The Hannahlogues

This started as a sidebar to a different post. But I decided the epic travel fail of my first 12 hours off the island needed its own post. I encourage you to laugh at my expense. I think we all need a good laugh these days.

My first stop of the second half of my *not-really-a-sabbatical-sabbatical* was 5 days in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina (I have learned the importance of including both names when referring to this country, but fortunately there is a shorter nickname: BiH).

I had checked the bus times from Dubrovnik to Mostar (it’s about a 2.5 hour trip, with a 2x daily bus), and mentally filed away that I would take the morning ferry to catch the morning bus. Of course, I never double checked myself and didn’t account for the summer ferry schedule starting on June 1. So Natalia (who was going to town) and I took the 7:30am ferry, when I would have otherwise taken the 6:45am. When I got to the bus station at 8:30 and asked for a ticket on the 10am bus to Mostar, the woman looked at me and asked “what 10am bus to where?” Turns out, it was an 8am bus (which I would have made had I taken the 6:45), and the next one did not leave until 4pm. Well played, Kolocep.

Ok, no worries, I guess I could benefit from spending some more time in Dubrovnik, since in two months I had only spent a few hours wandering the Old City when my friends were in town on vacay.

If I thought the Old City was busy at the end of April, it was nothing compared to the beginning of June, where there were literal mobs of people, mostly following the red umbrella or flag on a stick held by a tour guide. Not only was it crowded, it was HOT. Summer is definitely kicking up a notch, and the white limestone, polished smooth by thousands of years of pedestrian footsteps also absorbs and reflects the sun back, making it feel even hotter. In fact, there are medics stationed at regular intervals along the city walls, as heat related medical emergencies among poorly prepared tourists often arise during peak summer arounds.

So I did my best. I wandered around a bit more – saw the stairs where Cersi Lannister took her “shame, shame” walk in GoT, grabbed a bite to eat, but ultimately got the hell out after a couple of hours. There are few things more annoying than tourists with selfie sticks and zero situational awareness.

Pigeons are one of those things. And the worst has officially happened, people. I was sideswiped in face by a pigeon. Had I taken one step further, it would have been a full on collision with my head. I still feel the brush of the wings on my cheek in my nightmares. So to everyone who thinks I overreact when I cross the street or duck while covering my head to avoid pigeons… THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LET YOUR GUARD DOWN!

In search of air conditioning, I checked out a museum that covered life under the specific brand of Socialist Communism that existed in the former Yugoslavia that had been highly recommended, and largely lived up to the recco. TBH, I have many thoughts. Though it turns out, I am an alcoholic. Womp.

With time still to kill, I grabbed a beer at a brewery by the bus station, and fought my way on to the bus that arrived 30 minutes late, claiming a window seat, dripping in sweat and desperately thirsty, but acutely aware that there was no bathroom on the bus. To add insult to injury, the first 30 minutes of the route was a winding, switchback road that ran alongside the Adriatic – and that offered me a “so close but so far” view of Kolocep. There were a few moments when I could clearly make out the place where I knew Natalia was taking her (our!) evening swim at that very moment.

Otherwise, the ride was uneventful, the border crossing a piece of cake, and the bus stopped in Mostar (enroute to Sarajevo) around 8pm.

Here’s where the fun begins. Google maps told me that my guest house was a 20 minute walk away. Not ideal, but there is no Uber in BiH, and I had read that taxis were not necessarily above board when it came to what they charged tourists. I also didn’t have the right currency, and it’s a much more cash-based country.

Knowing I was going to be “slowmading” this trip, I allowed myself a checked bag for the first time since 2018 (a habit kicked off after a lost luggage issue at the Sydney Airport). Plus, I would be traveling for 3 months, starting in early spring when it was still cold, and ultimately spanning beach, mountain and city visits. I truly do feel like I packed appropriately for the scope of the activities I was planning for. And then of course there was my backpack, with my computer, portable monitor, keyboard, and only a few books.. but enough books to make it heavy.

So while the 20 minute walk appeared to be pretty straightforward, nothing is fun when you’re pushing (thank goodness for the 4 wheeled variety of hard luggage) a 70lb bag and carrying another 35lbs on your back (yep, I weighed it). While these suitcases are definitely better than the older styles, they’re not foolproof, especially on pavement with cracks and holes, and wheels that jam inexplicably, causing me to trip over it when it stops suddenly, mid stride. Another fun obstacle: sidewalk obstructions that required me to divert onto the street for short stretches, then lift it back up to the sidewalk.

