Water and Wine


I went through days and days of fruitless rendering on the computer, on a pad, and in my head. Pages and pages of written words, prose or otherwise fill my sketchpads and computer files though none had the promise to speak aloud, they all just ended up drifting off into omitted corners of my mind and into generic file names like Firsttry, Secondtry, Fail#1, Fail#2.

I couldn’t get the words out that I wanted when writing about my time in the beloved city of Sarajevo. A city of nearly 370,000 people, tucked into the Balkans, regarded to some as the “Jerusalem of Europe,” so called for the cultural and spiritual diversity that line its cobbled streets. Shaded by the summer heat, ornate Mosques sprawl across the city squares with verses from the Qur’an emitting in the morning stillness. While down the street rise towering spires of Orthodox Christian Churches and further still exist Temples emblazoned with the Star of David.

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I wrote and wrote about its beauty and its great avenues filled with metalwork and the smells and sights but my inspiration ended there. I became disillusioned with my own prose, it had become empty and hollow, and I couldn’t rise above it until I realized my folly.

The only time that I am alone in my travels, is in urban settings, a city crawling with folks and yet I am all alone. Sarajevo would have just been another European city, but what made it special was the family that I had, and will still have there.

I was writing about a city like I was reading out of tour book, a city made of bricks and stone, shaded pavilions and wooden benches, the smells and the colors, and the beauty all around but what I was missing was the most important part, family.

So, here I sit in a cafe in Ljubljana, finally understanding after all this time, the secret to my happiness. That warmth and safety, trust and an ability to let your guard down for a little while was just enough to be able to enjoy Sarajevo.

Sarajevo. Just say it out loud. Sarajevo.

Its poetic, ancient, an incredible sound. I love it. I cannot say how many times I have told people that I was in Sarajevo, and it was my favorite European destination. The sound of “Sarajevo” in any conversation is always met with the same interested look, the sharpness of the ear, and then always the response, “Sarajevo, wow.” It is not vanity that has me reiterating the name, but genuine love for the place, and I earnestly do my best to steer everyone in the direction of the Balkan city.

In order to better grasp why I was there, perhaps an explanation into how I met this guy:

Alexandre Sasa Draganic, a real friend.


Several weeks previous, Tiffany and I parted ways for approximately a week, she to Italy and I, to nowhere in particular. Sitting in a cafe in Rijeka, with no direction and my inspiration to explore quickly drying up along with the contents of my beer mug on the bar next to me.

The waitress meanwhile asked me where I was from, and somewhere during this brief interlude it came up that my family was originally from Croatia and she asked where – I said somewhere inland. Boom. I had a week to kill in Croatia before Tiff returned, an inland adventure would be perfect. Settled. I bought a ticket the next day and headed out to Zagreb, capital of Croatia.

My time there was good, and it passed quickly. My last day there started like any other in an empty hostel, though there was one individual across from me reading a book. I hadn’t actually seen anyone read a book in a long while, I mean who has time for that when you have to check your tweets, email, and Facebook updates?

It started with a conversation about books, then evolved into travel, farming entered somewhere between breakfast and washing up, then on to wine, talk of Sarajevo and then a farewell. Sasa, as he introduced himself, struck me first as a good man and good friend, and we only knew each other for that single morning.


Three weeks later Tiffany and I were trudging through crowded streets, dirty peddlers, side-shop crap being sold at prices that make the eyes bulge out their sockets, with sweat in the air, on the skin, and everywhere that no one wants it. It was the end of our stay in beautiful Hrvatska, and we were ready to go anywhere to escape the hordes of camera-snappers and pavement pounders.

This was, if you remember one of my previous entries, after our two night beachside accommodations on blow-up mattresses and thunderstorms off the Adriatic in Makarska. Fed up with skipping from town to town, we were both ready to just sit somewhere and rest our weary heads and so on a whim, we went East into the Balkans and with the onset of another storm, we arrived in Sarajevo.

Sasa was waiting for us, we took a ride in a sleek Volkswagen Golf, the first automatic I saw in Europe, and arrived to a nondescript apartment complex. After several flights of endless stairs, we walked through the door and into another world.

Light poured in from recessed shelves, walls painted in a subtle hues, beautiful woodwork, clean and well-kept. It was warm and inviting and I could not wait to just sit on the couch with slippers on – Tiff and I couldn’t keep the smiles off our faces. After what we were used to, this was a palace. First night was damp and dark on the balcony, but with some pasta and a few glasses of Herzegovinian vintage, we quickly livened up the mood and with it our friendship began.

After a very good nights sleep, we woke up to a wonderful breakfast of fresh baked Kifles, they look more like croissants than the ones I’m used to back home but warm and with some butter they are delicious! Sasa’s mother Jasna makes an awesome eggplant spread, I think that’s what it was – named Avjar (correct me if I’m wrong, Sasa), along with jam and other dairy products this breakfast was the long-awaited/needed feast. Tiff and I dug in with ill-concealed constraint. Yum.


The Draganic family owns the first-opened wine shop in Sarajevo, named Vino i Delicije, right near the center of town and the river, down the street from the famous Sacred Heart Cathedral. It is a pleasant little place, much like their home, well done.

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I thought I knew about wine before I arrived in Sarajevo, but Sasa and his family made sure to give me a first-class education. It was well received and we made many nights full of twirling, smelling, sipping and studying the intricacies of each different vintage, mostly Bosnian-Herzegovinian wine that Sasa and his father, Stanimir recommended. My favorite was a new type that had a orange tint and smelled strongly of ripe cantaloupe – it was phenomenal.

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Sitting down in the living room, lounging after breakfast and before bed, was some of my favorite moments during my time in the Balkan capital. Sasa and his parents made Tiffany and myself feel just like family and it meant the world to us.

