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Europe 2025
  • Travel with Carl

Europe 2025

Summer is a better place to get try and reset my mood and vibes. Let's try and rest this mood to something more positive. Weiterlesen
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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl

    Bridge to Border: A Glimpse of Sarajevo

    17. Juni in Bosnien-Herzegowina ⋅ ☁️ 23 °C

    The 20-hour delay in getting to the Balkans has really thrown me into a bit of an exhaustion spiral. Getting up this morning was a challenge. I did it, but honestly considered flying ahead and skipping Serbia. Alas, the flights to do that take over 24 hours, so not much point. I pressed ahead with Plan B from yesterday.

    Breakfast at the hotel is served individually and is massive. I don’t need or want most of it, but manage to get through the cheeses and breads, as well as the omelette. I really hope they just give the many small bowls of things I don’t even touch to the next person—it feels so wasteful. I go for a quick wander and get some water for the bus ride.

    I’m not really a bus person, but it was the quickest and best-timed way to get back onto my itinerary. I paid for my ticket online and took a taxi to the bus station. It seems that despite already having a ticket, I need to exchange it for a paper one for another 1 Mark. I do that, then have to pay another 2 Marks for my bag. I’m sure that was already paid for, but for AUD$3 I can’t be bothered arguing.

    Onboard, I take the front row with prime window viewing access. I generally get motion sickness in cars and buses if I can’t see where I’m going—or sometimes even if I can. I’ve got some sweet and salty snacks with me just in case, but I’m pleased to say neither were needed on this trip. The scenery distracted me for the first half of the journey as we wound along a river, then later a series of lakes filling the space between two mountain ranges.

    Through tunnels and over bridges we crisscross the valley. My photography efforts are hampered by the dirty front window—and trees always appearing the second I lift my camera. Occasionally, I spot a rail bridge or train track, but not that often. The train journey was supposed to be the scenic option, but this bus ride is exceeding my expectations. The journey from Mostar up to the capital, Sarajevo, is stunning.

    It’s a different kind of landscape to what I’m used to at home (for starters, there are mountains), and to places like Switzerland or Canada. Instead of green fields or densely packed forests, it’s a mix of greenery and bare rock. It looks both dry and wet at the same time—hard to explain, but striking. Being a local bus, we stop in small towns, unlike the tourist coaches that seem to pause at scenic lookouts or attractions.

    We pick up locals and occasionally receive small packages via the driver’s window—later dropped off at underpasses and street corners where someone is waiting. The scenery disappears as we arrive in Sarajevo, replaced by mid-level high-rise apartments in that stark, concrete style that screams, “we’re behind the Iron Curtain.”

    Geographically we are behind what was once called the Iron Curtain, but Yugoslavia—the precursor to today’s Balkan states—was socialist, not aligned with the Soviet Union. I wanted to visit Sarajevo to understand more about what happened here in the 1990s. I remember seeing news footage growing up—bombings, conflict, war—but I was too young to really take it in. That history lesson will have to wait, as I get off the bus and head straight to the airport.

    Even on this short drive through the city, the signs of a tragic history are still visible. Buildings bear the wounds of what must have happened here—bullet holes in the walls and some larger scars, presumably from explosions or rockets. Some buildings have been patched up, but the mismatched tones of faded paint make the damage easy to spot. There are newer builds too, but that heavy socialist vibe still lingers. It’s a shame I couldn’t explore more or learn firsthand—maybe a deep Google rabbit hole and a documentary will have to do. Bus trip complete, I wait for my flight to Serbia, a little disappointed that my time in Bosnia was so rushed.    Weiterlesen

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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl

    Flirting or Just European?

    17. Juni in Serbien ⋅ 🌙 21 °C

    If I’m honest, when I was planning this trip Serbia wasn’t really on the cards. I had no dots on my map within Serbia to see, yet here I am. Why? Well, instead of being logical and just buying a normal connecting flight on one airline, I wanted to try a new airline—Air Montenegro this time. They had a flight from Belgrade to where I did have dots on my Google Map: Tivat. Alas, it would mean an overnight connection in Belgrade. Welcome to me flying to country number 56 to get to country number 57.

    Leaving Sarajevo after a blink-and-miss-it visit via taxi from the bus station to the airport, I arrive at a flash new terminal—a stark contrast to the city I’ve just driven through. I check in, pass the friendly border control, and relax while eating overpriced Mentos that I use my remaining Marks to buy. This trip has given me a small taste of pre-Euro currency times—using up those excess coins and notes on stuff I don’t really need, before needing a new currency tomorrow. I’ll be doing a bit of that in Serbia too.

    To get to country 56 I’m flying on Air Serbia—an airline not aligned with any of the major alliances, so no lounge access for me. I’m on an ATR72-600 on a sold-out flight. I track the inbound plane—it’s running slightly late but nothing compared to yesterday’s 20-hour delay. We board via the tarmac and through the rear door. ATRs are unique like that, boarding from the back, with row 1 being the furthest from the door. I’m seated about halfway down with a view of the engine and glad that the person beside me is a petite woman, unlike the customer of size in the row in front.

    It’s hot and stuffy until we get airborne and the airflow kicks in. It’s less than an hour to Belgrade, yet the crew still manage to serve everyone a bottle of water and a little snack. You can buy more onboard, but I don’t think anyone bothers. The snack—“Plazma”—is kind of cute and hits the spot. From what I can tell on the packaging, it’s vitamin-injected wheat. Healthy?

    The overcast skies clear up as we zoom across Serbia toward Belgrade. The fields below stretch out in long stripes of brown and green—a linear patchwork of agriculture. I get a great view as we approach the city. Two rivers meet in Belgrade, forming a broad swathe of waterfront scattered with boats, docks, and what looks like a stretch of parks on both banks. It looks like quite the place to be on a summer day.

    We touch down and taxi to a remote stand—the only aircraft parked out here. But as we disembark, ATR after ATR rolls in beside us. By the time we’re on the bus, there are seven parked out here. Seems Air Serbia runs quite the hub operation in Belgrade. Immigration is fast, and my bag is the only one on the carousel—circling solo like it’s been waiting just for me.

    Assuming there’ll be ATMs outside, I skip the row of them inside customs—a rookie mistake. I spend the next 10 minutes wandering the terminal looking for one. Eventually cashed up with a new currency—the Dinar—I head outside to the spot Google Maps claims the city buses depart from. I wait around until a cute younger guy—who I later learn is a Russian living in Germany—asks me for directions. “I’m looking for that too. Google Maps says it’s here,” I say. “Mine too, but is it this level or downstairs?” he replies. Is Google being vertically challenged again?

    Turns out it’s downstairs. So me and my new friend head down to wait. The A1 bus is the official express transfer to the city—but it’s a mini-bus and no match for the crowd waiting. We jump on the 600 instead—a full-sized city bus and free, unlike the A1. We board through different doors, but my new friend waves and signals that he’s saved me a seat. It’s backwards-facing, which I’m not a fan of, but he’s cute, so I suck it up.

    He works remotely and has flown to Belgrade for a friend’s birthday. “It’s good working remotely—I worked on the plane,” he says. He works in medical tech and lights up when I say I’m from Australia—his company is doing projects there due to our advanced medical systems. As we talk, we compare notes on where to change buses. He needs the 37; I need the 23. Google gives us different transfer points, but we both agree on switching at Mostar—no, not the one from this morning.

    We chat about our travels, plans, the free public transport, and other small talk—but is there a vibe here? I feel like I’m playing a round of Gay or European. His glances, the way our legs brush, and even the way he moves his lips—it all feels flirty. Or is it?

    This continues for the 20-minute journey to the transfer stop—just before which he asks for my number. “Do you want to maybe take a walk in the city later tonight with me?” he asks. I’m exhausted and know I probably won’t have the energy, but I say yes anyway. He’s cute—slightly younger than me, but done with university, so no cradle snatching. He still has a few zits—one eager for popping—but he’s got a real charm to him. How he’s managing a hoodie and jeans is beyond me. I’m sweating in just a shirt.

    Just as we leap off the bus, he runs to catch the 37. Before he goes, he snaps a photo of my WhatsApp. “What’s your name? I’m Carl,” I say. He shouts back something like “It’s the Russian for Michael—I hope I see you tonight!” as the bus door closes behind him.

    I wave goodbye and look at my phone. Rookie mistake. While the 23 was the preferred route, the 37 goes the same way! I could’ve continued the game a little longer. I check Grindr—just in case—but no dice. I guess whether the game continues is now in the Russian-for-Michael’s hands.

    The 23 isn’t far behind. I hop on, only to find it veers off course—apparently some roads are closed. When I realise I’m as close to my hotel as I’m going to get, I bail, cutting through a park and checking into my chilled, upgraded room overlooking the national parliament.

