So on July 29th, I packed up my stuff in my brand new backpacker’s
bag, and began to head out into the great unknown…that is until after 10
minutes of walking, my first strap broke, and then I realized I had
accidentally thrown my train tickets in the McDonald’s garbage at the
train station…just minutes after buying them…lets just say, the workers
ended up dumpster diving, as I was no longer at the station.
Okay, attempt number two, I decide my laptop is weighing my backpack
down, so i buy a smaller backpack for it…then the zipper on the bigger
pack breaks in half, impossible to fix. I’m really not off to a great
start! Finally after feeling like I am about to “turtle” (fall on my
back from the weight) I finally make it on the train.
On the 30th, as we are entering into Belgrade, Serbia (my
destination) I attempted to grab something out of the smaller back pack,
the zipper broke on that as well, and as I began trekking the two mile
uphill (no joke) road to the highway in Belgrade, one strap tore off the
smaller backpack.
Now, all of this seems to be full of bad omens, but, turns out, its
better to get all the bad out of the way, that way the rest of the trip
will be good, in theory.
Anyway, I get to the motor way, and my main objective is to hitch
hike (or Autostop) to Plitvice Park in Croatia. So the first driver
picks me up, after waiting for 1 hour, I don’t seem to be off to a great
start. He takes me 5k, and I begin to wonder if the rest of my tip will
be full of pitfalls and shortcomings.
I get to the truck stop that the driver leaves me at, and I slam my
pack on the grass, sitting and having a hard time breathing, partly from
me being out of shape, and partly the heat…as well as the bag being
just too damn heavy. Before I know it, a guy sits his pack next to mine.
“You in the same boat as well?” I asked him. And yes, he was, only not
so deep, he was just hitching back home to Poland. I told him my
destination and he referred me to a trucker that was headed there. The
trucker seemed nice enough, he was old and Serbian.
We made it to Croatia, all the while he is paying for my food, he
didnt have to, and I told him as much, but I guess he was glad to have
the company. As we began to sneak up on Plitvice in Croatia, the driver
says “One kilometer to Plitvice, or a few hundred to Rome, Italy, your
choice.” And so, as he was slowing down to let me out, I yelled out
“Rome!” so off we went, to Italy.
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