On those dreamy days, we walked everywhere. Into the hills, huffing and puffing with exertion, along the river past burnt out barracks and bullet-ridden apartments from the siege decades ago while new infrastructure sprung up in its place. Artwork, culture and lovely people lined the passageways in between little shops and through subtle corridors. We visited a shaded courtyard, with a tree in the center and vermilion pillows against old benches where a water pipe was placed on a table and we whiled away the day with the flavor of watermelon tobacco and magic tea on our lips, and the words of travel and adventure on our tongues.


Memory of this city is good, though memory of my friend and his warm family is better. I drank the sweet water from the fountain in the city center, a serious legend surrounds the mysterious draught, one which claims that visitors who drink the water will someday return to do it again. I have no doubt I will come back, though next time for a little longer and maybe, for a little more wine.




Budapest Blues

Placed safely in a refuge of Andersen’s Pub, the lights dimmed like that of a primeval cave and a fiery glow of sixty watt bulbs located sparsely along the irregular walls, I sit at a table that hums with the bass of a subwoofer on a wall ten paces from my left heel. Out of the corner of my eye stands the barkeep, himself in an obnoxiously tight plain white shirt, a tacky barbed wire tattoo vaingloriously strapped to each bicep. Behind him the creative names of cocktails omnipresent in the cavernous pubs that line the streets.

Equal parts engaging and confusing, these quirky concoctions are tagged Pink Musketeer, Woo-Woo Mission, Bitter Harem Bandit, and Stolen Suitcase. I reckon after two of these, the names either make perfect sense or just don’t matter, though I doubt I will ever have equal parts stupidity and desperation to try. If you ask me, keep it professional, whisky neat and if not, pour me a beer – though why ask the guy in the glasses sitting at the bar with his laptop open, his air askew and his lips slightly murmuring the words of his present thoughts – one of the mysteries of the universe, I’ll tell ya.

Aided by the seven sips of a glorious Hungarian draught, I am prepared to write a prose of the world which I have now found myself in. Lost for weeks in a state of complete contemplation yet little action, I have finally broke free of the proverbial chains and with a few figure eights around this huge town, a forgotten map and few sore toes, I am finally back.

I can barely see the keys as I type, though the wide rim of the half-liter that sits chilled on my right glistens with the reflections of dark wood, chalk boards and fellow pints on the wall. Outside this darkened cavern, the sun is shining brightly on the cobblestone streets, along the crumbling facades with balconies stuffed with ferns, blooming vegetable planters, and colorful annuals. The tree lined streets hiding the raunchy sex shops but accentuating the colorful cafes with their small tables, stools, and hand-drawn signs offering espressos, long coffees, and their own versions of the drinks emblazoned on the wall to my immediate right.


Days later, I reside in a cafe on the other side of the Danube, a floating beast strapped with ornate bridges of iron and concrete. I listen to pleasant jazz among recently dusted bookshelves laden with colorful books. The titles mean nothing to me, though by the look of faded color and worn spines, these novels have seen better days – this does not weaken the message within, only strengthens it.

People pass in and out, beaming smiles and crooked frowns past an old lacquered piano pushed into the corner and covered again with more books, papers, hats, and coats – this surface collects dust.
My feet are sore, despite the massage I received two days hence at the old Ottoman bath house that I explored for three hours or more. Packed with a pair of shorts, a towel and some sandals I disappeared into the pampered bowels of the spa, with its Ottoman dome and warm pools of soothing delight. Modesty is rarely used in these houses, as I went first to the shower and my cheeks turning a rosy glow I was reminded almost immediately of gym class in the sixth grade after wrestling. Strip down and go shower. With everyone else, who has stripped down as well.

Goddammn, well here we go.

Nothing like walking around socializing with everything out and about, kidding – no socializing – stick to your corner and do what you need to do. Put those modest shorts back on and head to the massage table and get a deep tissue rub-down, worked with careful and experienced hands, the knotted muscle melts down to a tender string, after months of walking and strenuous activity.

Sit up and go down to the cool baths, the one where you walk down a slowly descending ramp into the water, the legs of your shorts billowing with air and then finally make the long awaited glide into the water, the sensors on your skin crying out in a delightful sensation of fright and calm. Let the wave flow over you, cooling your body down and letting the blood in your carefully manipulated tendons do its work and repair the damage done.

The air outside the door is cold, as the glass enclosure opens to reveal storm clouds above and I, dripping wet from the pool skip lightly across the stones to the refuge of cedar rooms and hot stones. I sit down on the wood, after being greeted both by the cloud of steam from the sauna and by the gruff baritone of a pot-bellied local with an ostentatious yellow speedo and tattooed sleeves of marine animals baring their teeth running along his arms. My body feels enveloped completely by the warmth, my nostrils struggling to remain clogged, their stubbornness soon to be overrun.

The man who greeted me raises a small water bottle filled with clear liquid, says something unintelligible, and then offers me the vessel. I shake my head, clearly surprised that this fish-loving maniac expects me to take a swig of hard alcohol while sweating out all my toxins. I take it, in some realms it is pointless to argue, just accept and deal. I take off the lid, and give a sniff – my once blocked nostrils surrender soundly, a crushing defeat before the onslaught of peppermint shnapps. The man beckons me to the hot stones, and makes a dumping motion.


Less than thirty seconds later, I am getting high on peppermint infused steam rising wickedly from the corner. I close my eyes and let it sink in. Everywhere. Sweat pours off my body, origins unknown, I feel as if I just took a dip in the Danube but here I sit in a cedar barrel of steaming air, reaching a ethereal destination of peace and wholeness.

I greet the air outside with a sigh of relief, quite like jumping into the pool after a good soaking in the hot tub and its only to the showers that I go next. There is a large urn of ice in the center of an aquamarine-tiled room, with a pictorial sign that suggests the steaming man stick his entire head into the mountain of frozen water.