    The receptionist recommends a restaurant nearby, where I’m served by a waiter who seems to have studied Mr Bean’s mannerisms but with the personality of someone for whom everyone around him is an inconvenience. I enjoy my dinner, then order dessert while waiting for a text that never comes. I’ll never know the outcome of Gay or European today—but it was fun playing, even if it may have been a single-player game all along.    Weiterlesen

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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl
    1

    Belgrade: Big Cities not Quite Clicking

    18. Juni in Serbien ⋅ ☀️ 30 °C

    I woke up in Belgrade with a sense of loneliness today. I’m an introvert, so I like and need my solo time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy interactions with people when I’m in the mood. Maybe it was the missed chance of a late-night walk through Belgrade with the cute guy from yesterday’s airport bus ride—or maybe just exhaustion from being on the move. I just wasn’t feeling it today.

    I ate an overpriced breakfast downstairs, mostly just to say I’d eaten, then napped the morning away. I tried catching up on blogs or Instagram posts, but the mojo wasn’t there. Sleep seemed useful, but also elusive—coming in broken chunks, interrupted by distressing mini-dreams centred around loss.

    Checkout time came, and I left my luggage with reception. I discussed airport options by bus with the receptionist. Given the nearby road closures, all the bus routes were diverting—making it more hassle than it was worth. We agreed that a taxi would be easiest. It didn’t take much convincing, and he booked one for later that afternoon. Now I just had to fill the next 3.5 hours.

    With no pins on my Belgrade map, I followed last night’s receptionist’s advice and walked down the main pedestrian street, beyond which was a park, the rivers, and a castle. Along the street, the architecture is a mix of mass-produced postwar Soviet-style buildings and some older, more striking ones that I associate with Russia—despite never having been.

    The Hotel Moskva is a striking example of that older style of architecture I’ve only really seen in Soviet spy movies. I found myself wondering what deals and missions may have unfolded within those walls. I assume there’s some truth to that kind of history, but honestly, I have no idea. I came to Serbia far less prepared than usual. Unlike other cities where I’ve read or researched in advance, I feel like I’m wandering blind through Belgrade. I’m looking at buildings, observing life, but not really understanding how the city became what it is today.

    The main pedestrian street feels like a copy-paste of so many others around the world—Zara, H&M, designer brands, McDonald’s, and then a few local stores sprinkled between the bars and restaurants full of diners. It doesn’t feel unique. I could be anywhere. Without a sense of purpose, I feel like I’m walking just to walk—not really seeing anything that makes Belgrade *Belgrade*, because I don’t even know what I’m meant to be looking for.

    I often feel this way in big cities—like the identity that once gave them character has been smoothed over. That’s why I’ve started favouring smaller places. Sure, there are still global influences, but smaller towns and cities usually hold onto something that makes them feel distinct. Plus, they're easier to navigate. Everything’s closer. Walkable.

    Leaving the pedestrian street behind, I enter a park that borders the river. I’d been told there was a castle in the park and that it was free, so I headed in that general direction. After weaving through the souvenir stalls at the entrance, the fortress walls appeared.

    Built at the confluence of the Danube and Sava Rivers, the fortress walls surround the complex with a deep dry moat. I follow the river along until I find an open gate—right at the spot where I assume they would have monitored river traffic back when it was built. Standing tall on a column is a copper statue of a man—unflattering in the manhood department, but with a surprisingly peachy bum. His name is Pobednik (The Victor), a symbol of Belgrade that commemorates Serbia’s victories in the Balkan Wars and World War I.

    Since the castle is free, there isn’t much guidance on where to go or what there is to see—just a few signs here and there. It mostly feels like a park that just happens to have fortress walls and the occasional tower or building inside. In what I assume is the centre is a military museum—not really my thing. Still, I enjoy watching a few guys posing with the missiles and tanks in the forecourt between two inner walls. A kind of convergence of old and new warfare. I take a quick photo too—it seems to be the thing to do.

    Through another inner wall—or maybe I’ve looped back to the outer one again—I come across a dinosaur world. Odd, but okay. I wasn’t expecting to see dinosaurs today. I don’t pay for entry since I can see enough through the fence, and I think it’s mostly for kids anyway. Just beyond that final wall, there’s a children’s playground and some pickleball courts filling in the moat area on this side.

    It was a nice walk, but I just wasn’t feeling it. That kind of aimless exploring where you hope to stumble on something interesting, but nothing quite lands. I decide it’s time for lunch—maybe food will help lift my energy and give me a chance to look for something that might spark my interest for the rest of the afternoon. Lunch is average: a beef tortilla wrap with some chips. But I use the time to find a museum and a gallery to fill in the hours.    Weiterlesen

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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl
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    Kotor’s Waters: Cool, Clearing, Needed

    19. Juni in Montenegro ⋅ ☀️ 30 °C

    It was another day of not being in the mood for travelling today. I had a remote psych session this morning, rescheduled the last part of my trip for some much-needed downtime, and was in a bit of a mood. It’s that combo of FOMO and exhaustion. I decided I needed to do something easy to deter the FOMO, but not too much to further exhaust me. The photos of Perast are what drew me to Kotor, so I thought I should at least give that a go.

    Waiting for the local bus to take me the 30 minutes around the bay to Perast felt like an eternity. There aren’t printed timetables, but the internet suggests they run hourly at about 18 minutes past the hour. I arrived a little early, not knowing how accurate Google is. I wait half an hour and give up. I instead book a 5 pm speedboat tour instead. Slightly more expensive, but running to a schedule—and less effort. I’m hot, tired, and just can’t be bothered with waiting and going with the flow today.

    I’ve got a couple of hours till my new departure time, so head back to my Airbnb, change into swimmers, and head for the local beach. As an Australian, I’m spoilt for choice when it comes to beaches—we literally have long sandy beaches along our 66,000 km of coastline. The city beach in Montenegro is a little less fortunate when it comes to sand, but it makes up for it in beautiful mountain views and crystal-clear water.

    It’s only a five-minute walk to the pebble and stone beach. I walk past all the deck chairs and umbrellas, opting for the free section of beach with all my fellow cheapskate beachgoers. Paying for the beach is a new concept for me and not something I want to try for this quick swim.

    I throw down my towel in the pebbles beside the sea wall. The beach is only a few meters deep—room for two people per row—with others sitting on the sea wall and just watching. I strip down to my funky trunks and make the walk to the water. Entering is difficult. While the rocks on the beach are small pebbles and crushed shells, under the waterline they are larger, moss-covered, and slippery. I make it a few steps in—this is hard.

    Spotting a small platform, I retreat from the beach entry and walk to the end of the jetty, making an undignified entry into the cool, fresh Bay of Kotor waters. It’s the refreshing hit I needed. It’s neither hot nor freezing—the perfect temperature to feel revived without going numb.

    Swimming around for a while, I feel some seaweed brush my leg. I’m not a huge fan of swimming in the ocean—the fact we know more about planets and moons than the depths of our oceans scares me. I call it time to relax on the beach—time for the disembark up the slippery rocky beach. Floating as close to shore as possible, I drag myself upright in shin-deep water. There is no graceful way to do this. Stumbling like an adult-sized toddler, I eventually make it out.

    Laying on the beach, it’s more comfortable than I had imagined small pebbles to be. I’m pretty white, so I can’t take the sun for too long, but I enjoy the warmth it brings. It seems less harsh and packs less burning punch than the Australian sun. I lay here for a while, looking at the water, the mountains around the bay, and the occasional topless muscular guy swimming or walking past.

    I move to the sea wall and sit there for a bit when a couple of Aussie guys come and set up their towels in front of me. “Sorry, we’re probably ruining your view,” one of them says as he slowly removes his T-shirt and stretches out on his tiny beach towel. My internal dialogue replies, “Nah, you’re alright—you’re improving my view.” Fortunately, by the time that reaches my mouth, my internal safeguards have cut the last part out.

    I overhear them chatting with a younger girl beside them. They’re Australian, met in Sydney, and have been travelling the Balkans together. She’s from Colombia, and they talk about visiting there. It’s a novelty to be able to eavesdrop on a conversation—most of the chatter around me lately has been indecipherable. A British girl a few towels over chimes in, “Are the spiders bad in Colombia? I’ve wanted to go but I’m too scared of the spiders,” she hollers. The guy closest to me replies, “Nah, it’s fine—you won’t even see them,” before his friend interjects, “He’s an Aussie though, so spiders aren’t going to bother him.” Fair point. The British girl seems satisfied that Colombia is now safe for her next vacation and returns to reddening her white skin on the pebbly beach.

