Put Down the Blow Dryer: That Time I Ran Away to Europe for a Month - Part 3
Day 8
Ever board a crowded ferry with a lingering hangover and a mind full of memories made with a group of strangers? It’s a specific kind of penance.
I couldn’t roll out of Dubrovnik without one last visit to the famed Peppino’s Gelato (I had visited a couple times while in Dubrovnik). It’s a decadent Croatian take on the Italian classic, and honestly, what better cure for a wine-induced headache than hazelnut gelato on a bright, mocking sunny morning?
With the gelato acting as a temporary peace treaty with my stomach, I grabbed my bags from the villa and set off for the next chapter: Split. I settled into my seat for the nearly four-hour journey, braced for a symphony of crying children in four different languages, and let a movie on my phone drown out the chaos.
Then I arrived in Split, and the real "adventure" began.
I hopped into an Uber and handed over the address from my Airbnb. As we drove further and further from anything resembling civilization, the "oh fuck" vibes started to hum in the back of my brain. By the time we pulled into a landscape that looked like a deleted scene from Deliverance, that hum had turned into a full-blown panic.
It only got worse; he couldn’t find the place. I was in the backseat, texting my host with a level of fury usually reserved for slow Wi-Fi, trying to pin down where I was supposed to sleep. Eventually, the driver had enough. He dumped me on the side of a dirt road and spun off in a cloud of dust, leaving me standing there.. bags in hand, waiting for a stranger to find me in the middle of nowhere.
Mario (the AirBNB host) eventually rattled up the dirt road, attempting to bridge the gap with broken English and frantic Google Translate sessions. He drove me to what he called a "Villa." Toto, we weren't in Kansas anymore... we were in hell.
He handed me a set of keys that refused to cooperate. Standing there in the dust, I was about ten seconds away from writing my own eulogy when the lock finally gave way. I stepped inside, and the "panic" turned into "disgust."
The space was horrendous. It looked less like a vacation rental and more like a failed 1990s office space converted into a bunker. The mattresses were rock hard, the lighting was clinical, and my view of the sad pool was framed by a basement window that felt more like a jail cell.
I knew within thirty seconds that I couldn't stay. I didn't even unpack. Within ten minutes, I had a hotel booked back at the port in the heart of Split and a fresh Uber on the way. I sent a humbled yet stern message to Mario: a polite "thanks, but no thanks" and staged my Great Escape.
I arrived at Galeria Valeria with just enough time to dump my bags and splash some water on my face before heading back to the port. I needed a win, and I found it at a restaurant lining the harbor. Over a dinner of caprese salad, truffle gnocchi, and two very large beers, I mapped out my next move. It was my only full day left before flying to France, and I was determined to make it count.
Day 9:
Having finally caught some sleep and doing my best to leave the "Deliverance" drama in the past, I fueled up with the essentials: coffee, a chocolate-banana protein drink and a croissant. I made my way to Trg Republike to meet my tour group for a day of island hopping.
A collection of travelling misfits, we followed our leader to a line of boats bobbing in the harbour. In an uncharacteristic moment of chivalry, I agreed to take the front seat so the ladies in the group wouldn't have to endure the roughest spot on the vessel.
Once we cleared the harbour and hit the open water, I quickly realized why that seat came with a disclaimer. BAM. BAM. BAM. For the next hour, I was slammed up and down in my seat, jostled around like a hefty rag doll in a Hawaiian shirt. It wasn't exactly the "glamorous boat life" I had envisioned, but at least the view was better than that basement window in the hills.
First stop: Milna. After the battering on the boat, I needed a minute to find my land legs. I wandered through the village, admiring the stone architecture until I found exactly what I was looking for: a quiet café tucked away from the main crush of tourists. I sat there with a coffee, catching my breath and updating my Instagram, before we were ushered back to the boat for the next leg.
Hvar was next on the itinerary. Instead of the town center, we were taken directly to a swimming spot along the coast. Our guide didn't lead with the beauty of the water; he led with a warning: watch every single step. The sea floor was a literal minefield of sea urchins. One wrong move and your afternoon and probably the rest of your trip, would be spent digging spines out of your foot. I picked my way through the rocks with the focus of someone walking on eggshells, eventually making it into the deep water for a much needed cool off.
Once we had our fill of swimming and basking in the sun, we boated over to the main port of Hvar for an hour of exploration and lunch. It was here I realized my "non-breathable" Hawaiian shirt from Shein was taking its job way too seriously; it didn't breathe a lick in the Croatian heat. I made a frantic run for the nearest gift shop to find a cotton tank top to alleviate the sweat pouring down my back, only to realize that shops along the Dalmatian coast don’t exactly cater to the "big boy" demographic.