When in Budapest.

Laughing, I thrust my face in and like a true Norseman, rise up and bellow with ecstasy.


I rush into the showers to wash away the hazardous sweat before it dries on my skin and I come out refreshed, a new man.

Into the baths, a vast enclosure of red stone and worn columns from an age long past and the dome above letting the remaining day’s light through subtle holes barely noticeable from the rising steam. The great pool, a perfect circle with marble steps descending into the watery depths, greets my wandering toes.

I adore the sensation of self-control, knowing the warmth awaits but fending off the temptation to give in. I allow the urge to crawl, start to walk, and then into a full run, all through my body until I am near a point of breaking, with a smile I dip my foot in. Then the next stair and down into the warm water. I close my eyes and feel that incredible fire run through my corporeal being and then like the water surrounding me, wash away. I am left on the stairs, kicking my legs slowly in the water, relaxing with no sense of urgency. Loving the moment.


Tall walls and sweeping ceilings, a cavernous space with mats on the floor and a coffee maker in the middle. A natural meeting place, where words are passed around and ideas are grown. A bright young boy runs around the apartment in a constant state of metamorphosis, first a plane, then a honeybee, next he is scurrying like a wolverine and then rolling like a serpent across the lacquered floorboards and I sit observing with a smile growing at each new configuration.

Generosity and kindness has brought me into this beautiful place, by the whim of my hosts, one man and his son, who have shown me the beauty of this city does not solely reside in the grand stones on the main square but also in the small places behind doors and around corners. Bursting at the seams with wisdom both past and present, the father is a chiseled version of an unknown sage who allows himself the freedom to blossom with his son, and allows his own inner child to still roam free – walking more than 40 steps on his hands whilst listening intently to opera. I’ve only known him for two days, but each time I leave the place I still have a residual smile spreading across my face. A good sign, methinks.

There is a lesson in each experience. Here and there, I accrue these thoughts, ideas, and formulas to improve my life. I have learnt more hard truths about myself in the last four months, done more crazy things, made more mistakes and solved more problems than I ever had in that span of time. Traveling solo has opened me up to possibilities previously unknown, unexpected, and soon understood.


Two gentlemen sit idly across from me, an American on the left by the sound of his accent, though often enough folks nowadays are taught english with an American accent making their own lilts indistinguishable – its so close to the real thing that I am taken aback that they are not native. Regardless, his grasp of the language is good and he seems to have a gentle demeanor, silent and listening, with that lean look that often comes with a hard traveled life. The individual next to him seems younger, his clothes more ruffled, a shadow of a beard scratches his chin and his eyes are searching, seemingly wanting to speak, speak, speak. The quiet American looks on, waiting, marking short notes in his journal chuckling to his mate’s jokes but has that faraway look of someone thinking about two things at once, not fully engaged.

I am currently sitting in another coffee shop, this one with books around it as well but the tables don’t match, the chairs are different heights and it looks, to my delight, that the bench that I am now resting on is a pew from an old church. Considering the alternative, its in a better place – one of inspiration, smiles, dusty volumes picked up by curious hands, perused by interested eyes.

Last days are always the most emotional, saying goodbye, making sure you did enough in that particular place to make your stay worth it. Budapest was a beautiful place to spend this week, an entire week I was here and another will be spent at a farm west of here near the Austrian border where I will be living in a round house with a wood fire and have two dutch volunteers for company. They have quite the work to do before winter and with the cold approaching, they are hard-pressed to complete it all.

As for now, I think I am going to purchase some peanut butter and jelly for the week ahead, maybe even a little chocolate to get me through the hard work. One can never have too much chocolate after all.

My next and long-awaited entry will be in regards to Sarajevo, the favorite Balkan city with hidden mysteries, and a conglomerate of culture, love and beauty unrivaled in Eastern Europe. It took me only the beauty of Budapest to realize the great beauty that was Sarajevo, and my inspiration to write about my memories there. So after zig-zagging across Europe, I am leaving this side of the world after months of travel and into the West I will go. Wish me luck.


Zig Zag

I spent the whole of yesterday on the roadside trying my luck at extremely low-cost transportation by sticking out my thumb to passing motorists. With me, holding hand made signs and jumping up and down excitedly were a group of hippies from the Rainbow Festival on there way South, a pair of caffeine addicted Venetians obnoxiously waving a Hungarian flag and praying on their knees in supplication to passing cars, and the most surprising of all another American, from Rochester. From Rochester! No names were addressed, no use for that as each person gets lucky and the next drives away.

I waited at the exit of McDonalds on the M1/M7 split. I was told by Hitchwiki.org (a fabulous website designed as a cyber encyclopedia for Hitchers all throughout the world on what are the best spots, how to be safe, and how to have a good time), that this was a good place, and for all the rest it was. It was my first time ever hitch hiking and I learned quite a bit about the process, the first of which is – if it moves, take it. Second is, you have to be flexible and the third and the most important is hope, motivation to continue standing and waving, smiling, jumping, soliciting, talking, and thumbing. Patience is what drove me there.

I stood for six hours, by the time the sun set and all the rest had gone, I shouldered my pack and returned to the city. I would be lying if I didn’t feel defeated, my signs rolled into the pack and my thoughts drifting toward the negative. I walked back through the city, under glowing lamps and cracked sidewalk, until I stopped.

I physically could not walk another step.

Not for lack of energy, I was just tired of the negativity that seemed to flow through me so well and the positive so absent. I vowed right there in the bus lane not to take another step until my thoughts and my actions were positive. I have to admit I was standing there for a while, luckily this particular road was closed for construction and there was no passing cars.

I look down at my feet, a white line stretches into the distance, not straight but a zig zag. Back and forth, side to side, backwards and forwards again – there is progress. Like my failures, there are successes and eventually I will reach my goal.

