I had planned to get to France from Turkey by island hopping. Visions of sun-baked white villages piling up steep slopes from an azure sea, and evenings sipping chilled white wine at a harbour front cafe while eating delicious calamari. Instead I'm catching buses and slow trains through piss-scented ex-communist countries with names I keep getting confused, headed to cities that might be called Belgrade or Bucharest or Budapest if only I could remember which one comes first. There's a bus going to Beograd, is that somewhere else and is it interesting? Oh wait, that's Belgrade. Bulgaria - no, that's not even a city, its a whole country where people speak Bulgarian and drink a lot of beer. Though I'm probably thinking of Belgians.
The trees know it is spring but it is intermittent yet, with warm days still mostly a promise and winter winds whipping up out of nowhere for a couple of days at a time.
|Random images from the bus window, taken|
just to relieve the boredom
|Border controls seem relaxed. |
In other words, there's a lot of waiting around.
|The bus stops in random towns|
|Villages hugging hillsides, just not quite what I imagined|
I'd be seeing on this trip