The Plan. Also, Shop Vendors.

We've met a lot of tourists. A lot of locals too, and a lot of tourists that are local to a very exotic location, so, what the hell, they are local to us. But, in general, staying in hostels, you meet a lot of tourists.

When the time comes in the conversation to trade travel plans with our fellow travellers, I am always elated to discover that other travellers with more set plans are jealous of us. They would love to head out into the great blue yonder, they say, but ya'know, we have a hotel booked in Thessaloniki and we have to be there.

Today, Spence and I are discovering the other half of our style of travel. Lets call this half "Confusawildered."

We have literally dozens of options in front of us, all with pros and cons, risks and rewards, one adjective and its opposite. But within these dozens of options there are two main paths: West and North. In the western path, there is Italy and the Aidriatic. We could take a boat to Italy, but it is a long time traveling and expensive. We could take a plane, but it is expensive with x-ray/heat vision, flight, and immense strength. Er, super expensive. Also, we didn't come here to fly around! I want my bike, damnit. I want to ask some farming family if I might, please sleep on their land, and then be invited in for a delicious local meal and the game of charades that is conversation with little lingual common ground. You don't get that by flying.

The other path, that which we are favoring now, is North. Croatia is the prize here, with Dubrovnik's high walls, Split and a week of free rooming with Spencer's friend, and sweet sweet favorable-currency-exchange. Croatia is not yet on the euro, and their currency is worth less than the USD. We plan to purchase bikes in Croatia with these favorable rates, and then take a boat with them to Italy where we will bike up the calf of the boot and into Austria, where our new friends Thomas and Tobias have promised us a place to stay. Buuutt Albania. Allllbania. Al-fricking-bania.

Read about Albania. Read about travel in Albania. People say the same thing. They use the same descriptors. Descriptors like poor. Dirty. Hovel. Smell. Hole. When they talk about crime, they say "organized." When they talk about tap water, they follow it with "potentially lethal." This is a little discouraging. Whenever one of these so called negatives is said, one part of me, the part that likes video games, staying in bed until 11, shade, cake, kitties, laying down, calling in sick to work, being sleepy, watching other people do things, weddings, and closing my eyes; that part of me gets physically ill. He has to go to the bathroom and breath really hard and wish he could throw up but not quite manage it.

The OTHER part of me, that likes horizons, high skirts, long bike rides up big hills, discordant music, adventure novels, looking over the edges of cliffs, high skirts, fighting, getting drunk, spitting, high skirts, and doing things I know are stupid but I hope will be momentarily very fun; that part of me wants a brochure. You say "watch your pocketbook" and he says "which way to dodge." He wants to hear all about Albania and its people and the kind of food they eat and how they live and what idioms they use and how high their girls wears their skirts.

The catch is, you see, that while Greece and Croatia are fairly close, it is impossible to get directly from one place to another over land. There are no trains that go straight there. Buses only make layovers. The intervening countries, Albania, Montenegro, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Serbia. At least two of these countries must be crossed and interacted with, at least a little, to get from Athens to Croatia. Croatia, where are future lies.

So, after I get done with this entry, we are going across the street from our lovely hostel, have I mentioned how wonderful it is, to one of the many private bus companies promising cheap fares to Tirana, and we're probably going to get it. When we hand over our 25 euroes, you might feel a little breeze on your neck. That's the wind that we've decided to cast our fortunes too.

A note about the pictures, and about shop vendors. The first pic is posed next to the guard in front of the Grecian parliment. They change this guard in the same way the Brits do. And their guards also pretend to be statues. It is a perplexing ritual to me. Tourists flock around them, ogle them, bring their snotty little children to hang onto their decorative pants. I do not see the point at which the "dignity of the state" enters the picture. They also patrol, I think between the guards also patrol from the parliment to the royal palace, which sadly we did not but from afar see. The second picture is me below Hadrian's Arch, right outside the deliciously ruinous (I love all things crumbling) temple of Athenian Zeus. Spence says this pic is wallpaper worthy, which is the highest praise I know him to give of a picture. As for shop vendors; The waiters of restruants and tenders of shops in Athens will be invariably called one of two things by American tourists: Friendly or pushy. I find them friendly. I love talking to them, how they put their hand on your back and guide you to the menu, promising the lowest prices and best food even though you both know it will be much the same as the next place over. I love how sometimes they ask you where you are from, and introduce themselves, and then you tell them your name too and shake their hands. They love to talk and touch. They hover by you and hang on your every need. Until, at restruants at least, you sit. After they have you they promptly forget about you. They pause long enough to take your order and are gone. Some might consider this way of things to be insincere. I do not see it so.

Still though, as much as I like it, most of the tourists I meet hate the crap out of it. Spencer does, as does our new friend Sara from California. I can see how having someone hover next to you as you paw their things to be... unsettling.

C'est la vie. Er... I mean, french people hate freedom, and are cowards, and the US is great, and I love high skirts. I mean hate french people.