I can buy a ticket on a train, I can rent a hostel, eat at a restaurant – but what the heck is the fun in that? Why not couch surf for free, volunteer with HelpX.org or WWOOF.org, cook your own food and stick out your thumb on the motorway. I am in search of a good story to bring back home – a mission that I have learned has more potential than the romantic dream to farm across Europe. Injecting myself into the lives of people in a car, in an apartment, on a farm has allowed me move out of my delicate cocoon of comfort and into a world of danger, fun, love, romance, safety, interest… keep this going.

With this in mind, I am now going to be helping out with Autumnal duties on a farm in Hungary, a small town named Szentgotthard, right near the Austrian border. Two Belgians are building an organic goat farm, with over 300 horned creatures, milking, gardening, splitting wood (my favorite). I am not headed to Prague after all, and that is okay for me – perhaps I meet up with some friends in France after seeing Slovenia and a speck of Italy. Stay flexible, be patient, and keep trying to find a good story – and you’ll be fine.

None madder than a Nomad.

Striking out from Sarajevo, on my own. That was a big step.  I hadn’t realized the gravity of the situation I was voluntarily injecting myself in until it was too late to go back. On board a bus full of folks that knew not a lick of English, heading to a city in the Balkans that I knew nothing about. In the rain, as we moved further and further from the coast, the traffic signs quickly switched from pronounceable to impossible. Cyrillic. Looks like a bowl of Spaghettios all clumped together.

Belgrade, a city dominated by block buildings and concrete palaces reminiscent of state universities in New York, was a waypoint on my travels to Bucharest. Rain clouds met me there, and from the warmth that I was shown in Sarajevo another wholly different experience greeted me. My impressions of this city were of friendly and beautiful people that somehow tolerate the vastness of the depressing lego-shaped metropolis. Blah.

It was only when I arrived in a small town named Vrsac, on the border of Serbia and Romania, that reality began to sink in. Fresh off the bus, and into the station I went ready to buy a ticket to Bucharest. My momentum was visible, as I was ready to leave this country. The nice lady at the desk spoke not a word of English, not a word. Hand signals and charades, the preferred method of communication in a land of broken tongues and impossible syllables.


“No, no.”

Oh dear. Maybe you just said it wrong. I mimed a picture of a rectangular bus, and pointing the boxy vehicles outside to emphasize my explanation.

“Karta, ticket, Bucharesti, molim.”

“No no no,” waving her finger at me.

I snapped around on my heel, searching for some help, a young guy on the bench adjacent the window on his phone.

“Excuse me, is there a bus out of this station to Bucharest?”

After a rapid series of exchanges between the two natives of the town, he shook his head and said there is never a bus out of Vrsac to Bucharest.

Oh, that’s awesome news. The folks in Belgrade were all so confident that Vrsac buses to Bucharest came and went every thirty minutes. Figures.

Sighing, “Okay, how can I get to Bucharest?”

“Uhh, choo choo.” My translator was making a churning motion with his hands,”Choo choo.”

“Train, right. That can take me to Bucharest?”

All I got in return was a shrug as he was putting his headphones back in his ears, obviously intent on blocking out the world.

Wow. Gotta love Serbia. 

Turns out that the rail station is on the complete other end of town, and with 35 pounds strapped on you, its a nice little workout under the beating sun. The conversation at the train station was strangely similar to the bus station, however the teller did help me make a connecting route to Bucharest, though it cost me ten more Euro to do so. Worth it, but I did have to wait seven hours for the train to arrive in a deserted bus station in the middle of nowhere.

The train station was quite literally a museum, unintentionally of course. Cobwebs and dusty floors, wooden doors that stand twice as tall as I, Austro-Hungarian architecture and a failed attempt at a paint job, as the plaster crumbles down to nothing in places leaving it look more like a bomb shelter than an public building. Vrsac, at one time, was home to a large amount of wealthy merchants, though now its a forgotten stop, among many in the Balkans, to larger cities like Bucharest or Belgrade. The platform, as seen below looks like it just survived a barrage of mortar shells, but perhaps it gives the place its character – cleanliness and perfection can be really lame sometimes.

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Four hours in, hungry and unwilling to shoulder the pack for a jaunt to the supermarket, I sat thinking in a puddle of my own anxiety and misery of the coming train ride. All I have heard of Eastern European trains was typically negative. Broken down pieces of scrap, with horrible seating arrangements and even more horrifying toilets. I was warned by a German girl in Belgrade, not to fall asleep on the train, lest you get mugged and not know about it, she called it adventure. Excellent.

I spoke out loud in the train station to no in particular. “Keep me safe. C’mon, this sucks and I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m not even sure if the guy who sold me this ticket knows what’s going on.” Talking to myself seemed to calm me down a little and I managed to sit on the hard bench without my leg bouncing up and down.

Its funny how things work out, why things happen and when. It was when I sat down and stopped worrying, when I lived now that help and guidance came in a most interesting mode nearly an hour later. As I was watching Bourne Supremacy on my computer, quite alone and trying to burn time I hear a voice come out of nowhere. Its certainly not Serbian, its English.

“This here the train station?” The voice asked.

Afternoon sun was blasting through the doors and into my eyes, this English speaker was a silhouette with a vast circle of light around him.

“Uh yeah, yeah.” I answered haphazardly. “Where you headed?”

“Well, Bucharest but there ain’t no teller.”

“I’m Bucharest too.” I couldn’t believe my luck. “Train leaves at 1830, we got oh…” looking at my watch, “two and a half hours. Should be a teller coming in about a half-hour, you can buy one then.”

“Well, I’m glad I ran into you. I was searching this place up and down left to right trying to find the entrance. Actually, I arrived on a bus and they told  there’s no bus to Bucharest.”