It took some serious digging, but I eventually emerged with a grey tank with "HVAR" plastered across the chest... not exactly high fashion (nor was my flowered shirt), but it was functional. By then, the heat and the hunt had drained me, so I flopped down at the first random outdoor bistro I saw. I sat there, sweaty and defeated, and paid about five times the normal rate for a basic salad and a beer. It was a total tourist trap, but in that moment, the shade and the cold glass were worth every overpriced Euro.
Hvar is famously the playground of the Adriatic: the kind of place known for high end weddings, sleek yacht parties, and a nightlife scene that usually outlasts the sunrise. It’s polished, expensive, and definitely the place to see and be seen. However, between my battle with the Shein shirt and my overpriced salad, we didn't exactly dive into the glamour or the club scene. We were just passing through, catching a glimpse of the hype before heading back to the boat for our last couple of stops of the day.
A few more BAM BAM BAMs later, we pulled into the much calmer waters of Otok Čiovo. It was a super chill island with a beachside bar where I could finally lay on the sand, nurse a drink, and swim in the clear blue water without the threat of sea urchins.
Once we were sufficiently baked in the sun, we headed to our final destination: Trogir. A couple of the girls and I immediately tracked down some gelato... at this point, is anyone actually surprised?We spent the hour wandering aimlessly through the shops. Trogir is a tiny, medieval island town that’s essentially a maze of marble alleys. It’s known as a "museum city" because its 2,300 years of history are packed into such a small, walkable space. I spent my time ducking into the narrow backstreets and admiring the massive stone cathedral before heading back to the boat, exhausted but glad for one last hit of Croatian history.
Once back in Split, I flopped down on my bed and just disassociated for awhile before getting ready to meet one of the girls from the days adventure for a swanky dinner at Bokeria Kitchen & Wine... it lived up to the hype. Inspired by the famous market in Barcelona, the place is stunning. High ceilings, massive chandeliers, and walls literally lined with wine bottles. It’s got that perfect "bustling Mediterranean" energy where it’s loud, lively, and feels like the center of the city. The menu is a creative spin on local Dalmatian classics; I’m talking black ink risotto and truffle pasta (I ate a massive, decadent Octopus that I’m still dreaming about) that’ll make you forget all about your overpriced lunch in Hvar. It’s the kind of spot where the dessert tray is brought to your table like a work of art, and the local wine flows as easily as the conversation.
Day 10
I’m a total weirdo: I love airports. There’s something about the transition that works for me, and it was finally time to swap the Adriatic for the French Republic. The plan was to fly into Paris, then train my way down to Nîmes for a very specific, very exciting adventure.
Arriving at CDG in Paris is always an ordeal, but with the city gearing up for the 2024 Summer Olympics, the "fake taxi" shysters were out in full force. I made a point of recording a cautionary Instagram story, audibly calling out the scams while standing right next to them... just so they knew I wasn't the one.
After my brief stint as a consumer advocate, I hopped the RER, stashed my luggage in a locker at Gare de Lyon, and headed straight to the 4th arrondissement. I have a shopping circuit there that I know all too well, and I was on a mission for the perfect outfit for my big night in Nîmes. After a quick remote consultation with a friend's Gen Z daughter back home because God forbid I look "cheugy", I secured the fit, grabbed some snacks, and caught my train south.
Welcome to Nîmes! My Airbnb was a dream, tucked just a block away from the massive Roman amphitheater that dominates the center of the city. The place was kitted out with everything I needed, but the real prize was a stunning, private backyard with a hot tub and plenty of space to soak up the French sun.
I spent the evening alternating between the water and a bottle of Rosé, eventually heading inside to catch some Eurocup soccer before hitting the hay. I needed the rest; I had a big night ahead of me. I didn't just pick Nîmes for the history or the backyard hot tub... I was here for a very specific reason. Tomorrow night, I’d be heading back to that ancient amphitheater, not for a tour, but to see Dua Lipa perform live under the stars.
From 15th-century Croatian walls to a 21st-century pop spectacle in a Roman arena... not a bad trade-off.
A Fair Warning for the Road Ahead:
If you think a basement window in Split and a "Deliverance" dirt road were the peak of the drama, you’re adorable. This was "Early Adam" long before my healthy era, back when I was still a bit of a lunatic fighting for my life in a non-breathable Shein shirt. But apparently, the universe didn't care about my lack of cardio, because things are about to get wild.
Coming up, we’re diving into:
Nîmes: A pop-star spectacle with Dua Lipa and a very "distracting" encounter with a hot naval officer.
Montpellier: Sweating through my new "non-cheugy" fit for a Pride celebration that redefined the word pride.
Mallorca: Scaling literal cliffs (a bold choice for pre-fitness me), meeting a woman who’s story changed my life & a party cruise in a rare sand-filled rain storm.
Porto & Lisbon: Surviving wine-soaked times in the Duoro and absolutely wild street parties and a whirlwind romance that I eventually had to leave behind in the land of cobblestones.
It’s about to get loud, vulnerable, and probably a little scandalous. Stay tuned... the Great Escape was just the warmup.
