Losing my shoe in a Croatian deluge
Howdy! And welcome back to me, mostly me and really no one else because my mom is really my primary audience for this blog at this point. Hey, mom.
I’m back to share another story from my solo travels last year. I stopped my “Crying in….(insert European destination)” travel blog series when I stopped traveling and returned to my small upstate New York town to descend into a downward spiral of internal conflict and early 20s existential crises.
Though I haven’t been crying on the sunny Andalusian coast in recent months, I have certainly been crying. In fact this year, I think I’ve cried more than I have in the last decade combined. Which seems like a lot because it is. But more on that later.
During my last weeks solo traveling, I was finishing up a month-long au pair experience in Lucca, a small town in Tuscany. I watched two tween boys after they came home from summer camp on weekdays in July. Events included watching YouTube streams of men in their 30s playing soccer video games and videos of marbles racing. The boys would yell at each other and at the tv in Italian, angry that their marble choice lost like old men at the horse races. Once we watched “Alvin and the Chipmunks” in Italian with English subtitles. Imagine that.
It was a great experience, I had a lot of free time to visit favorite cities like Florence, and explore new places like the Italian Riviera. And following that adventure, my au pair host mom dropped me off at the airport in Pisa and I flew to Split, Croatia.
August was off to a blazing start and I spent many days getting sunburnt and eating a lot of that unsettling chocolate chip bread and room temp cheese (respectively, I’m not insane) for breakfast at my hostel.
After a few days of taking photos of city’s hundreds of stray cats, I left Split for Hvar, an ancient island off the coast. The day I was due to travel it was pouring. After months of chasing the sun across Europe, I realized I forgot about rain. Though it seemed like all the boats to Hvar would be canceled, there was one due to leave around noon.
At my hostel check-out desk, I met a fellow traveler — Joel — who was also hoping to make it to Hvar. We quickly teamed up and trudged through Split to the docks with one umbrella and boarded successfully. Luckily, the rain had cleared by the afternoon and when we arrived the only obstacle in reaching our respective hostels were the city’s many uneven stone staircases.
One of Split’s many stray cats, pictured here posing with an incredibly scenic backdrop.
Hvar is etched out of natural stone which paints the whole island city a warm creamy hue. When I set out to explore the backstreets after lugging my suitcase to my hostel, I felt like I was dropped into the set of an animated Disney movie, or the backdrop for one of those ironic medieval comedies.
The city’s main plaza houses a beautiful cathedral, and just steps away, a long waterside promenade gives way to a parade of private beach clubs with cushioned chairs and overpriced bars.
On my first night in the city, I met up with my new friend Joel from Split and we went to one of these beach clubs. Joel and I each got a soda and sat at a table away from all the noise observing the scene when it started to rain.
Still a long way from the city center where our hostels waited snug and sound, we decided to walk back, hoping to give ourselves time before it really started coming down. There’s no cover from rain at many of these beach clubs. If you’re caught out in the open during a storm, you’re getting bathed.
As we walked, the initial rain drops grew heavier soaking through our hair and creating massive puddles along the promenade ahead of us. We began to bend our heads and lean forward pushing onward against the whipping gusts of wind.
After five minutes that felt like 30, we were so drenched I could feel my clothes clinging to my body, weighing each step down. Every minute the rain was falling harder and our dispositions shifted quickly from Wow! I can’t believe we got caught in this rain to this is actually really dangerous? Walking turned to cautious running and lots of slipping in puddles that looked shallower than they were. A quarter of the way back we broke off from our path to take cover under the awning of what appeared to be a closed beach club or resort. As we ran in soaked, others who had managed to get cover earlier watched us shivering in their dry button downs and sundresses. Everyone seemed in agreement: let’s wait it out.
We stood for maybe 10 minutes as the rain swept through in torrents, occasionally letting up. Joel and I decided to make a break for it, figuring we’d be glad we departed when we were warm and dry under the covers of our hostel bunks. So off we went.
After a few minutes of really concentrating on picking up my feet, I caught a glance of Joel as he jutted off down a side street to his hostel with a nod of farewell. I continued on toward the historic old square, now just minutes from my own lodging. I approached the empty main square, running past bars and pubs packed to the brim with young people taking cover and looking out at the storm, some with wet hair hanging in front of their faces.
I could tell from gasps that onlookers were shocked that anyone would take their chances in the downpour as I ran into the empty square. A quick look around told me it was just me out there. My running became astronaut-like moon stepping as I waded into a flood of water that was up to my knees. Though I wasn’t sure if it was smart to move forward, I looked around again at the nearby pubs and decided continue on.
The stone parapet and step below pictured here separate the main square from the marina.
At the edge of the square a stone parapet separated the promenade from docks and ocean. I waded closer to grab a hold of the wall and steady myself when I spotted a stone step below the parapet’s edge, a couple inches above the flood waters. It was the perfect spot for me to hop up and cross the square without wading further in knees-deep.
I grounded my left foot and lifted my right up onto the step planting my flip flop firmly on the ancient stone. Leaning forward I started to lift my left foot up, feeling the strong water rush past my ankle. In half a second I felt my flip flop slide off my foot, and whipped my head around to find my foot bare. The shoe was already gone, swept away in the flood. I panicked only briefly, looking around in the nearly three feet of flooding around me. I dipped my bare foot in and swirled it around, hoping to feel that familiar rubber sole…nothing.
The rain was still pounding down and I didn’t have time to think so I quickly made peace with my lost shoe; she was a trusty partner on beach outings and paired with sundresses, but she most importantly served as a reliable shower shoe in hostels clean and grotesque. I continued onward.
I eventually made it out of the flooded main square, and on the narrow back streets leading to my hostel I luckily only had to navigate puddles with my one flip flop.
Rushing in through the front door of the hostel, I came to a halt as water pooled at my feet from my hair and clothes. The desk attendant looked at me in awe, and all the other guests hanging out in the small common room down the hall laughed at my bare foot with me as I explained what happened. Hostel staff quickly gave me a towel and I rushed up to my room to change into dry clothes while they made me tea.
Hostel hopping gets a bad rap. Many travelers may be scared of the types of people and experiences they could encounter along the way. And though not all hostels have sharp wifi and squeaky clean bathrooms, I’ve found that most have warm, adventurous, empathetic people. The kind who will make you a cup of tea when you lose your shoe in a flash flood and tell you a story about something way worse like nearly dying while surfing or getting stranded on some remote island while attending a yoga retreat. (I made those up but they seem real don’t they?)
I brought the tea to my room and took a few cautious sips as the warmth spread across my chest and burnt the tip of my tongue. Into the room walked a girl named McKena, from Cali, who took the last bunk above me. We quickly bonded and that feeling of warmth continued through the remainder of my stay in Hvar. We still check in here and there.
The next morning, the skies had opened up, and I reluctantly bought a new pair of flip flops (mainly for the showers). I couldn’t find a pair under 30 Euros, and when I slipped my foot into a pair half a size too big at the tourist shop, the old Croatian man working there told me my feet wouldn’t look elegant if I sized up. I was shocked at the statement, but I gave it some time and realized he was right. I love my new flip flops. But check the weather reports always, folks.
Hvar at golden hour. Walked here with new flip flops.