I chuckled and shook my head, agreed and made my introductions. Traveling the world, Rus is a Western Canadian with a good ole accent and a plenty of good stories. He arrived in front of me in a time of need, and one can only think that he was sent to me form some unknown power, that’s at least what I think.

The train ended up being electric, smooth-lined and fast, and completely unlike any I have seen since. In the words of Rus, most of the trains around these parts are “clickety clacks,” beat up old junkers that get you from point A to point B, certainly no Oriental Express.

At seven the next morning, we arrived in Bucharest. End of the line. Rus and I ended up joining up for a bit, got a hostel and kicked back.

Life is good, this story is over but I will keep on writing. I have plenty more to come.

Drum Bun!


Homeless in Dalmatia

 My recommendation with this passage:

There is something great about listening to St. Germain under the shadow of old stone walls carved two thousand years ago, with a cup of coffee and watching a soup of folks stroll on by. Draped in color, both drab and dazzling, with smiles and scowls in their heads and the dust of desire in their hands.

There is something about sitting at a table, all to yourself and watching the waitress trapeze through the crowd like some lithe tightrope walker, the tray of drinks held precariously above her head, only her fingertips pressing the underside and gravity doing the rest. With practiced skill and centrifugal force, she glides through and with a few narrow misses comes to a graceful stop in front of a table lined with thirsty visitors from foreign lands, their speech both harsh and supple.

Something about traveling, observing the people that walk in and out of your life in mere moments and the striking memories you somehow retain despite the lack of contact or purpose. And those that you lose.

Writing has become a practiced therapy, one that allows me to unwind from the rigors of movement, traveling from place to place, never having a permanent place to rest my head. My interim homelessness has allowed me liberation, and the ability to see the world from a different angle.

An angle that often presents itself while moving, looking out of a bus window or walking down the street with a heavy pack on my shoulders and lost in thought, I have these chilling moments of absolute lucidity, where an idea surfaces from the choppy waters of my mind and becomes calm. If I am walking, I typically run down whoever lies in my path, except for light poles – they don’t move.

The last two nights landed us in Makarska, and under the stars we found respite. Luck, often absent, gave us two blown up air mattresses and a deserted beach, the rest we managed to sort out with a sleeping bag and some piled luggage. With a soft breeze off the Adriatic, we slept for two nights on the Makarskan beach. It was an unbelievable experience. The first night yielded perfect weather, a clear sky and warm early hours. The next, presented flashes of lightning, quaking thunder, and a thick blanket of rain from which we sought refuge in a cafe down the way.

At midnight, the wind began to pick up, enough for both of us to wake up from our deep slumber on the Adriatic. Groggy from the passage through REM, we shook awake at the first rumblings of thunder and the increasing wind. Protected by a great wall of basalt that stretches into the ocean, our spot on the rocky beach was assumed to be a bastion of safety. Though Nature had other plans.

Tiffany arose and was gone in moments to find us shelter with her headlamp aglow, while I sat there like a fool trying to wrangle the straps on my sandals while stuffing my sleeping bag into my 70L with little success.

“Tiffany!” Goddamn bag. “Tiffany! We gotta go! Now!” Screaming into the wind was like yelling into a pillow, no dice.

Our inter tubes, like parchment in the wind were threatening to blow down the beach. With some serious effort I managed to lay a couple small boulders on them as anchors and with one last heave, zipped up my bag and threw it on my shoulders. Cursing at the sandal that was only half on my foot and the heel digging into the only sharp stone on the beach, I turned around quickly to a panting Tiffany who effortlessly threw on her pack and pointed South to the caffe-bar down the way, its faux palm leaf room rustling dangerously with the rough gale.

Limping and furious, I resumed my taunting of whatever Storm God I could get out on my lips whilst the wind was nearing hurricane strength. Despite all this, the environment was spectacular. I realized with sudden clarity that even with the pain underfoot and the inconvenience, that this was a moment I would look back on with love.

And so it was, the moment we took shelter, the sky as if on cue opened up and poured. A deluge, harder than I have ever seen it rain. The storm was furious, but our haven warm and dry. At the base of a bar I slept like a baby, the sound of rain hitting the roof with hard strikes. The nice gentleman that was working the night shift graciously allowed us in and granted us shelter. We never got his name, his hospitality was enough.

In that moment, under the bar and during the night I felt entirely homeless. A man without a place to call home, a complete fool for thinking the clouds over the sea were not thunderheads, and so in love with this new and exciting life I found myself in. None of these thoughts were enough to stave off the exhaustion however, and I fell fast asleep.

The next six hours were not exactly the best I ever had but what the hell, that’s life, and this experience will remain one of the most colorful I have had yet in Croatia and in the world. I wanted adventure, so I get what I asked for.

I am leaving tomorrow for Sarajevo, there perhaps I will find some measure of fulfillment off the beaten track with home-cooked meals, good conversation, and sound company. I think for now, I have seen what I wished to see in Croatia. This place is far too stunning to be left alone for too long and I know for certain that I will be back, there is far more to explore and learn.  I think that the winter would be a better time, and I hear Plitvice Lakes are stunning while covered in snow and ice.

The most difficult moments are often the best memories. Something to keep in mind if you are looking to grow, open yourself up to new possibilities by experiencing the unknown and confronting your fears.

As for now, its an old Roman ruin I must explore and some octopus pizza calling my name.

All my best from the Dalmatian Coast,



A self imposed sentence, isolation in a world of too many people standing still and too few walking through. I find myself in paradise, though with gentle thunder tailing my weary feet, I walk on past the stately palms and the warm water without a backward glance. I want a challenge, I want to bask in my sweat and feel the fierce gale off a mountain. I want soil beneath my feet, pavement be damned, it is to this Earth I am bound.

