Krka. At least there's no Z or J

Today is our last day with the rental car, and we use it to the fullest, getting lost between the national parks of Plitvice and Krka.  At least when we stop to get directions, we also get to have some ice cream.  Thank goodness; it's probably been a whole 3 hours since our last ice cream, and it's time for an infusion. 

Krka, pronounced "Krka", is a beautiful national park in the same vein as Plitvice.  Travertine-lined lakes that reflect in shades of turqouise, picture-perfect waterfalls, sunny verdant forests, charmingly rickety wooden pathways, ferry boats.  But what makes Krka worth a separate stop is that you are allowed to swim!  Not everywhere, but beneath the main waterfalls, which is, frankly, where it counts.  There are plenty of people, but even the crowds can't diminish how amazing it is to swim here.  We are screaming to each other to be heard as we get close to the falls, and Anthony and I have to work hard to keep the girls attached to the safety rope, even though it is far from the base of the falls, because of the force with which the current pushes us all away. 

It is such a relief to cool down after so many days in a row of this heatwave!

Your Friendly Soviet Hotel

In Plitvice, we stay at our most expensive hotel, despite the fact that it is also our least elegant.  It is, however, both convenient and comfortable and in a place where you have very few choices, so I'd actually recommend it highly, were you to go to Plitvice National Park.  I stayed in many hotels like this 25 years ago, before Glasnost even, when the Soviet Union was still old-school, hard-core USSR.  So this Communist-era hotel, a massive cement structure with a distinct retro-futuristic soullessness, makes me feel completely nostalgic.

Yet the people are very friendly and helpful.  They are not sullen, petty, or power-hungry like the Soviet hotel staff I remember so well.  It confuses me, this Communist hotel in now-Capitalist country.  I'm paying $200/night for the room, yet I feel like it would be completely futile to complain about the mini-fridge, which is emitting so much heat in the mini-cabinet where it is housed, that it exactly counteracts any cold air it is producing.  The fridge is precisely room temperature, and not doing much for the fruit, yogurts, and milks we brought for the girls.

It is a vast cavern of a room, with hideous industrial brown carpeting, one queen bed, and a double-wide couch on which they lay sheets for the girls at night.  The bathroom is also quite large, and has a bidet that squirts P's dress, yet the air conditioning doesn't work, and there's no phone or wifi.  Still, it's just steps away from the entrance to Plitvice, and they have a buffet breakfast where the girls can make their own hot chocolates from an espresso-like machine, so we happily consider our Communist hotel home-sweet-home for two nights.

Crystal Clear

That old adage about enjoying the journey as much as the destination is certainly easy to embrace in Nacionali Park Plitvićka, or Plitvice National Park, where the paths are raised wooden walkways meandering through the landscape, and there are ferries and even a tramway for when you need shortcuts through the park.

 

Which isn't to poo-poo the destination.  We walk by and boated on an uncountable number of lakes and ponds in various shades of turqouise, thanks to travertine stone reflecting blue skies.  It's not a color you see too often in natural pools and reminded me of tropical beaches in Thailand.  And there are also an uncountable number of falls we pass, and they are truly divine.  We make it to the fun-to-say Veliki Slap, which literally means "The Big Waterfall," but I have to say that all the little ones along the way are just as picturesque.

 

 

(note from G:) Today I went to a national park and hiked next to a clear blue water later. It was so beautifull. We went on feirys and trains we also went in a cave.

Opatje

Opatje is the one place recommended to me by my Aunt, who has recently come back from Croatia and didn't, frankly, think much of the country other than this one city.  So we go out of our way on a day when we have a half a day to kill to come visit it.  To say we are less than impressed is to be far too generous.  It's called the "Riviera" of Croatia, but there are no beaches, per se, just concrete slabs jutting into the water for sunbathing and jumping into the sea.  The town itself is cute but unremarkable, and seemingly nothing but tourist restaurants and shops.  In half a day, not one of was moved to take a photo.  This is not a very interesting blog entry, because we didn't find it a very interesting town.  I'm just putting it here in case you ever think of heading to Croatia and hear raves about Opatje.  Let this blog serve as devil's advocate.  There are much more charming coastal towns -- and inland town, and beach towns, and tourist town -- in our view.