    Observing her sunburn, I decide it’s time for my own pasty white flesh to return to some shade. I get dressed and find that getting rocks off your feet and towel is much easier than getting rid of sand. I make my way back to the Airbnb. By the time I get there, it feels like something is stuck under my left foot. Undressing for a shower to wash the salt off my skin, I discover there’s nothing stuck—it’s a large bruise and bump forming on the sole. Looks like my first rocky beach swim in Europe has left its mark. I’ll try to find some swimming shoes before attempting that again—though the refreshing water was the mood booster I needed, even if it left a bruise to prove it.    Weiterlesen

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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl

    Kotor Island Hopping: Perast Speed Date

    19. Juni in Montenegro ⋅ 🌙 24 °C

    Refreshed, albeit also bruised, from my pick-me-up swim, I headed to the marina to meet my speedboat tour to Perast. The rule follower I am, I arrived 30 minutes before the departure time—only to be told to come back five minutes before. I wandered back into the walled old town to kill some time. The place was still packed, although it seemed people were starting to return to their cruise ships for evening drinks onboard. I’d come back here for dinner later, but first, time to visit Perast.

    There were seven of us onboard our two-hour speedy tour of Perast and the islands off its coast. Our sun-kissed captain welcomed us on board before quickly pushing us off the dock and speeding out into the bay. I get a bit seasick at times, so I took a seat in the front. The cool, salty breeze and the super smooth waters made seasickness a non-issue today.

    The coastline on each side of the bay is flanked by tall, steel-grey mountains. There’s a single layer of buildings hugging the shoreline, maybe stretching to two houses deep at most, as the landscape doesn’t leave much room for development. Church towers rise above these tiny towns, pointing skyward over the rooftops and out to the bay. You wouldn’t have to travel far for God around here.

    Our captain was speedy and followed between the wake of the boat in front of us, only darting out—bouncing over the waves—for a quick overtake. It’s a two-hour round trip and he clearly wants us to have the most time off the boat to explore.

    We stopped at Our Lady of the Rocks, a small artificial island built over the centuries by local seafarers who threw rocks into the sea and even sank old ships to build it up. It’s the only island of the two that tourists can visit—unless you're clergy or getting wedding photos taken. The island is home to a Catholic church, which unfortunately slammed its doors shut just as our boat docked. No prayers from me today, it seems. I contemplated sneaking in through the back door I found later but decided breaking into a church might require more penance than I’m up for.

    The captain suggested a 15-minute stop instead of the scheduled 20, to allow more time in Perast. Fifteen minutes felt a bit long with the church closed, but I circled the island, snapped some photos, checked out some topless sailors on other boats, and found a small patch of shade to sit in while I waited.

    We passed by St George Island next—off-limits to tourists, yet seemingly occupied by a group of shirtless men and bikini-clad women anyway. Unless the church has changed its dress code, it seems if you have your own boat, you can get to St George—whether technically allowed or not. It was under five minutes to Perast from there, its towering church steeple the picture-perfect centrepiece of the view. We docked, and our captain gave us 45 minutes to explore.

    He explained that Perast is the oldest town in Montenegro, and while I haven’t fact-checked that, it does seem plausible. He also claimed it’s a seasonal town, abandoned in winter—something that makes more sense. Then came a slightly confusing line: “Each house used to also have its own a church in the house.” That seems unlikely. More likely, he meant each household was Catholic, or closely linked to the church.

    I walked the shoreline road and tried to climb higher via narrow stairs, only to hit dead ends. It seems to be a one-street town—but what a street. A luxury five-star hotel took up a big section of the foreshore, its guests shuttled around in electric golf carts. Sunbathers lounged on private decks before strolling across the road to shady courtyards in their White Lotus–esque bathrobes.

    Many buildings looked abandoned, with vines creeping in and nature slowly reclaiming them. But it all added to the charm. There isn’t much to do here—eat, sit, sunbathe, repeat. And if I’d had more than 45 minutes, that’s exactly what I would’ve done. Instead, I settled for a cup of sorbet and a sit on the seawall, soaking in the view and the stillness.

    When time was up, I boarded the speedboat for one last glance at postcard-perfect Perast. The cruise ships were also starting to leave, taking with them the thousands of people they’d dumped in the old town of Kotor earlier. We zipped past the final two on our way back to a noticeably quieter town. With the towering mountains starting to block out the sun, the light was perfect for dinner in the old town tonight.

    I remembered to eat—always a win—and had a delicious Wienerschnitzel at a little pub in a square facing a church. Very European old-town vibes. As I finished, church bells rang out and a procession of clergy, nuns, and churchgoers wound their way through the streets, trailing the thick, unmistakable scent of incense behind them.

    After dinner, I took my own little one man procession around town, stopping in a tiny square to watch an impromptu orchestra. I think it was a rehearsal—the conductor wore shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt. Not something you see every day. The sounds echoed off the narrow stone walls. It’s these little things—moments of art and atmosphere—that give towns like this their soul. Full of food and good vibes, I headed to bed, feeling a bit better for having done something today after all.    Weiterlesen

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    Zagreb’s 1980s Yugoslav Time Capsule

    21. Juni in Kroatien ⋅ ☀️ 26 °C

    A slight hangover after one beer last night — soft, I know — I grabbed a burger for lunch, watching some Croatian singers across the street perform the longest mic check in history. Feeling less seedy with the greasy burger on board, I went off museum hunting in Zagreb for my first full day in Croatia. There are a few museums and galleries I’m interested in here, and while on the way to one, I came across another goodie — *The Museum of the 80s*. It felt worth a post in itself today, so let’s go back to the 80s.

    A little hidden up a winding staircase, a couple — probably just a tad younger than me — were looking after the museum today. I paid my €5 entry fee and got a rundown on what the museum is about and what I can do. “Everything is interactive — you can touch, put on music, play games, try the clothes,” the lady explained to me. “We want you to get a feel for what life was like in a typical Yugoslav household in the 80s. We call it the good decade — no war, normal times.” She left me in the living room of the first-floor apartment — a time capsule of the 80s in Yugoslavia.

    Or was it just in Yugoslavia? As a child of the 80s myself, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia coming over me. The velvet sofas, the dark wood furniture, the lack of minimalism everywhere, the ashtrays! This could have been a house in Australia in the 80s or early 90s too. I felt somewhat at home here. *Terminator* on a VHS tape sat with a stack of other tapes — some in cases, some loose, not yet rewound or put away — a hallmark of the 80s and my 90s. A cassette player with tapes scattered beside it — no mixtapes here, just original releases before CDs and streaming were invented. And of course, an obligatory piano in the corner. So many houses had a piano, organ, or keyboard back then. And that’s just the living room.

    Into the kitchen, a sewing machine is set up, beside which is a book of dress patterns ready to be made at home. While my mum was definitely no dressmaker, a few of my aunts were. I remember visiting Canberra as a kid and being taken to Spotlight on shopping missions to get fabric that Moya would then turn into clothing from a book not so dissimilar to the one I saw today. The brown kitchen crockery — quite the rage back then — reminded me of visits to family. At home we had those blue and white print plates I thought were hideous at the time, but they were all the rage too.

    I spent most of my time, just like I did in the 80s and 90s, with the games. They had a Commodore 64 and an arcade version of *Space Invaders*, which I played for a while. The shoot button was sticky and didn’t always fire, meaning I lost lives way too fast — but playing this game was worth the entry fee alone. Even the books on the table brought back memories — *The Muppets*, posters of *Pac-Man* on the wall, and movie and band posters too. Every kid back then had posters on their walls!

    In the entryway, they had a cute little yellow car with luggage strapped to the roof — presumably ready for a summer getaway to the beach. The guy tells me, “Get in, I take a photo of you driving.” I hop in and am taken straight back to the road trips of my youth. While I was always the passenger back then, the feel of the car seats, the roll-down windows for air conditioning, and that stiff, hard steering wheel all brought back memories of drives with Mum in our own little Mazda.

    And with that, my trip back into the 80s was complete. Such a great museum — and while it aimed to depict a typical 80s home in Yugoslavia, was it really that geographically specific? Getting access to information back then was harder — partly because I wasn’t even ten yet, but also because of the slower pace of the news cycle. But if this is what Yugoslavia looked like in the 80s, triggering so many memories of my own Aussie childhood — were we really that different after all? I knew nothing of Yugoslavia in the 80s, and only saw the terrible glimpses of war in the 90s, but it seems the Yugoslav 80s looked a lot like mine. What a great little museum find.    Weiterlesen

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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl

    My Quiet Chapter in Pula

    24. Juni in Kroatien ⋅ ☀️ 27 °C

    Well, here I am in Pula, but I’m not really feeling it. I think my trip around the Balkans was rushed — even for me. I’m not mad that I gave it a go, but I think future me needs to learn that one-night stops, especially when they’re stacked back-to-back, are just a little too much moving around. Sustainable for a week or two, but by week three it’s worn me down more than usual. I had a remote rehab session on my first morning here and had a bit of a chat about effort versus capacity as a way to describe how I’m feeling.