I meditated on my purpose here, anywhere. After the tenth breath I knew full well that I don’t need such trivial things to drive me forward. It is the people, the nature, those delirious moments of astonishing beauty that drive me to the edge of weeping and then cast me back with the force of a tidal wave. That is what grants me the energy to drive onward; press me harder and I will walk until my legs are shaking and my mind drifts to the other side.

I fully accept the path I have chosen, and after a million steps in one direction then perhaps I will know what it is to live. Travel the world, cast away your riches, and seek the true faith – yourself.

Croatia has been one beautiful moment. Nearly one thousand kilometers of travel. Roman ruins and beaches that make your jaw drop as the sun begins to set and shines like a golden mirror across the Adriatic. Modern derelictions, unlocked and tucked into the rocky hills and crowded epicenters filled with cheap goods and rich laughter. I have met the right amount of people and seen the correct number of things and in my final moments here, before I begin the rough journey into the interior, I am sitting on the coast drinking light beer and contemplating how in the world am I supposed to put these incredible experiences into words. Perhaps I need something stronger.

Not likely, a clear head and a sober step has become a good way to travel. Photographs will do the talking for me.

Sarajevo bound in a few days, a city which survived the longest siege in modern history is beckoning me to her. Over the Balkans, past tarnished towns and rough road, into the hinterland I am headed. A chance meeting in Zagreb led me to a new friend and now a gracious host in this beautiful city. Rebuilt and stunning, I am itching to leave the coast and go inland. Something draws me to the mountains, away from the water, and into the Earth. 

Keep moving, 


Endless Sun and a Fist Full of Weasels.

I do not think a broad description of Croatia would do this spectacular country the justice it deserves. Seduced and in love, I have been willingly coerced into writing an sweeping treatise on the beauty, the people, the food, the drink, and the experience of my Istrian adventure. So get comfortable, pour yourself a glass of wine or a pint and celebrate the land of my ancestors and perhaps your own.

Like Norway, I arrived in Croatia with a thunderstorm tailing my steps. The sky darkened, and I with an overstuffed pack weighing heavy on my shoulders made a split second decision to either walk to the BnB in which I would be staying the night or take a cab. It took the cab-driver standing on the curb a total of three seconds to realize that I was indecisive, aware of the encroaching storm, and an American. It was the hat, he later told me in broken English – the crushable cowboy hat I bought from Duluth Trading Co, vented and comfortable,  which makes me look very American.

Before I knew it, my bag was stowed safely in the trunk of a Citroen C1, and myself riding shotgun with the window open enjoying the warm Istrian air. A wooden rosary and a picture of Michael the Archangel encased in plastic twisted around each other and swung in unison around a turn as the cab-driver started speaking indiscernible Croatian, his gold ringed hand resting lazily on the five-speed stick, and my eyes taking it all in. I am in Croatia, this is unreal. Lines of fig trees and their adolescent fruits, the roughened bark of the sycamore and spiky pomes of the chestnut tree stood along the avenues.

The address I had scribbled on a crumpled receipt said Ulica Marsovog, Pulja 13. Nearly as impossible as my cab-driver’s dialect, was apparently the location of my lodgings. With a look and an expression of bewilderment, my gold adorned motorist slammed on the brake and cursed.

U-turns in Croatia consist first of frustrated expletives under the breath and then a violent turn of the wheel, typically a nice little impact with the chipped curb comes next and then a renewed round of cursing, barely a glance behind before the gas pedal is slammed down hard and the pull away at an impossible break neck speed. Passersby will get a show, and perhaps a colorful series of hand gestures coupled with a vocabulary lesson in advanced expletives. So far a colorful experience.

At last, as the sun was disappearing under the horizon we found the desired location. The faded number “13” stood beside a half-opened gate and beyond a vast garden, verdant and colorful. This was the place. The meter rung 140 Kune, an exorbitant amount in this affordable country, and the most expensive purchase I have made so far in my travels here. I paid him, and walked through the gate and away from the approaching rain clouds.

Thunder and lightning and true darkness, with the television blaring in the next room I sat at the kitchen table with a full plate of heirloom tomatoes, a loaf of bread and a glass of homemade wine. Spicy on the palate, but warming to the heart, the vintage was a welcoming surprise. My host did not speak a lick of English however the language divide did not stop us from erupting into laughter after a considerable series of hand-signals that would make a mime sweat. It was a strange, but apt introduction to Eastern Europe.

Later that night, a close friend from the states, Tiffany, met up with me. Exhausted from travel, upset plans, and adaptations that only come from the journeys we take in foreign lands, we were tempted to pass out, but not before walking in the rain through the nearly deserted streets of Pula to grab a “zima pivo” and a pizza. That cold, golden half liter of Istrian fable was enjoyed in the proximity of the ancient Roman forum, among stone walls, scalloped balconies, and wrought iron porticoes. Cobble stoned streets worn smooth from millennia of foot traffic shone like mirrors after the short-lived rainfall.

My first impression of Croatia was of an antediluvian modernity, a constantly contradictory appearance that is both beautiful and charming. Thousand year old stone above illuminated shopping malls, sycamore lined promenades with caffe-bars in the shade and motorcycles parked symmetrically down its length. Generosity and honesty is a common occurrence here, at a word these people will give you the shirt off their back and instead of a complicated list of directions, will act as your personal guide to your desired destination.

Everything here is so damn cheap, I love it. There are stands for homemade beer that are poured into mismatched 1 liter water bottles and then sold for a scrapping four dollars! Wine is sold the same way. Fruit trees line the streets, where unripened figs dance lazy in the wind and apples, though tart, hang seductively out of reach. After Norway, I look at the prices and realize with shock that a nice shirt costs 40 Kune ($8.00) and a half liter of beer runs me no more than 15 Kune – about $3.00! The croatian currency is the Kune which according to my couch surfing host is the word for “weasel,” whose pelt a hundred years ago was worth quite a bit. Right now, I got a pocket full of weasels and a whole country to explore.

