Rijeka and Pula

Halfway between the land of dreams and reality, when I sensed that the bus had stopped, through bleary eyes I looked at my watch, saw that it was 0400, that it was drizzling outside, and that we were at some kind of terminal. We had paused for a few minutes in Rijeka (doesn't rhyme with Rebecca, as I heard another hosteler pronounce it later). When we got under way again, I understood why even though it's only around 70 km as the crow flies to Pula, the bus took another two hours. The terrain is hilly and the roads are winding in this Croatian province of Istria.

We reached Pula at daybreak. I found a bakery and had some strudel. There was no hurry, the hostel would not be open for a while. The driver of the 2e bus to Verudela (some names here sound a bit Spanish) very kindly indicated where to get off. I met another backpacker while walking towards the hostel. This was Kristin, an American who looked like she had Hispanic roots. I dozed on a bench until the reception opened. Then I dozed some more after being allocated to a bed. I was that tired. Cold weather and a long bus journey will do that to you.

The hostel has half of a little bay (with a pebbly beach again). The other half appeared to belong to some kind of holiday camp. In the picture to the right you are looking back at the hostel. Very nice location. I did very little that day, having lunch, trying out the water and finding it a little too cool, and napping in between.

There was a group of Austrian schoolchildren here on a study tour. Makes sense, Austria is within easy driving distance. I chatted a bit with one of their teachers.

In the evening while I was chatting with Kristin, Fergus joined in. He's a Brit about to take up a management post in Dubai and having a short break with his good mate Dan. They came in on a cheap Ryanair flight. Fergus is intelligent and articulate. Dan was too, but he also had an impish glint and grinned a lot. A people pleaser. Both were examples of the new generation of young Brits, not insular like the old stereotype, going out to conquer the world.

There was a trampoline court in the hostel grounds. One of the local girls practising was very agile, probably a gymnast. Dan had a go and did well too.

Fergus and Dan had a car that they had rented from the airport, thereby getting around the lack of public transport at Pula airport. Kristin and I were invited to dine with them at Punta Verudela, which is surrounded by resorts. We found a restaurant with a great view of a bay.

Towards the end of the evening, Dan got us into trouble in a couple of ways. Dan gave Fergus' mobile number to Kristin, while he was in the toilet, because she had mentioned that she might be passing through the Middle East later. Kristin called the number so that Fergus would also have hers. When Fergus got back he moaned and exclaimed oh no. He explained that back in London he had exchanged SIMs with his Mexican wife because he had too much allowance on his SIM. His wife was extremely possessive and would be very suspicious of a missed call from a US number. Whatever you do, don't answer your mobile if it's from her, he instructed Kristin. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the wife called Fergus, asking for his whereabouts. He explained as nonchalantly as possible that he was having after dinner drinks in Pula with Dan and a couple of travel acquaintances. No, he had not given his number to any Americans (which was technically true, Dan had, he had not). He could behave innocent, because he really was. After that we joked a bit about ruses to use if the wife really did call later, like Kristin answering the call with a prominent Southern drawl, asking for a non-existent person, and exclaiming daym, musta got the wrong number, sheyat!, but a shadow had been cast over the evening. In the event, it never happened.

Dan kept ordering rounds of liqueurs, finishing with a sickly sweet sambucca which was concentrated even more by being set alight while being poured between glasses. Very spectacular, but it was like drinking cough syrup. When it came time to pay, we discovered that the restaurant didn't take plastic. So Fergus and Dan pooled all the cash they had, including some foreign currencies, Kristin and I chipped in with a bit more and we scraped through. The maitre d' was quite accommodating. I fumbled my way back to the dorm, trying to be as quiet as possible, and crashed out.