    I feel like I’m not putting in enough effort on this part of the trip. It was pointed out to me that perhaps a kinder way to frame that is by thinking about how much capacity for effort I have at this stage of recovery. It’s not that I’m not trying — I just don’t have as much to give right now.

    Luckily for me, I felt this coming a few days ago and changed my plans. The original aim was to continue my fly-through pace and be off to Berlin after two nights, for just two nights, before moving on to Brussels for one night — you get the idea. A lot. Instead, I’ve extended my Pula stay to three nights, giving myself a little breathing space. Arriving, I took a Bolt — glad they’re available here because I’m well and truly over getting ripped off by taxis. The driver was friendly, dropping me at the closest point to my Airbnb. A man approached me as I grabbed my bag from the boot.
    “Carl from Australia?”
    “Yeah…” I replied, a little confused.
    “Ah, my wife is waiting for you in the apartment. I saw you get out with the bag and thought it must be you. Welcome to Pula.”

    The apartment is just what I need for a few nights: a big couch, a kitchen, and hosts who kindly walk me through how everything works. “Narh don’t worry about that,” I say in full Aussie accent when they show me how to use the stove. “I won’t be cooking. I’ll go out for dinner.” There are 1.5 bathrooms, so I have a choice of toilets this trip. I’m shown how the TV and aircon work, how to leave the keys when I go, and then they head off to holiday in the mountains. I’d like to believe they live here, but it feels more like a rental — though they are a lovely couple. The rest of the building seems empty, but later I meet a lady with a little dog upstairs. By the end of my stay, the dog even stops growling when I approach.
    The dog reminds me of Louis at home barking at passersby from his balcony throne. I miss my boys right about now.

    Already feeling more relaxed, I make grand plans to do it all while I’m here. I’ll spend tomorrow morning in the old town, exploring the underground World War tunnels and then off to the Roman theatre. That evening I’ll take a kayak tour and cliff jump into the refreshing Adriatic Sea. The next day I’ll take the bus up the road to Rovinj and explore that town before returning for dinner in Pula.
    Alas, that’s as far as my energy levels allow — planning it out. I go for a walk to get some snacks, but it’s Sunday and everything is closed. I retreat to the couch, put on an episode of Designated Survivor, and nap. I think I’ll be doing a bit of that in Pula.

    Eventually, I get up — fortunately the sun sets late so there’s still daylight. I go to a burger place, order the chicken burger, and regret it. It’s not great. The chips, however, are lovely, so I demolish them, hide the half-eaten burger in the packaging, and go for a quick explore. The Roman Theatre, or Pula Arena, is like a mini Colosseum. I know Italy’s nearby, but have I accidentally landed in a mini Rome? Built between 27 BC and 68 AD, it’s one of the best-preserved Roman amphitheatres. It’s smaller than the Colosseum in Rome but pretty cute. I later find out Tom Jones is playing here on my last night — I didn’t even know he was still alive.

    The rest of my stay in Pula is pretty quiet. I wake up feeling rubbish and eventually make it out for some food — vegetables are what I’m craving, but it’s all pasta and pizza here. Unsure if I’m in Italy or Croatia, I settle for a risotto-style meal with some spinach and pumpkin — the closest thing to actual veggies I can find. Then I nap the afternoon away, followed by an early dinner. This time I go for a Wiener schnitzel. It’s a little average, but it hits the spot. My mind wants to explore more in a flash of FOMO, but my body says no. I listen to the latter and reward myself with a Jaffa vegan ice cream cone.

    My last full day in Pula is much like the one before — naps, chilling in the apartment, and the occasional wander around town to fight off the FOMO. I consider going to the beach, but even the 10-minute bus ride feels like too much effort. Instead, I head underground and wander through the cool air of the World War I and II tunnels beneath the fortress. I skip the hill climb by taking the elevator straight from the tunnels up to the fort. That express under-and-above view ends up being all I really see of Pula during my three-night stay.

    Feeling a little like I’ve wasted my time here, I try to remind myself to have some self-compassion. We all need downtime — something I haven’t been giving myself nearly enough of lately. I take an evening walk to the arena for one last look and find it filling up with Tom Jones fans. Then it’s back to the apartment. I decline several invites for evening rendezvous from faceless “discreet” guys on Grindr, watch some TV in bed, and fall asleep — ready to head to the Netherlands in the morning.    Weiterlesen

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    EasyJet: My Airline TV Debut

    25. Juni in den Niederlanden ⋅ ☁️ 21 °C

    While I have — less than kindly, mind you — been called an “elitist prick” to describe my obsession with flying in the pointy end and collecting my points and status, today there will be none of that as I pop a cherry that’s been waiting for years: flying EasyJet. The star of the avgeek gold TV series Airline back in the early 2000s.

    I’d booked a Bolt the night before to take me to Pula Airport. A bad sleep and early wake-up weren’t great, but the speedy service at the airport was. No waiting for check-in here, even without paying extra for a speedy boarding pass. The airport is super dated but it works for the dozen or so flights a day it gets, mainly from low-cost carriers like Ryanair and EasyJet.

    Having already eaten a homemade breakfast in the apartment, I opted for overpriced water and a muffin while waiting for boarding. The terminal wasn’t busy — two Ryanair flights had just finished boarding, clearing out most of the crowd. I was pretty tired, so had a micro nap at one of the tables before waking up and discovering a rooftop terrace overlooking the apron, where I watched my plane arrive between the two military cargo planes already parked.

    Boarding was called and we all shuffled into a holding room to let the other Eurowings flight board while we waited. Most of the passengers were queuing at the gate, but I took a more relaxed approach and grabbed a seat — which turned out to be a smart move. Soon the captain of our flight appeared at the gate to address the crowd.

    “I’m sorry to say that the aircraft has a very minor fault that we need to fix before we can depart for Amsterdam,” he announced, with extra emphasis on very minor. “Unfortunately EasyJet doesn’t have a contract with any engineers in Pula, so they’re phoning around trying to find one who can come take a look.” At this stage, that meant an indefinite delay. Sigh.

    It’s one of those situations where, if I wasn’t extremely tired, I would’ve been more like “bring it on, make it last three hours so I get some compensation cash!” But this morning, I just wanted to get on the plane and sleep. A minute or two later, the captain was back: “EasyJet just rang me back, they’ve found an engineer who’ll be here in 30 minutes. I expect we’ll board maybe 30 minutes after that.” We were all shuffled out of the gate area and back to the terminal, where I found a table and set up for another micro nap.

    Despite my avgeek love of the pointy end, finally flying EasyJet was exciting — and it looked like I might even get the full TV show experience with a delay and all. The Dutch crowd flying up to Amsterdam weren’t yelling at staff like their British counterparts on Airline, and the crew handled the delay much better than the TV show ever seemed to.

    We boarded pretty much when the captain estimated. Onboard the Airbus A319, I found fabric seats that reminded me of travel years ago, before slimline seats became the norm. For a low-cost carrier, the seats were super comfortable and the legroom sufficient for this 1.5-hour hop to Amsterdam. It helped that the middle seat next to me was empty — more room to stretch out.

    We waited another 15 minutes while the paperwork for this “very minor technical fault” was written up and sent off to EasyJet head office for final clearance. Then, plane released and zooming out of Pula, we made up some time flying across Italy, Austria, and Germany en route to Amsterdam.

    The scenery over the Alps was amazing. Even in summer, some mountain peaks were still snow-capped — a beautiful white contrast to the green valleys below. I spotted Innsbruck beneath us, a place Thom and I zipped around on scooters during our final Europe trip together in 2019. Ah, good memories. I also saw heaps of other planes in the sky. Those heading the opposite direction flashed past in the blink of an eye, while those on similar paths gradually crept up, flying above or below us. I rarely see other planes this close in Australia — I love how easy it is to plane spot from the air in Europe.

    On approach to Schiphol Airport, the captain announced we’d be landing on a centre runway, making for a short taxi to the gate. The view from above was beautifully orderly — so very Dutch. Straight lines of farmland, wind turbines in neat rows, and plenty of solar panels too. This below-sea-level country takes its role in reducing emissions seriously. I wish we had more offshore wind farms like they do.

