August 23, 2022. I camped on the beach near Pula, falling asleep to the sound of the Adriatic lapping against the shore. I awoke to the sound of cars driving within feet of my tent. There hadn’t a shoulder on the road, so I’d set up a few feet away. Glad to have woken up in one piece. I put my tent away and started wandering around, spotting a goat in a boat. It made me laugh and think of Dr. Seuss. I snapped a photo and posted it on Facebook.

I walked along the other coast and passed a few guys fishing and an older woman strolling along the road. She was really sweet—I said good morning, and she smiled warmly. But as I followed the path further, it ended in a sad little mess: heaps of garbage everywhere. Mattresses, tires, construction debris—basically a dumping ground for anything you could imagine. It was super discouraging. Honestly, I’d seen a lot of trash along the coast, including near my tent, which was pretty disconcerting.

I drove into town looking for water and asked a woman at a café if she could fill my bottle. She did—and I ended up staying for a latte, even though it wasn’t the best spot in town. Her name was Brenda, and we ended up talking for over an hour. I exceeded my normal caffeine allowance with two lattes, while Brenda told me about her life. She grew up in a conservative family in Zagreb and had this eye-opening experience at 17 when she worked on a ship for three months and saw the world. After that, she couldn’t go back to a traditional village life, so she moved to Pula for university. She’s been working—sometimes in nightclubs, which she said was good money but hard living, lots of drinking and chaotic late nights. Now she’s at this coffee shop, which she likes more, but she’s stressed because her roommate’s moving out and she’s not sure how she’ll pay rent. Said it’s hard to find a decent roommate—which, yeah, totally get that.

I really liked her. We became Facebook friends. She had to get back to work, and I decided to do a bit more wandering. I explored more of the historic center, went into the archaeological museum and revisited the forum. The day before, I caught a lovely rainbow over the Temple of Augustus and snapped some photos. Inside the museum, there was this great exhibit on Istrian castles—ten of the most important ones—with info about what people ate, how feudalism worked, and even a display that reminded me of something I saw near Grenoble about the Dukes of Savoy and their mobile court. I loved learning about a man who documented the castles and villages in Istria, even doing his own illustrations, but went bankrupt trying to self-publish his 3,000+ page work. He also had a section on Istrian myths—including one about a guy who kept coming back from the grave.

Later, I walked through the touristy part of town, waited a solid 20 minutes in line for gelato (8 euros for 3 scoops… yikes). Good? Yes. Worth it? Debatable. I wandered uphill again, passed the Mozart music house, heard people practicing, then headed into another exhibit on the castles before noticing the sky darkening. On my way back to the car, I got caught in a downpour. I was only five minutes away but still got absolutely soaked.

Time to move on. I headed north to a little fishing village called Fažana—and wow, what a contrast. Quaint, beautiful, authentic. Everything Pula isn’t. The old town was tiny, charming. I walked along a marble path by the sea—reminded me of Cavtat, where I’d been in 2007 with Tom and Baker. Bought a pastry from a bakery, wandered through back streets, past grapevines on latticework and stone houses. So classic.

On the way to Rovinj, I stopped at a small hilltop town called Vodnjan also known as Dignano. According to legend, the town developed from seven villas which were part of the colonial goods of Pula-Pola. The town preserves a medieval look with atria and narrow irregularly winding streets among houses, with cobblestoned roads and façades, old streets still impressively recognizable by their Gothic, Venetian Renaissance and Baroque style and many churches rich with memories and art. I circled behind the town walls and made my way to Bale, a hilltop village with a castle. I explored the little corners and crannies, and found a lapidarium with Roman ruins—tombs, carved stones, bits of ancient churches. It was a powerful spot. I considered staying the night.

I left the charming, historic town and came upon a Bronze Age hill fort ruin Monkodonja. It had been an important point in the communications of the northern Adriatic with Central Europe and the Aegean. Findings of loaf-of-bread idols provide evidence of the integration into a Bronze Age communication network. It had been abandoned in the middle of the 15th century BC when some of the buildings burned down.

