The woman sitting opposite me should not have been allowed to wear open-toed shoes. The big toe on her right foot snarled at me, its edges all jagged like sharp teeth.
We had been moving slowly since leaving Zagreb and finally, at 1515 hours, the train shuddered to a halt.
“Keine zug,” the snarly-toed woman said. No train.
All of the passengers began to grab their bags and get off.
“Autobus,” the woman said, and motioned for me to follow everyone else. We were piled onto a bus, bound to where I didn’t know. People pushed and shoved to find a spot. I stood in the stairwell until we arrived in Bedekovčina and were thrown off alongside another train. With no platform and laden with backpack, it proved a challenge to heave myself up the steps. A man wearing paint splattered overalls came to my aid, grabbed my hand and pulled me on board. He then tried to pull me into his carriage with his other laborer friends who were laughing and jeering.
“Hvala, thank you,” I said and escaped in the opposite direction.
According the train timetable, I was now 30 minutes late so had definitely missed my connection. I sat back and watched the greens and beiges of agricultural land pass by. Would I make it to Ormoz tonight? I’d find out what to do when I reached Čakovec.
Keine zug, keine autobus, keine taxi, keine centro, keine internet.
The men at the station in Čakovec were of little help and directed me to the hotel across the street. 35 Euros. Ouch.
I began to walk in what looked like the right direction, towards civilization. As I passed through a large park, I came across a couple with a baby. They pointed in the direction of a motel. 40 Euros per night. I crossed the street and tried another. 45 Euros per night. And then another. 40 Euros per night. It was crazy.
I stopped for a glass of wine in a bar and looked at the map. I was only 25 km from where I needed to be. Philippe, the bartender, called the bus station for me.
“Nothing today or tomorrow,” he said. I would have to wait until the next train tomorrow evening. A taxi would be just as much, if not more, as an hotel. I walked around some more, hoping my previous good fortune at finding accommodation would return, a stranger who would rescue me, who would have knowledge of a room, but nothing.
“It is a business place,” Philippe had said. It was also the weekend and very quiet.
I bit the bullet and checked into Pansion kod Jape, which was 39 Euros per night. Expensive but I needed somewhere to stay. I was stuck in a sleepy business town with little going on.
Not even English television, except CNN. I listened to the same stories repeat over and over and over: space shuttle launch scrapped due to possible weather complications; Osama Bin Laden endorses the new leader of al-Qaeda in Iraq Abu Hamza al-Muhajir; England out of the World Cup.
With no internet access available (what kind of business place is this?) I sent a text message to my father. He called within minutes of me hitting the send button.
“Is there someone you can get a ride with, perhaps on a farmer’s tractor?” he said. I smiled. Good old dad, I see where I get my sense of adventure from. We chatted for a while, catching up on things. It was good to hear his voice.
“I’m so proud of you and what you’re doing,” he said. “Just make sure you get what you’re paying for. Have several baths, use all of the soaps and shampoos, and take enough food at breakfast tomorrow to last you all day.”