    We landed, made a short taxi, and parked at the last of the EasyJet gates at the very end of the terminal. It was a bit of a hike to baggage claim, but my bag arrived quickly — no lost luggage drama today, thankfully. Happy and a little refreshed from my own EasyJet experience, I made my way to the car rentals to start exploring my ancestral homeland.

    Welcome to the Netherlands.    Weiterlesen

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    Castle, Chicken & a beeping Dutch drive

    25. Juni in den Niederlanden ⋅ ⛅ 26 °C

    Why is it that car rental companies never seem to have small cars and always upgrade you when you book one? That’s what I was greeted with on arrival in Amsterdam today. Instead of the VW Polo I’d booked, I was given a Nissan X-Trail. For those who are as car-savvy as I am (aka I mostly identify cars by colour), that’s a jump from a small hatchback to a full-sized SUV. Navigating narrow roads in this tank is going to be an adventure, I think, already a little anxious.

    After the awkward moment of getting in on the passenger side and wondering where the steering wheel had gone, I plugged in my first stop into CarPlay and set off. Golly gosh this car beeps a lot! Too fast, not in the lane enough, speed limit change—this car is getting sassy and definitely not helping me adjust to driving a beast on the “wrong” side of the road. Still, I manage to navigate the freeway—complete with constantly changing speed limits to give the car more reasons to beep—and the narrow lanes, until I arrive at Castle De Haar, my first stop.

    Designed as a showpiece to entertain the rich and famous in the 14th century, Castle De Haar was later restored by architect Pierre Cuypers for the wealthy Van Zuylen family. It still packs an impressive punch today. I got excited thinking the old stables and staff quarters were the castle itself—nope! The actual castle is tucked behind a line of trees, surrounded by lush gardens. And what a castle it is.

    Like all good castles, it’s surrounded by a moat and has a proper drawbridge. You know you’ve made it when you can just pull up your drawbridge to keep door-to-door salesmen out. My ticket is for 3 p.m., but it’s quiet enough that they let me in early. If I thought the outside was impressive, the interior completely blew me away. The multi-story main hall makes a powerful first impression—and that’s clearly the point. “You’re in my house and I’m richer than you” seems to be the intended vibe. Stained glass, intricate woodwork, sculptures on every pillar, a vaulted ceiling, and tapestries bigger than my apartment all add to the drama.

    Room after room keeps the wow factor going. I honestly feel like I could grab my case from the car and move right in. Max and Louis would love the grounds. I read that the original family sold the castle to a Dutch heritage trust in 2000, but with one condition—they retain the right to occupy it every September. That’s some deal. A permanent September house party for every future Van Zuylen descendant? Not bad.

    Tempting as it is to move in, I suspect the volunteer guides in every room might notice me unpacking. Somewhat refreshed by this very extra castle visit, I wander the gardens, stop to smell the roses, and then head to the old stables—which now house a restaurant—for lunch.

    I make it just in time, with five minutes to spare before lunch service ends. I order a chicken sandwich and moments later, a real live chicken walks up to my table, pecking around for a snack. I like my chicken fresh, but that’s a bit too literal. I wait patiently for the kind Dutch waiter to deliver my actual meal. It feels a little strange to eat chicken while being watched by one, but it’s delicious.

    Satisfied and just slightly weirded out, I consider marrying into the Van Zuylen family so I can stay here every September. If anyone has connections, please let me know. Feeling a little less anxious about driving the SUV now, I set off for Tilburg to grab some supplies before catching up with the Vans family this afternoon.

    The narrow, tree-lined roads edged with canals and flanked by green fields soon give way to the freeways. It’s only about 80 km but takes nearly 90 minutes thanks to traffic and those constantly changing overhead speed signs. My car is still beeping like mad, especially as I hug the right shoulder and the lane assist freaks out. By the end of the day, I’m more aware of where this thing begins and ends, but I haven’t figured out how to turn off the alerts yet.

    Grocery shopping is annoying at home, but overseas it’s kind of an adventure. I lose track of time exploring the aisles of the local Lidl, laughing at “Slagroom” (Dutch for cream) and definitely buying more than I need. Including spending nearly $20 AUD on a pack of M&M’s. I was asked to bring red wine, and since I don’t drink, I just grab the most expensive bottle I can find—€6!

    The drive from Tilburg to Vessem—where I’ll be joining the vans—is lovely. The roads are narrower, often lined with trees, and surrounded by farmland. For such a small country, the Netherlands is the most efficient agricultural producer in Europe. Here are some nerdy stats I looked up after driving through all that farmland: it’s the second-largest exporter of agricultural products in the world, just behind the US, despite having less than 0.5% of the land mass. Every inch of land seems to be used for something, yet there are still pockets of forest everywhere. It’s so green and beautiful, even if it’s flat as a pancake!

    I follow Google Maps and arrive at the house the vans have rented. It’s in an adorable little cluster of homes a few kilometres outside Vessem. Behind the house is a patch of forest, and farms stretch out in every other direction. After being solo for a while, it’ll be nice to have some company again. I spend the evening with family, play a few games of Uno with Robbie (even winning two in a row), and settle in for a warm night—ready to explore the area and meet distant relatives over the coming days.    Weiterlesen

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    A Dutch Welcome for “Child of Maria”

    26. Juni in den Niederlanden ⋅ ⛅ 19 °C

    My first night in Vessem wasn’t the best sleep I’ve ever had, but also not the worst. I don’t get European homes’ aversion to fly screens and air conditioning. I get that A/C is only really needed for a few weeks a year, but without it, you have to keep the windows open—and that means mosquitoes. Every time I was about to fall asleep, one would buzz past my face, then vanish the second I tried to find it. Little pricks.

    I slept downstairs on the couch for a bit to escape the heat and snoring. Waking up stuck to the leather in the middle of the night, I retreated back upstairs for a more comfortable sleep in bed. When morning came, it was time to get organised for a laundry day. The Vans had also been travelling for a while, so everyone needed clean clothes. Peter, Rob and I headed off in search of a roadside laundromat vending machine in the next town over.

    These roadside vending machine-style laundromats are actually pretty cool and convenient. Set in the car park of a local industrial area, we loaded up the machines, started our cycles, and then went in search of coffee. Pete directed us to “coffee” on Google Maps. Alas, it turned out to be a coffee distributor rather than a café. No drama—the Dutch hospitality is warm, and the lady there made Peter and Rob a coffee on the house, complete with a biscuit for me.

    Back at the roadside laundromat, we ponder the cost of setting one of these up while messing around in the photo booth that comes with it. It’s free to use as long as you don’t actually print the photo, so we all get a “most wanted” shot. I’m not sure who’s paying €4 a pop for printed pics, but it’s a bit of fun and passes the time while the washing mostly dries.

    With the washing mission complete, it was time for a nap back at the house before the afternoon’s activities. I needed this nap to be able to tackle the rest of the day. I popped upstairs, put on some calm background EMDR music, and had a solid 1.5-hour sleep. Even after a few restful days in Pula, I’m still pushing my limits—but I felt more up for life after the nap.

    A little family history time now. My mother was born in the Netherlands before migrating with her four brothers when she was about four years old. They’d later be joined by an Australian-born brother, Peter, soon after the family arrived in Australia. I guess Oma knew how to pass the time on the long sea voyage 😉. So Peter is my uncle, and I’ve gatecrashed (aka was invited to) part of their family holiday to meet relatives in the Netherlands. I’ve never visited family here before, and other than one Facebook friend in Ans, I didn’t know any of them—until today.

    Turns out it’s Paul’s 70th birthday party today, and we’re all going to celebrate and meet the extended family. He delayed having the party until Peter and family were here to share it with him. I feel both special to be invited and also a little anxious as large group social settings are not really my vibe. It’s weird that large group social stuff makes me anxious given every family event in my childhood was always massive. Turns out those large family gatherings are not just an Aussie thing - the Dutch side do them too!

    Paul and Ans (a different Ans to my Facebook friend Ans) house is beautiful. It has an earth roof, covered in vines and a beautiful large garden that large south facing windows of the home look out onto. We head out to the garden where the local family are already there. I meet Paul and Ans, and Facebook Ans and everyone else. Many of the women here, plus Paul are my mums cousins on my Opa’s side.

    Even though I was an only child, I grew up with many cousins—most of them more like siblings than cousins to me. It was lovely to see Peter experience that connection with his own cousins—something he missed out on growing up on the other side of the world. I wish I were better at small talk and mingling, but I think (hope) I managed to internalise my social anxiety enough today. Everyone was so lovely, friendly, and welcoming to me—“the child of Maria”—someone they’d never met but embraced like family.

