After three unimaginably strenuous weeks of globe trotting filled with nothing but beer and elbow grease, I re-stuffed my amazon prime packing cubes inside my glorified suitcase and headed to where I knew I’d be most accepted for my love of Lightroom presets; the beach.
Succeeding my landing on the Croatian runway and deplaning my two-star airline’s arguable tin can on wheels, I breathed in the cloying smell of GoT super fans and the beloved haze of 15 year olds chain smoking. The four leftover crackers I have stuffed at the bottom of my farthest-from-a-type-A-person backpack served as what I like to call, lunch. That, and the block of cheese I soon purchase from a convenience store, causing me to end my two-day streak of accidental veganism.
Upon arrival at my hostel, which is more or less a screened in porch, I find myself thrilled with the curtains that shut around my bed. Forget the lack of a stove and the moldy plastic finding nemo shower curtain, any form of privacy is not to be under appreciated.
Somewhat subscontiously I seek out the only other native English speakers. And to my satisfaction, they’re just as funny as I am. My British friends, and now future bridesmaids, Chloe and Rayne, stitched me up with an offer to join them for a night of wine and gossiping about the men we’ve befriended whilst traveling. The amount of overlap our stories shared was absurd, and if I document said information now, it’d likely get me into legal trouble.
The three of us soon become an unstoppable force of loud accents and incorrigible nicknames. Walk by us in a pink shirt minding your own business? We’ve already dubbed you “salmonella.” Your name’s Phillip and you’re from Switzerland? “Swillip” it is.
When running through the typical conversation topics as young girls in our twenties, it wasn’t more than 10 seconds before we were sharing our taste in men. Me, wanting attention and desperately needing to be “not like other girls,” I bravely confessed that my type is boys that look like they’re dying. While I rarely stick to said type, it always throws people, thus why I make a point to bring it up at any given chance. Chloe prefers boys with beards, and Rayne, men with “Bearpig” tattoos. Before you ask what a Bearpig is, it’s exactly what it sounds like; half bear, half pig. I promise you, I cannot make this shit up.
Aside from the comatose hangover each morning brought, Split was filled with unparalleled culture and constant American music. The Brits and I sought to appreciate it through an unintentional hike, merely in pursuit of a view for our wine picnic. Not sure if I’ve made it clear yet, but I drink.
Split, you were a dream, mostly because you gave me the worst (best) people. Chloe & Rayne, although I need a month to recoop, I’ve made a countdown on my phone for our future London adventures. I’ll seeya when I seeya!