Fish, though whole heartedly delicious and amazing, may be the most unflattering meal you can order in Croatia. Grilled whole after being fished from the sea, and put on a silver tray in front of you, its abysmal eyes stare up at the encroaching hands ready to tear it asunder. I made the first mistake of using utensils, later I found out that the only proper way to eat fish, is to use your hands. Rip off the scaly epidermis to reveal a buttery and meaty under layer, rife with vicious little bones that must be picked out of your mouth like sunflower shells. The skin is rather salty and actually really delicious, though not recommended for the first bite as it is a little tangy.

So much has happened in the week since I have left the North. The southern territories sparkle with life, and the beaches beckon you to their watery depths – the Adriatic is almost therapeutic though extremely salty and I cannot get enough of that clear water. The people are so healthy, browned by the sun, and always wearing these endearing smiles. An oddly enough, almost all the middle-aged men look like Uncle Marc – I often do double takes when they pass me on the street. I have so much more to explore, though for now, this passage and a few choice pictures shall suffice.





There is redemption to be found on the farm, atonement from civilized life. No plastic, no preservatives, no veneer of authenticity but a true form of life. It exists in the dirt, and the great stones that rest quietly in the woods. It is a place to wear no shoes, to bathe in a frigid torrent with quartz running underfoot, to be silent in a room full of people, to enjoy the simple things and to laugh. Frugality replaces excess, hard work ousts boredom and laughter supplants loneliness. Met with life as soon as you wake, the farm is a binding force that I will miss as I move on, to continue my travels elsewhere.

In a tribute to the farm, this is what I will miss most about the old place, in no particular order:

  • The people, volunteers come and go and they are all spectacular people, but Dan and Hanna remain to be two of the most peaceful and wonderful people I have yet to meet – it was a perfect first experience on the farm.
  • The viking baths, the jaunt down to the great pool down below the farm and the heart-stopping cold that greets my body as I plunge under the water to wash off the sweat and dirt from the day’s work – a true Norse treat.
  • The food, the simple oat porridge in the morning and the bread at lunch with the multitude of condiments – the wonderful peer pressure to “try it before you knock it,” which is part of the reason I now love mackerel – yum!
  • The stones, mysterious and ubiquitous their presence is both massive and complacent. Covered in moss and stubborn with gravity, their giant bulks dot the landscape around the farm and tickle the imagination as homes of gnomes and fairies alike.
  • The mornings and their peaceful silences with the shadows in the valley rubbing across the hills below, until the screech of the rooster breaks through of course.
  • The animals, the rabbits with their oblivious demeanors, the chickens and their spunky attitudes and that gloriously pompous cockerel who I actually have come to like (until he attacks me and then all I want is fried chicken).
  • The work, yes the work. The reason I am there in the first place. From thinning vegetables, to mulching the garden, making tool handles and drying hay – all has made me a better man and a healthier human – hurrah!
  • The weather, a beating sun can quickly change to a torrential rain. This quick reversal makes me appreciate all forms of weather, and their incredible power, on the top of the mountain.
  • The nature, and its perplexing beauty. From the dense woods to the open meadows, nature is Norway’s greatest entity and I have faith that it will remain this way in the hands of people like Dan and Hanna.

The list, like making hay, could go on for a long time but for the sake your sanity and mine I will let the pictures do the rest of the talking as they so often do. For the moment, the fields are being cleared as hay season has come into full tilt. With an intensity that is only made greater by the beating Norwegian sun, all able hands flock to the fields to make hay out of grass.

With practiced skill and callused hands, grass is sliced under the roaring hum of the antique tractor and scooped up with pitchforks, their handles worn smooth by decades of heavy use. Hay racks constructed from spruce saplings and wire, we often work in silence, only the sound of pitchfork tines scraping the tough stalks of grass and the occasional sneeze from the hay dust drifting in the air.

My travels are taking me next to Croatia – the land of my ancestors – and to a much warmer, Mediterranean climate. As much as I cannot wait to see this new place and gain new knowledge and experience, it is the farm that I must enjoy to the fullest now.

As always, be mindful, live in the moment and travel well.




Muttering a stream of curses under my breath, as my forehead makes contact with the solid doorway frame above, I stumble out of the barn in a daze. Bucket in hand, I set out to find some fresh greens for the animals that eagerly await my return.

Such is the typical morning at the farm, open my eyes and fumble around for my glasses whilst knocking over a candlestick and the book beside it. Smeared and dusty, I huff and I puff to rub them clean and then haphazardly place them on my head. The scene that lays before me in perfect detail, is my room. Spartan in nature. there is a hand-crafted bed, a hastily constructed set of shelving, a table and chair and a Jotul wood stove. The walls are barren except for a small mirror for shaving my near beardless face, and a sun-drenched picture of a young girl in a garden.

I get up with a groan and look at my phone, its 0730 and time to feed the animals. I hastily throw on some clothes, bringing them to my nose in order to test their cleanliness.

Sniff. What is that, horse? Dirty bin.

Sniff. Ehh, wood sap? That will do. With a shrug I throw them on and turn towards the door, my mind still in a daze from the strange dreams I continue to have in the night.


Ahhh! Owwww! I bellow in the morning stillness, I am sure the farm on the opposing side of the valley can here my cries of surprised pain. I shake my head, my cerebrum throbbing and leer angrily at the top of the door frame. With a deep breath, I set off to work.

Living in the moment is an important part of life in the farm, from stepping around the moss draped stones to throwing split wood in the shed – it is important to be mindful of all your actions – a lesson I am quickly learning as each and every day yields a different bruise, cut, or welt. It also doesn’t help to be a tall figure on a farm that presumably was built for dwarves, I digress.