    The food for dinner was delicious and in massive supply! From starters to mains to dessert, Paul and Ans looked after everyone beautifully while we chatted in the garden. Some personalities and mannerisms really do seem to be genetically linked! Dutch hospitality—and their party rules—are something we should take home with us. Parties have a start and end time, and when it ends, everyone’s expected to leave. My overly planned and anxious mind loves this so much.

    With the party over, I reflect on how welcoming everyone was to us. Pete and Jude have visited before, but for me, this was a first—and I felt like, well, family. I drive us back to Vessem, about 30 minutes away—a distance the local family consider a long journey. It’s still light at 9pm, so I turn on the sauna to warm up before heading out for a local walk to close my exercise rings and enjoy some solo time.

    I do a short 2km walk, draft a post, and wait for the sauna to heat up. But after 1.5 hours, it’s still only at 40 degrees, so I turn it off and crash into bed again. It’s cooler tonight, and with the window and skylight open for a slight breeze, I settle in—reflecting on meeting a part of the family I’d only ever heard about, but had never met until today.    Weiterlesen

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    Efteling: Embracing my Childish Giggles

    27. Juni in den Niederlanden ⋅ ⛅ 22 °C

    I love a theme park, and I’ve known about this one since I was a kid. My cousins, Ben and Emma, went there years ago on a family trip while I was still growing up. I vividly remember how enthusiastic they were when they got back, especially their comparisons to Disneyland. “Disneyland is all concrete, crowded and nothing natural. Efteling was so green, not crowded, and so fun.” I’m paraphrasing, but those were the key ideas that stuck with me all these years. Funny how memory works — or frustrating if you’re someone like me who forgets why I walked into the kitchen but remembers every awkward conversation from 1998.

    So when Peter asked if I wanted to join them for a day at Efteling, it was a no-brainer: yes! Our convoy of two cars set off, missing one turn and taking a scenic detour along country lanes. As we arrived, I immediately saw what Ben and Emma meant. The car park is big, but not an endless slab of concrete like Disneyland. And while the entrance isn’t quite as iconic as the Magic Kingdom, it has this enchanted forest vibe with wood and whimsical curved roofs that look like witches’ hats. Welcome to Efteling.

    We got in early — the gates were open, but the rides hadn’t started yet. Wandering around without much of a plan, we joined the queue for Symbolica. It’s a gentle indoor ride suitable for all ages, though Jude needed some convincing. I think she suspected we were tricking her into something scary. But the smile I caught mid-ride told me we chose right. Next up was the steam carousel, where I discovered the horses weren’t exactly designed for fully grown adults. My feet couldn’t fit inside the stirrups, but we spun around happily as the steam engine did its thing. A perfect length ride — just enough fun without the dizziness. Rob pointed out the bar nearby where parents could sit and sip a beer while watching their kids spin around. The Dutch think of everything.

    The cafés didn’t open until 11, so we hopped on the monorail next. It’s a cute two-person ride above a fairytale village. Robbie wanted to ride with me, and thanks to our weight imbalance, the snail-shaped cart tilted slightly to my side. As we cruised above the park, Robbie pointed out everything he was planning to do next — “I’m going on that next” became his catchphrase. So funny. Afterward, the kids tackled some slides. I followed and found the entries very much child-sized, but managed to squeeze through without bumping my head. Being a kid again is fun. At 11, Pete and Jude were craving coffee, so we all headed to the Poffertjes café. Banana and Nutella mini pancakes for me — delicious.

    After morning tea — once everyone had peed and a last-minute kids’ poop was taken care of — we split into two groups. Emma, Rob, Robbie and I headed off to Vogel Rok, an indoor rollercoaster completely in the dark. Robbie’s first* rollercoaster! Queue times here seem to be overestimated — it said 40 minutes, but we were on in 25 or 30. Robbie rode with me, although you’d never know from the ride photo. He leaned forward the whole time, so only his white-knuckled hands made it into the picture. The ride was full of twists, climbs, drops and mystery — both thrilling and a bit nausea-inducing. When asked how it was, Robbie said he liked it but would never go on another rollercoaster again. I felt the same and needed a breather before our next stomach-churner.

    We meet back up for the show — Raveleijn. It’s set in a cool, medieval-style arena designed for a live-action performance. I honestly didn’t follow the whole plot, but here’s the gist based on what I read afterward: five riders are summoned to the magical city of Raveleijn by Halina and trained to defend it. When Count Olaf shows up with his five-headed monster, the Draconicon, the riders unite to save the city. Each rider is decked out in a different colour with their own powers — kind of like Captain Planet: earth, wind, fire, water, heart. Then ninjas descend from above the crowd and chaos unfolds. Spoiler alert: the good guys win, after an epic drowning of the final surviving ninja. Throw in impressive horseback stunts, ravens flying around, pyrotechnics and a giant animatronic monster — it’s a great show.

    By now it’s lunchtime, and my stomach is about two minutes away from turning my brain into full hangry mode. The younger crew (everyone Ben’s age and under) go off for a ride while us older folks head for food. I demolish a massive plate of chicken skewers and chips, followed by a stash of lollies that take a few days to get through. Fully fuelled, we split up again — the grandparents take the kids, and the “young adults” (yes, I’m using that term for myself in my 40s — writer’s licence!) head off to try a thrill ride: Vliegende Hollander (or The Flying Dutchman in English).

    The queue for this one is the slowest-moving of the day. Probably because we’re surrounded by teenagers who are — pardon my French — fucking annoying. Two of them barge past everyone else, setting off a couple of arguments but continuing on like nothing happened. Then there’s a group of girls with a couple of geeky boys in tow. We’re all quietly convinced the girls are going to eat those poor lads alive. The boys think they’re in with a chance, blissfully unaware that the girls are eyeing off some jocky-looking guys further down the line.

    As we move inside, the lack of deodorant among the teen boys hits like a wall. God, I hope I didn’t smell like this at their age. Eventually, we board our little boat and head off on this water coaster ride. It’s short, but packed with thrills — ups, downs, creepy effects, fog-filled tunnels and sharp turns. I think Ben, Emma, and Rob were more entertained by my nonstop hysterical giggle than the ride itself. By the time we splash down into the lake at the end, I’m laughing so hard I’m borderline hyperventilating. Total blast.

    We regroup to take the kids on the river rapids ride – Piraña. Pete and Jude sit this one out while we navigate the queue — thankfully free of annoying teens this time. Good thing too, since each raft only seats six, and we fill it exactly. The river tosses and splashes us around a fair bit. Somehow, we miraculously avoid the big waterfall that drenches the boat in front of us. They get absolutely soaked. To make it worse, we nudge them just enough to send them back into the firing line of another water jet. We all get wet — some more than others — before finishing the ride and reuniting with Pete and Jude to explore the woods.

    I get the sense that visiting the woods is quite sentimental for Jude. She’d been here before with Ben and Emma when they were kids, and now it was time to recreate that memory with the grandkids in tow. It’s a pretty cute setup, with many classic nursery rhyme and fairytale stories depicted. Hansel and Gretel and the like are all brought to life in little displays — some of which the kids can explore on their own, with signs declaring them “parent-free zones.” I’m not a parent, though, so I got to sneak into a few of them too. It’s very green here — trees, gardens, and little hidden attractions nestled between the woods. I imagine this is the part of the park Ben and Emma were thinking of when they came home saying, “It’s so green, with heaps of trees and shade.”

    While wandering through the woods, everyone seemed to need toilet breaks — all at different times — so we split up for a while. We eventually regrouped at a shitting donkey. You pay 50 euro cents (cash or just tap your card), and the statue makes some noises, lifts its tail, and drops a pile of gold coins. Weirdly entertaining. Sometimes it took the money but didn’t drop any coins, resulting in a double load for the next person — even funnier.

    The park was winding down by the time we left the woods, and we made our way to the closing water show near the main gate. It’s a 15-minute spectacle of fountains shooting water high into the air in sync with a dramatic soundtrack. A breeze drifts over us every now and then, giving a light, refreshing mist — very welcome in the evening sun. It’s a gentle, mindful way to finish the day. We do a quick stroll through the gift shop before easily finding the car and joining the queue of traffic heading home.

    Peter took the wheel for the drive home, with Google Maps on CarPlay providing directions — along with additional advice from Jude and Ben in the backseat. Near our dinner stop in the cute little town of Middlebeers, I threw in a bit of backseat driving too — didn’t want to miss out. Kudos to Peter for safely getting us home and staying sane in a car full of co-pilots. We ate at the only restaurant in town open after 8pm, and it was absolutely delicious. I had the asparagus frittata — so good! We toasted the night with a round of limoncello and headed home, the summer breeze making for a much more comfortable night’s sleep.