I was *6 minutes* away from my destination when I was faced with a steep set of descending cobblestone steps. Ok, no problem, I can do it. While I could have done it, in hindsight I am very thankful that two – very strong, Harley Davidson looking men – offered to bring it down with me. Even they had to switch off halfway down of course while making the obligatory “what did you pack in here? Your husband? Shoes?” comments, to which I politely laughed – ever the damsel in distress – and rolled my eyes when they turned away.

Once we reached the bottom, they gestured at the stoney alley that lay ahead and asked how I was going to fare. Mortified already and needing them to leave so I could die of embarrassment in peace, I assured them that I was only a couple of minutes away from my destination and that I would be fine.

Dear reader: I was not fine.

Not long after I started the painstakingly slow process of dragging my suitcase over each individual cobblestone (I later realized I was in the UNESCO protected world heritage sight of the Old Bridge Area of Mostar), I looked up to realize I was facing a bridge. In fact, Stari Most is one of the most famous bridges in the world, a testament to the ingenuity and engineering genius of the Ottoman Empire (the bridge was destroyed in the 90s – a story for another post – and carefully rebuilt with the same techniques used during the original construction, at which point the UNESCO stamp was awarded to the town). It turns out that as advanced as they were, the Ottomans didn’t anticipate a future where tourists pulled 70lb boxes on wheels up and down the slick marble stones. In fact, the stones are so slick that there are little curbs placed about a foot apart over the entire bridge, because it is a CURVED bridge.

So, it was really fun to sort of lift and kick my suitcase up and over each of the individual curbs, using my knee for additional leverage. As I neared the crest of the bridge, another kind soul offered to help me bring it down the rest of the way. Again, as a strong independent woman who don’t need no man, I was so embarrassed to have to need to accept his help.. but thank goodness I did, because what I didn’t account for on the way down was how FUN it would be to slip and slide on the marble-smooth limestone while also balancing the suitcase, my purse that was perched on top, the tote bag of half-used non-perishables that Natalia talked me into taking with me, and the backpack on my back.

Once I got to the bottom and my third Good Samaritan continued on his unencumbered stroll with his wife, ice cream safely back in hand, I continued my own Cersi Lannister walk of shame.

I hesitate to call the surface of the Old Town cobblestones, since cobblestones would have been a blessing compared to the terrain that lay ahead. While I was now aware that I was in the midst of the world heritage sight that made Mostar the tourist destination it is today, I don’t think I absorbed one thing around me for the next 20 minutes+ as I was singularly focused on just. getting. to. my. destination. I also spent the majority of the time with my eyes on the ground, too mortified at my rookie mistake of blindly trusting Google Maps to make eye contact with any of the shopkeepers or pedestrians sitting at tables in sidewalk cafes, sipping their coffee and beer, enjoying what was actually a pretty temperate evening after the heat of the day (nothing is temperate with a 35lb backpack on your back and a predisposition for excessive sweating).

Because of the nature of the terrain, it’s not possible to use the 4 wheel feature of a suitcase, and it’s frankly also quite difficult to drag the old fashioned way. I had to basically pull the bag over each individual stone very slowly, both because that’s how heavy it was, but also because every time the bag thumped over a stone, I felt the reverberation through my elbow and shoulder. I had to stop every few yards to switch arms (which remained sore for days) and mop the sweat that was dripping off my face.

After what felt like an hour, the end of the stones were in sight. Flat pavement was within grasp. I had a legitimate fear that it was a delirium-induced mirage, but I redoubled my efforts, breaking the remaining 100 feet into baby steps, focused on getting to the next kiosk, the next cafe, until finally I felt all 4 wheels of my suitcase smoothly rolling on flat ground.

My guest house was quite literally across the street from where I was standing… and down a flight of stairs. My arms were quite literally shaking at this point, but I managed to descend into the garden, and then up the short flight of stairs to the reception.. and then down another few stairs to the hallway where my little room awaited me and where I promptly collapsed onto the bed (of course onto a towel so I didn’t ruin the sheets immediately with my sweat). A week later, the bruises (still not entirely sure how I obtained them) have finally faded.

That was probably a top 5 shower in recent memory, and needless to say, I had the guest house order me a taxi to the bus station when I left a few days later.

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I have many thoughts about the more serious and tragic aspects of Mostar’s history, which I am still very actively processing, but in the meantime, here are some pictures of this gorgeous city. I have Natalia to thank for being the voice in my head getting me out and about bright and early, before the crowds of day trippers from Sarajevo and Dubrovnik arrived en masse, clogging the streets like Times Square at Christmas.

More to come! Aren’t you glad I made this it’s own post?