The place was magical. I watched the sunset over ancient walls of dry stone constructions, with Cyclopean masonry reminiscent of Mycenean architecture. It had a cave in which Bronze Age pottery and a Neolithic burial were discovered. Bronze Age cist graves were found in the western gate. The defensive wall surrounding the settlement was about 1 km long, about 3 m wide and 3 m tall. The stone for the walls was quarried directly from the hill, and its removal resulted in the creation of a flat plateau. Approximately 1,000 people probably lived in the well-organized settlement: on the highest part was the acropolis, below it the upper town, and still lower the lower town. The acropolis, where the upper class of the population lived, had a nearly rectilinear outline. In other parts of the settlement there were crafting areas. The houses differed in position, size and manner of construction, and were separated by passages and streets. The houses had hearths, within which were found numerous fragments of handmade pottery that originated from local workshops.

I didn’t want to leave but knew I couldn’t camp here, so I pushed on to Rovinj. And regretted it. There were so many people I could barely walk. I cut a narrow path along the port. I figured falling into the sea was worth it if it meant avoiding the crush. I made it to the church on the hill and, on my way down, ran into a young man who’d once sold me a turtle made from a cowrie shell. I’d thought about him many times over the years. His hair had gone white. He had a disability and couldn’t speak well, and I was really touched to see him again. Sadly, I didn’t have any small bills—just a 20—and told him I’d come back the next day. I did, but he wasn’t there.

That night, I tried to find a place to camp. First spot was too close to a resort, and there were no camping signs. Then I noticed what looked like a castle on the map, surrounded by forest. Drove up a rough dirt road, turned out to be a quarry. I pulled into a turnout and set up my tent. It was one of the worst places I’d slept.

August 24. Trucks started roaring by my tent at 6am. It was a one-way road, and I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get out. With trepidation, I headed back down the hill and back to Rovinj and arrived by 8 AM. It was raining and hardly any tourists were out. I found a sweet coffee roasting place and had two lattes outside. Then I spent about three hours just wandering the old town, taking photos. Heard a lovely group of Italians singing and recorded them. It felt so different from the chaos the night before—much more like how I remembered it years ago. Peaceful.

After 3 hours I decided to hit the road, since the border crossing had been a total mess on the way in. This time it was a 40-minute delay, but nothing like before. I made it into Italy, only to get stuck again for nearly an hour behind a broken-down truck. Between tolls and the delays, I calculated I’d already spent about $112 just driving through Italy—yikes.

I didn’t really have a plan, except that I was heading toward Paris and hoping to find somewhere nice in the mountains along the way. Shawn looked up some lakes in France for me, and I ended up stopping just before the Mont Blanc tunnel, where cars were being diverted. There was a little parking area and a couple who looked like they were camping, so I asked them about the traffic (which turned out to be about a 15-minute delay), and ended up befriending them. Luca and Tiziana were from Southern Italy and now lived in Rome. Sweet people.

They were headed out hiking the next morning on the aerial tram to the high Alps and Mont Blanc. They invited me to join them for limoncello that evening. I gave them armfuls of non-perishables that I wouldn’t be able to take on the plane and we walked to the bar. Around 10:15 we said our goodbyes and I invited them to visit if they ever find themselves in California. But man, what a horrible place to camp. I pitched my tent about 20 feet from the diverted highway traffic. Trucks thundering by all night—I barely slept.

August 25. When I woke around 7:30, my friends had already left for their hike, and I decided to get going too. Luckily I didn’t hit any traffic and the skies had cleared up—small victories. The tunnel cost a ridiculous $48, but the drive through was stunning. Coming out the other side, glaciers crowned the peaks, and glacial rivers rushed down the mountains. I thought about hiking, but it was cold and I was still wiped.

I rolled into Chamonix and parked near a bustling bakery—grabbed a salmon quiche that totally hit the spot. As it turns out, I had perfect timing. It was UTMB week—those ultra trail runs with distances like 140km, 170km, and even 300km. Apparently, some Americans were running, too.