    While I didn’t have the emotional or nostalgic connection to Efteling that the others clearly did, I still had a fantastic day out. It felt like we barely scratched the surface of what the park has to offer. You’d probably need a well-planned 1.5 to 2 days to see and do everything properly. I liked that the park is loosely divided into zones for different age groups — some for little kids, some for older ones, and a good chunk for teens and thrill-seekers. There’s something for everyone. I’m really grateful I got to tag along with the family — sharing those silly moments of giggling on the rides wouldn’t have been half as fun on my own.    Weiterlesen

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    Baarle-Nassau: Bordering Ridiculous

    28. Juni in Belgien ⋅ ☁️ 25 °C

    I love looking at Google Maps for strange things. Even as a kid, I loved flicking through pages of the world atlas, looking at how borders took strange paths to carve up the earth into different countries. I guess this fascination comes from living in Australia where we have no land borders—just a massive long coastline. I’m particularly interested in enclaves: bits of land completely surrounded by another country but owned by a different one. I visited my first enclave back in 2022 when I went to the Spanish enclave of Melilla. I flew in and out of that one, as the high border wall with Morocco makes crossing on foot a bit tricky. Today was different—I was going enclaves on steroids.

    In the south of the Netherlands, close to Belgium proper, is the small town of Baarle-Nassau. Home to 22 Belgian enclaves within the Netherlands and 8 Dutch exclaves within those Belgian enclaves, it’s the world’s most densely packed little cluster of enclaves. Only 40 minutes’ drive from where I was staying, including a shortcut through Belgium proper, it was somewhere I had to see. The car seemed a little less excited about the border crossings (which are just lines on a map given the open borders within the Schengen group). "Warning—Border Crossing… Warning—Border Crossing," she would yell each time we approached one of these imaginary lines.

    On the drive there, the only noticeable difference when cutting through Belgium was that the large red bike lanes that take up most of the narrow road disappeared in Belgium, only to reappear again once crossing back into the Netherlands. The drive was scenic, even for a flat country—small tree-lined lanes, green fields, and metal bollards you can only just squeeze through. Okay, the latter wasn’t great and got the car beeping a lot, but we breathed in and made it through. Arriving into the town itself, the car was going berserk with the "Warning—Border Crossing... Warning—Border Crossing" tirade as we crisscrossed the many enclave borders. On one road, the northern lane was in the Netherlands, the southern side in Belgium. Fascinating! Jude and I laughed over the ridiculous number of warnings the car gave us.

    We parked in town to walk around. There isn’t really much to “see” here, other than the borders themselves. Metal dots mark out the lines, sometimes replaced by white crosses with “NL” and “B” on either side indicating which country you’re in. The first shop we saw had a border line that ran right up its wall. The entry is in the Netherlands, but inside, the store is split in half—part in Belgium, part in the Netherlands. You collect your purchases in Belgium and pay for them in the Netherlands.

    We had a drink and—being in Belgium, I think—it’s hard to keep track in this town, I grabbed some waffles. They were disappointing, but oh well. Looking at some local shops afterwards, a man approached me with a camera in hand. “Are you Dutch? Visiting?” he asked. “Not Dutch, Australian visitors,” I replied. “Okay. I am from tourism office taking some pictures. Can I take photos of you?” he asked. My travel blog is obviously booming—we’re now local celebrities 😂.

    We posed for a few staged pics. The first was of Rob taking a photo of me straddling the border. “Don’t look at the camera,” the guy said. “Pretend to be taking your own photos,” he added. Rob and I awkwardly laughed, not looking at him and not knowing if he was finished or not. Next, Jude and I formed a hand arch over the border and again awkwardly waited, unsure when our photoshoot was over. Maybe we weren’t quite the actors he had in mind—he thanked us for our time and didn’t ask for more shots.

    Keep an eye out for new promotional materials from the town of Baarle-Nassau—we might just be the new faces of their tourism campaign. After taking a few photos of our own, we walked to the most unique house in town, crossing borders multiple times on the way. It must be strange living in one house while your neighbour’s—attached to yours—is technically in a different country and under different laws. The border runs directly through the front door of this cute little house, with a Belgian and Dutch flag on either side. I learned that the law that applies to each home depends on where its front door is. I wonder how that works in practice?

    It’s a cute town to visit and soak up the craziness of these imaginary lines we call borders—but you only need an hour or so to get the full experience. Satisfied that I’d sufficiently got my nerd on, we headed off to our next stop of the day. Since I’d parked the car on the border (the back left seat technically in a different country), it immediately started warning us again the moment I turned on the engine. But the car got camera shy—just as Jude tried to film the warnings, it suddenly went silent. Truly back in the Netherlands, our trip to the densest cluster of enclaves was complete—and the car could finally relax.    Weiterlesen

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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl

    Lage Zwaluwe: From Holland to Highett

    28. Juni in den Niederlanden ⋅ ☀️ 25 °C

    Border-filled Baarle-Nassau behind us, we drove to Lage Zwaluwe to meet up with Peter and Ben and explore some family history. It was just Jude and I in the car this time, Robbie ditching us after taking a little tumble in Baarle-Nassau. As we followed the GPS to visit Lage Zwaluwe, Jude gave me a bit of a history lesson on the family, and why Lage Zwaluwe was on our map today. I don't know much about my distant Dutch family, but this trip has been a good family history field trip.

    Jude explained that Oma was born in this village on the edge of the Hollands Diep – a wide river-like estuary – and we were off to see the house she was born in. The home had been in the family for a few hundred years before being relatively recently sold, and then even more recently sold again. When I was really young (kindergarten before primary school), my mum and I lived with Oma in her home in Highett, so I'd say in my early years I was very close to Oma, but was too young to really take in the family history and her and my own mum's immigration to Australia from the Netherlands.

    Too young to have many real memories of my Opa from that time, I recall the vibe being off before he died, then lifting. I also have memories of when he died. I remember being in the house just after he died and having to play outside while the undertakers came, or maybe it was just after – but that's the memory I have. Then having to stay at a house on the corner near the Corcorans’ house when the funeral happened. Being separated from my mum – I recall being unimpressed with being treated like a child.

    The vibe changed after Opa died – kinda lifted to something more positive – somewhat freer. The stories Jude shared on the drive of Oma's experience with Opa, how he treated others, kinda matches with the more negative vibe of a memory I hold – even though as someone that young I don't have any recollection of actual events. I guess it shows that what you see and hear as a kid, even if you don't understand it, leaves an imprint.

    Jude explained Oma's experience during the war, the work she had to do in the Nazi-occupied Netherlands, the billeting of soldiers in the house and more. Really puts my life into perspective to hear these stories of adaptation and survival. Remarkable how people managed to keep going and survive – both physically and emotionally. We also joked about how Peter, the only non-Dutch-born son, was conceived on the voyage over – despite Oma and Opa having different cabins. Although, having met his cousins earlier in the week, there is definitely a van’s genetic link there too!

    As we get closer, we pass through Hooge Zwaluwe and up onto one of the main dykes that the road tops. Jude says she knows the way from here, but I respectfully opt to follow the GPS instead. We enter Lage Zwaluwe and pass a cute little cafe on the left. I say that looks like a nice place for us to meet the others for lunch – only to seconds later spot Peter and Ben waving at us. They’d already found it – great minds think alike. The narrow streets don't allow space to turn around so I drive up a bit until a large driveway allows me to turn around and come back and park.

    I'm loving these little restaurants and cafes in the Netherlands. Even in these small towns there are some really great places to eat. I guess there are some great little country pubs in Australia now too, but my memories of visiting tiny towns back home often include lacklustre cafes. I had a club sandwich kinda thing which was delicious in the cute and cosy little restaurant. It has a B&B attached to it, which I'd imagine would also be pretty swish and special.

    Refuelled with lunch, we walk down the road to the house where Oma was born. Peter and Ben have already been past and ran into someone who recognised Peter from an earlier visit here years ago – what a small world – or what an impression does Peter leave behind (jokes). They say the house is empty so we won't be able to go inside. If I'm honest, my social anxiety is somewhat relieved by this – not having to interact with strangers.

    We get to the house and everyone has a quick peer through the window. The Dutch aren't fans of window blinds. If you have your blinds closed and people can't see inside your home, it means you must be up to no good, so most homes are very much on display to the street. Also don't forget to keep your windows cleaned and garden (if you have one) in top condition – you will be judged. So next time someone says I'm being too judgey – I can say that it's just my genetics at play.

    While outside, Jude's passion for family history comes out in full excitement. Jude explains where bullets missed a family member because she was lying down instead of sitting in her usual spot when fighting broke out during WWII. We pose for family photos outside the house, then a few of us wander to the other side of the road to take in the view from the dyke across the fields. Next thing we know it, we're being called – the homeowner is in, and so are we.