Oatia. It's Not the Same Without the CR

For our last dinner in Zagreb, we find (oddly) a Croatian-Asian fusion restaurant.  Try saying that five times fast.  Since Croatian-Asian fusion is too much of a tongue twister, I take to calling it "Cro-Asian."  The meal is just "Cr-OK-tian," however.  Anthony rolls his eyes at my punny critique.

We are driving away from Zagreb, through much of Croatia, in our little rental car, our wheelchair returned to the hotel and an old stroller taken in its place and jammed into the trunk.  The roads are well marked and relatively fast, other than the inexplicable traffic jam that has us literally parked and walking around on the superhighway and adds about 2 extra hours to what should have been a 2 hour drive.  The girls think it is a highlight of the trip to walk around on a highway.  G takes a photo:

On the radio station, we find Croatian country, which I immediately dub "Crountry."  Anthony is enertained neither by the term I've coined, nor by the actual music, so he changes stations and finds rock, which I, of course, dub "Crock."   This makes the endless tech music we've been hearing, especially in restaurants at night, "Crisco."  And that brings us to all of the hip-hop, which becomes -- naturally --  "Crap."  Anthony wants to "Crill" me right about now.

Varaždin

(note from G:) Today I went to a little village.  In the village was a fair and I bott a bird wislte at a stall.  It does 4 things: it's a bird wislte, regular wislte, a vase and just a decoraytion.

Varaždin (pronounced Va-ra-ZHDIN) is an astoundingly charming village with street after street of 18th century Baroque architecture (after the older town was destoryed by fire) that we can't quite see or photograph because it is covered with stalls for an annual fair.  We recommend a visit if you're ever in Croatia, but not on festival weekend at the end of August. The good news is that G manages to find herself a little souvenir.  However, we get a $20 ticket which would be a bummer, except that we are from San Francisco where we get $65 tickets simply for overstaying a meter by 5 minutes, so we laugh in the face of $20. 

Here is a photo of Varaždin palace, from the 12th century, the only thing in town not covered at the moment with craft stalls, slushee booths, or bouncy houses:

Involuntary Emotional Expression Disorder

Involuntary Emotional Expression Disorder, at least that's what it says when I look up "laughing at inappropriate times" on google.  And you know that if I found it via a google search, it must be fact.  So, it seems, our whole family is afflicted with IEED.  Today, we drive the rental car out to Trakošćan (pronounced Tra-KOH-shkahn), which is a 13th century fortress renovated into a Romantic-style castle in the 19th century.  It's a castle that really looks like a castle, if you know what I mean.  When we are trying to figure out how to pay for parking, we ask an elderly gentleman beside us, and he proceeds to answer for a good 3 or 4 minutes using dynamic vocal inflections but only the syllables "tibba-tibba-tibba-tibba-tibba."  I don't mean it sounds like "tibba-tibba-tibba-tibba" which would make sense, since we don't speak Croatian.  I mean it actually is "tibba-tibba-tibba-tibba" for several solid minutes.  By this point, we of course realize he has some sort of speech disorder, but we cannot extricate ourselves and must just wait for him to finish. 

Needless to say, we are all practically busting a gut trying to stifle our laughter, and now any time Anthony and I want to scold the children -- but not too severely -- we say "tibba-tibba-tibba" in a very stern tone of voice, and they both laugh and get the message.  Of course, "tibba-tibba-tibba" could be used in many occasions.  It's quite versatile. 

The castle is good and castle-y.  The girls are moderately interested, mostly in the fact that it's a castle, but less so in the interior exhibits.  Swords, armour, gory tales of past military glories -- all lost on our girly girls and, frankly, myself, and only Anthony really wants to stop and read all the placards.

There is a very steep hill up to it, since I suppose in those days one built something with an eye to a good vantage point and not the convenience of future tourists, some of whom would be pushing their 7 year-old daughter in a wheelchair after she twisted her ankle getting off the exercise bike in the hotel gym, because her father was not paying sufficient attention to her or to the signs that clearly stated no children under 16 were allowed on the equipment, thereby nearly ruining all vacation plans for the family, including for the mother who had put inordinate amounts of time into doing research and making reservations and was in no way to blame for the gym incident, and thereby inducing anger so profound she couldn't even speak to her children or husband for nearly 24 hours, and many times wished she could say, if only she were actually willing to speak to them, "tibba-tibba-tibba!"