I wandered through the old town and thought about stopping at a coffee roasting place, but the line was full of fresh-from-the-finish-line runners. So I found another café, ordered, and sat outside near the finish line—cheering people on as they came in. The energy was so warm and communal. I even saw older folks and women crossing the line with huge support from the crowd—it was just beautiful.

Chatted with a lovely Dutch couple from The Hague. They live way up in the hills, and we joked about how dreamy it’d be to live in Chamonix, but I told them they probably had better infrastructure back home. The husband had injured himself and had to stop running, but we had a really good chat.

I wandered into the mountaineering guide office—set up in the ’70s after so many deaths on the mountain—and eventually made my way back to the roastery to finally get that coffee. Also had a hot chocolate at the other spot. Met more Dutch folks. Everyone was in such good spirits.

After that, I slowly made my way to Annecy. Parked near the lake and strolled along the Esplanade. I was surprised (and disappointed) by how much ugly postmodern stuff surrounded the old town—definitely wouldn’t want to live there. I walked along one side of the lake, then headed into the old town where the real charm still lives.

The merry-go-round had been saved from a fire—locals had hand-embroidered the textiles and restored the animals: wooden horses, pigs, rabbits, cats. These restored creatures ended up becoming models for other carousels in Europe that had lost theirs.

I treated myself to a scoop of ice cream from the famous place I’d been to before. Sat on the same steps by the castle to eat it, just like last time. One of those sweet little memory loops. Walked up to the castle but didn’t go in—just took in the view and snapped a photo. Explored the old town some more, noticed how low the water levels were this time. Used the bathroom at the public library (always a good find), then got completely turned around trying to find my car, but eventually made it.

Then I got very excited when I found out there was a Leonidas chocolate shop just 15 minutes away. Drove there, ordered a full kilo of my favorites, and then pushed on to Aix-les-Bains. Shawn had been right about Lac du Bourget—that’s where I was meant to land.

I asked a burger place for water and they generously helped me out. Then I found a cool little hike along what used to be a dammed river that powered olive oil presses and mills. The water’s low now, but the landscape was still lovely. Eventually made it to the lakefront, found a spot where people were swimming, and jumped in myself. What a luxury. Then spent an hour or two catching up on the blog before heading up to find a place to camp. I ended up above the town near the Balade de la Cascade, where there’s a waterfall hike. One other vehicle was there which spooked me at first, but I ended up sleeping well.

August 26. I had a wonderful sleep. When I woke at 8:45, it was still cool out. That was a relief since it was supposed to hit 93 later that day. I decided to take a hike up towards the massif through the forest. The air was crisp, and I stopped to take photos of an old barn along the way, with purple and yellow wildflowers scattered around like little bursts of color. I spotted a white cross on a red background painted on a tree and asked around about it—pretty sure it’s a marker for Haute-Savoie.

After wandering around for a while, I headed down into town in search of coffee. Parked in the shade (thankfully) and tried a place I had found online. Big mistake. The latte tasted like someone had ground dirt and boiled it—just awful. I gave up at that point, feeling a little defeated, but then decided to try my luck walking up to the upper, ritzy part of town. I’m so glad I did. I stumbled upon a proper coffee roaster and finally got a cappuccino that didn’t taste like despair. The milk was actually good too—not that weird, stale carton flavor that some places serve.

Feeling redeemed, I wandered further up past the casino and into the spa garden. I took some photos of the gorgeous architecture—mansard roofs, old facades, elegant ironwork. I found out the town has attracted some serious admirers over the years—apparently, the King of Greece, the King of Morocco, and several prominent artists have all loved this place and even donated artwork and sculptures in its honor. You can really feel the history and appreciation for beauty here.

After another half hour of strolling and soaking it all in, I made it back to my car. It was like an oven, so I flung open the doors and aired it out before heading back down to the lake. It took a while to find parking, but I finally snagged a spot and went straight to the same place I swam yesterday. The water felt like such a luxury again—cool, clean, perfect.

I had hoped to sit there and write for a while, but someone nearby had other plans—namely, drilling something to death. It echoed like a jackhammer in my skull. So I packed up and headed back to the car, a little disappointed but still grateful for the swim and the earlier peace.