    Inside, the new homeowner – clearly intrigued by the fact that eight Australians have travelled halfway across the world to see his house – is getting a full history lesson. Where walls used to be, how the staircase has changed, where the bullet fragments landed, where the family hid in the cellar during the bombings. The Dutch are incredibly hospitable, even if at times he looks a bit shell-shocked, like a deer in headlights. We thank him and are just about to leave when he stops us. “My wife is downstairs and she won’t believe me that you all came this far to see the house. Please come downstairs to see the garden so she can see you. Otherwise she’ll never believe me.”

    It’s a beautiful home, but as we descend the tight, steep, curved staircase to the cellar and garden, all I can think is… how did Oma manage these stairs? We meet the equally bemused wife downstairs. These two are definitely going to have a story to tell their friends about the random Australian descendants of their house popping by for a visit. I’m feeling socially awkward now, so I linger at the back while the others chat and explain our connection. It’s funny how just two new people joining a conversation can be all it takes to set off my “am I doing the right thing?” anxiety spiral.

    Looking at the house from the garden and hearing the stories, I start thinking about how many random events had to align for me to even exist. What if one of those bombs had hit the house while Oma was in the shelter? What if a stray bullet hadn’t missed? What if she never met Opa, or they never migrated to Australia? What if the timing of my trip hadn’t aligned with the Van’s visit, or we hadn’t talked about it? So many small events could’ve altered everything. While I haven’t felt particularly sentimental about places lately, I can see why this hits home for others. So much had to go right in the last century for us to be standing here today.

    Leaving, I notice the styling of the home – these people have taste! It’s a gorgeous house. We walk back up to the car, and the smiles on Jude and Peter’s faces say it all. There’s a spark of joy, a little glassiness in their eyes. This moment meant something. It’s heartwarming to witness. We hop in the cars and in a three-car procession drive through the village to the harbour. Emma picks out her dream house overlooking the water – the one with the manicured lawn and blooming garden. It’s a cute harbour, mostly filled with leisure boats and the odd fishing vessel. Family history trip complete, we set off for Heusden, a fortified town about 40 minutes away.

    I struggle to find a park in town, so I drop off Jude and the kids near the main square and head to the parking lot just outside the walls. Then I walk back in. It’s a really pretty town, surrounded by fortification walls laid out in a star-shaped defensive pattern. I’d love to explore more, but I’m also wrecked. I join the others at a pancake restaurant, grab some food and a drink, and then say goodbye to the family before starting the 1.5 hour drive up to Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport. I’m so glad I gatecrashed a few days of the Van’s holiday. It was lovely to have company, meet distant relatives, play Uno, scream on rollercoasters, and dive into family history. To Peter, Jude, Ben, Emma, Rob, Harriet, and Robbie (who says I’m his new best friend) – thanks for letting me share this part of your trip with you all, snores and all!    Weiterlesen

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  • Travel with CarlEurope 2025Travel with Carl

    Go Around to get to Mykonos

    30. Juni in Griechenland ⋅ 🌬 24 °C

    The earliest morning start today with a 3:15am wake-up for my flight to Mykonos, Greece. I’d deliberately avoided crack-of-dawn flights in my planning, but since this trip to Mykonos wasn’t part of the original plan, I took what flights I could. Staying at the Novotel near the airport let me sleep a little longer. Had I known the Bolt driver would be trying to break land speed records, I could have squeezed in an extra 10 minutes. Ending the ride before we even arrived at the terminal, he says, “I give you five stars, I need five stars from you too,” staring at me while driving and expecting me to rate him immediately. “I’ll do it later,” I say. I should’ve said I didn’t have Wi-Fi—my response seemed to piss him off and make his right foot heavier.

    Getting out of the car, he says, “Five stars now yes?” I say I have, even though I haven’t. I hate this pushy tactic to force good reviews. I’m guessing he needs them—his driving was shocking. He spent more time muting alarms on his car and phone than concentrating on the road—all at 120km/h in a 50 zone. Inside the terminal, I check in and give him three stars—more than he deserved, but any lower and the app wants detailed feedback I can’t be bothered giving.

    Unlike the chaos of previous summers, where Amsterdam couldn’t cope with the surge in travel, there were no queues for check-in or security this morning. It seems KLM leaves the early flights to Transavia, as the departure board begins the day in green logos before slowly turning KLM blue.

    The only queues were at the two cafés open post-security at this early hour. I grabbed a water and croissant at one, and a Coke and banana bread at another, then made my way to the gate. Flying within Schengen means no passport control, making it an easy door-to-gate experience.

    I’m working my way through the low-cost carriers this trip, with Transavia the carrier of choice today. Given I was off to Mykonos, I expected this to be the homo express, but was disappointed to find very few fellow gays waiting at the gate. Not that there was much time to scope it out—boarding for the 6am departure began right on time at 5:20. The 737-800 flying me to Greece was fitted with green seats matching the airline brand. I was in the last boarding group and made my way to row 28, settling into window seat 28A.

    The seat had decent padding, solid legroom, and—luxury of luxuries—a real seat pocket, complete with a magazine and safety card. Far posher than Ryanair’s laminated seatbacks and no pockets. “Boarding complete” came over the PA and I looked up to see an empty aisle and two empty seats next to me. Winner winner, chicken dinner—super poor man’s business class for this three-hour hop down to Greece.

    The Dutch captain was informative, detailing our route in both Dutch and English. We made the long taxi to another province (a.k.a. that far-away runway), took off to the north, then swung around over Amsterdam to head southeast. The morning sky over the Netherlands was stunning—a perfect parting view.

    We tracked across Germany, passed over Prague and Budapest, then flew along the western edge of Romania before crossing Bulgaria and arriving over Greece and the Aegean Sea. With my breakfast earlier being underwhelming, I ordered a chicken roll from the trolley. As the first flight of the day, it was fresh—and as far as airline food goes—tasty and hit the spot well.

    We began our approach into Mykonos, and the captain advised of possible turbulence due to strong winds. We passed to the east of the island before looping around and approaching from the north to face the winds head-on. It was all smooth sailing until we crossed the coastline, where the bumps began. Nothing too scary, but enough to feel like the pilots were earning their keep today. We sank, ballooned, sank again, and wobbled as we crossed the runway threshold. The left wing dropped just a little too low for comfort, and seconds later, the engines roared back to life—we were going around.

    Despite taking over 550 flights, this was only my third go-around. They’re a perfectly normal and safe procedure, but the cabin chatter (in Dutch) got very excited as we climbed again, rewarded with a stellar view of Mykonos old town and harbour. Once level, the captain explained what happened and said we’d have one more attempt—if that didn’t work, we’d be heading to Athens.

    We circled a nearby island—bone dry but ringed with stunning beaches—before flying over the airport again and turning back toward the same approach path. This time, the winds made the approach even rougher. Not long after crossing the coast, those engines roared again—we were off for a second go-around.

    Turns out we’d had a wind shear warning, which explains the early go-around. Wind shear is a sudden change in wind speed or direction over a short distance that can cause abrupt changes in altitude or airspeed—not ideal when flying low and slow. So, off to Athens we went, where it was also windy but calm enough for a safe landing 20 minutes later.

    We parked at a remote stand and the captain explained they’d figure out when it was safe to try Mykonos again. It might be a while—they might disembark us, or maybe not. Ten minutes later, the crew came around with free water and soft drinks. The cabin cheered—small wins. We didn’t wait long though. Just enough time to refuel, have a drink and a tinkle, and then the first officer was back on the PA announcing we were giving Mykonos another go.

    Of course, I was tracking the situation like a nerd on FlightRadar24. A few other planes had gone around, but none had diverted—only us. I’m guessing the captain was the pilot flying this leg, as the first officer made all the announcements. A short 20-minute hop later, we wobbled over the coast and bounced down on the runway. The cabin erupted with applause and cheers. Welcome to Mykonos!

    Disembarking via the rear stairs, the wind was wild. The walk across the tarmac was guided by eight marshallers—full employment in Greece? Baggage delivery was weird. It felt like they had one cart shuttling bags back and forth. Most people were gone when a staff member called out, “No more bags.” My AirTag suggested otherwise—my bag was just on the other side of the wall. A few minutes later, the carousel whirred back to life, and six more bags came out—mine included.

    A quick (six-minute) but extortionate taxi ride later—40 fucking Euros—I checked into my queer-friendly resort in Mykonos. Soon I was sitting by the pool, sipping a beer, and eating something delicious. Welcome to Greece.    Weiterlesen

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    5. Juli 2025
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