I realize how reckless I have allowed myself to become, still having that naive sense of invincibility that often exists in youth. The tasks I set out to perform are varied and relatively precarious and my ability to heal has slowed down as I collect more days in my life. Climbing steep hills with jagged stone to harvest moss, kicking off my boots and stepping into the ice-cold stream slippery with algae to wash up, or just simply walking out of doors – a skill that apparently is learned the hard way.

And yet, I am making improvements. Stepping lighter and not allowing my heels to slam back with habitual laziness, an action which makes all the loose instruments hanging from the walls in the two-hundred year old farmhouse, tremble under my tread. Also, there is stepping gingerly through the fields, my eyes scanning the undergrowth for the tell-tale sign of Stinging Nettle, and circling their spiky bunches if spotted.

The most recent lesson is one that entails a much sharper edge. The farm, at this moment is gearing up for hay season, which will most likely see me out for the rest of my tenure here at Nordre Stuksrud. The crafting of tools to use in the field is priority, rake handles, axe handles, and scythe handles to name a few. So it was carving another axe-handle that I learned an important lesson.

Shaving, chipping, shaping, carving. I sat on a stump, tooling my newest creation when I had the misfortune to slip with my knife, I’ll spare the gritty details but I nicked myself pretty good.

Don’t worry! All digits are good, it was a clean and very sharp knife so it was a clean cut. The wound is healing rather rapidly after being cleaned and wrapped several times a day by our resident first aid tech, Kim. I am in good hands. But after that moment, as I was sitting on the floor my room with my first aid kit in strewn across my legs (I was sure glad I checked it before my trip!) and my hand in the air above my heart, I knew I had to quit being such a damn troll and change my ways.

Defeat is not in my vocabulary. Despite this setback, the next day I finished the axe-handle and made another rake handle to top it off. I look at the healing, scabbing wound I caused myself, and realize that perhaps this scar will be a constant reminder to live in the moment from now on.

That and those damn low-hanging doorways…

All else is well at the farm, wounds heal and life goes on. As for now, I may pick up another cup of black coffee and read Timeline in the shade of that big maple here at the park in Lillehammer.

Safe Travels and Be Mindful!









The Calypso Effect

The farm is a seductively intelligent creature, a living and breathing entity that draws you in each day. First impressions were shock, awe, isolation, and later independence. Then as each sun sets, and each morning awakens, you find yourself drawn ever more deeper to the earth, the endless sky, and that crisp mountain wind. It sinks into your dreams and eventually you forget the outside world, the Calypso effect. This is until you have a dizzying moment of clarity and realize that you are in fact farming in fabled Norway.

That has been my life for the past ten days. I have only been in Norway for ten days, and yet I feel like it has been so much longer. The daily routine is typically wake up, care for the animals which include a motley assortment of piglets (norwegian and hampshire breeds), norwegian rabbits (adorable until you pick them up, they’re strength is incredible), and chickens.

The chickens are perhaps my least favorite, and the one animal that admittedly I need the most practice on. Their Alpha is a large, pompous Icelandic rooster, full of furious testosterone that is ever engaged in attack mode while I am feeding. Just yesterday, as I left them a loaf of bread and apples to munch on, he sprung at me as I turned my back, pecking furiously at my ankles. With a yelp, I jumped out of the coop and slammed the door. Rooster 1: Sean 0.

I was a little annoyed that he got the better of me, but it is in his nature and truth be told perhaps he is just trying to play. He is after all the only male in the coop, and I can’t imagine chicken conversation is very riveting. It was a good lesson learned, perhaps tonight I will begin a manly conversation about wood splitting, grilling, or beer with him – see how he reacts – Cock-a-doodle-doooo!!!

From the farm, one can see the town of Lillehammer and I am often struck by the temptation to just go back to civilization, to society and cleanliness. And then I look back at what I am doing and realize with a sense of pure satisfaction that I am really making a difference with my actions. I make something every day, whether it is thinning vegetables in the field, or making wooden shingles to shelter the silo from moisture, or tending to the animals. It is the small things that make my time worth it these days.

Observations and impressions from the farm and Norway thus far:

– My sister was right, I should have brought a smaller pair of pants with me because both pairs are falling off me and I am eating so much!

– Bathing is tough, the water is fit for a polar bear and I feel like an ice cube when I emerge from it, although on a hot day it is the most refreshing experience around.

– The days pass quickly, as the schedule at the farm is so structured. The work is honest and worthwhile, the food is plentiful and healthy, and the company is great – my hosts are awesome and the new volunteer, Kim from the Netherlands, is a refreshingly pure spirit and a great exploration partner.

– The price for alcohol, along with coffee is exorbitant, so its been a rather dry ten days but my body is thanking me constantly with new springy energy.

– Norwegian folk are best described in the words of my friend Quinn from the farm, shy at first but once you engage them they are curious and always interested in what you have to say. Also, they look you in the eye when they speak to you, a trait I hope to adopt.

– Nutella is expensive, Nugatti (its knock-off) is not. It has since become an addiction on bread for all meals of day.

– Lamb ribs are delicious, Kaviar in a toothpaste tube is not.

– Reading and writing by candlelight is a guilty pleasure, the flame emits a warm glow to the log-built walls of my lodgings – a 200 year old farmhouse.

– The farm is so isolated, and I admit that I feel a bit stir-crazy but this is only a month of my life and I plan on wandering afterwards.

– The sun never actually sets. I took at walk in the morning stillness at 0300. The clouds were intermingled with the tall spruces and it looked like a magical forest.

Life is good, working in the soil and standing among old stones. For now, I think I’ll have a beer to celebrate my remaining hours in civilization but look forward to my return to the wilderness and the tantalizing dreams that come with it.

Travel Well,