or right on to the ferry to Croatia.
I chose Croatia and I’m glad that I did. The country’s north-east is a world apart from the white sand beaches that “Croatia” evokes for your average study abroad kid, or your rich spring breaker, or, for that matter, your middle-class spring breaker who had extra loan money left over and chose to buy a ticket to Yacht Week. If that’s what a student debt crisis looks like then sign me up. 25 years of peonage is a small price to pay in return for two days on a drug and alcohol-fueled floating funhouse. But I digress…
After a quick ferry crossing, I explored the route’s last Hungarian town, a place called Mohacs that boasts a nice market, a pretty church, and some Silver-Surferesque statues. Lunch was had at the Spar in town: an apple and some hummus.
From Mohacs to the border crossing it’s mostly canals, small country roads, and a bit of hell road riding too. Today’s route unfurled through mostly poor towns with crumbling war-ravaged buildings pocked-marked from shells and shrapnel.
I came to my first hard border before I crossed into Croatia. I rode up past the semi-trucks to the border control window and took out my passport to get it stamped. The agent looked up over his glasses and asked in a thick accent, “Vayeryewh going?”
“Black Sea,” I responded in the weird half-accent I’ve thoughtlessly started using. I’ve somehow concluded the half-accent makes it easier for non-native English speakers to understand me.
Without looking up from the passport as he flipped through its pages, “And vayerdeedyewh come from?” But before I could respond, with his gaze ascending and his eyes widening, he exclaimed, “Dublin? On bicycle!? On THAT bicycle?!”
I laughed, agreed, and with my best Steve Martin impression said, “Yes, I’m a wild and crazy guy,” which is not a good thing to say at a border crossing. After a quizzical look, the officer stamped my passport and wished me good luck.
It was easy-riding from the border on through town after town to Osijek, which has a great river walk. I stayed at the Hostel Street Bed & Bike for 20eur. After unloading my things and washing off the day’s ride, I fired up the Happy Cow app and found a restaurant called Vege Legge, which I got to just before closing time. I recommend it for the hungry cyclist who wants big portions of veg food at reasonable prices.
Osijek is Croatia’s fourth-largest city at just over 100,000 residents so I explored it on foot after dinner. I took the river walk on my way to a wine bar called Vinska Musica where I enjoyed a local glass of Cabernet Sauvignon by Vina Belje, a Croatian vintner.
Not quite ready to call it a night, I walked mapless back to the hostel to see what I’d find. Lucky me, I stumbled into Gajba, a small craft beer place on a pedestrian strip. I ordered a Beckers Pale Ale upon the bartender’s recommendation after I’d asked for “a good local beer, please.” The verdict? Absolutely delicious— a perfect balance of fruitiness and bitterness.
I asked for the large because at this point, as has no doubt already become clear, this trip transformed me into a spendthrift, sugar-addicted, alcoholic. So much for the health benefits of cycling a few thousand miles.
Which brings me to final point of this already long entry: insofar as there can be one best thing, this trip is it…it’s been an immersive history and geography lesson filled with unforgettable trips with Abby, I’ve learned to better embrace solitude, it’s given me frequent chances to solve problems, I’ve learned how to camp and to tour, I’ve met strange people and made friends, I get to exercise all day every day, and I have the privilege to explore small towns that I will probably never see again…It is hard to believe it’s only been a month and a half. It feels like I’ve lived a few different lives over these six weeks.
The Day’s Miscellany
