A little adventure in the East this past weekend.

We flew into Kars (A)
Drove to Ani (B)
The following day drove to Dogubeyazit (C)
Had lunch at the Muradiye Falls (D)
And spent the night in Van (E)

See the pictures.

In Mostar I was told the only bus to Split left at eleven PM for arrival the following morning.  Unbelievably dejected, especially as I'd miss out not only on the concert but also a night in the five-star Meridian Lav, courtesy of a Starwood-pointed friend Walter (yes, the hotel was called the Lav), I spoke to a local taxi driver who asked 50 Euro for a ride to the border. Only after much eyelash batting and wide-eyed questioning did he relent and announce that there was, in fact, a bus running from the other station at four, and offered to drive me around the town for an hour in the interim. Sometimes there is such undeniable luxury in being female.

Mostar is incredibly quaint. See above.

I got on the bus for the last leg of my journey with a sense of self-satisfaction, and onwards towards Split, dancing to Faithless on a boardwalk along the Adriatic coast, a queen sized bed (with a down comforter and air-con), buffet breakfast (stole the jam), and lounging poolside (testing out the new bikini). The luxury was cut short rather dramatically when Josh and I realized that Sibenik, where our Yacht Week boat and friends awaited, was a two hour drive up the coast. In two hours we were supposed to have left the harbour. We jumped in a taxi to the bus station and rushed to catch a bus in the nick of time, and we sat with baited breath as the bus crept up the shore road in deep holiday traffic. We arrived to find that the day trip had been canceled as our boat, Ema Blue, was undergoing some repairs. Bloody Mary's were on the table within seconds.

Yacht week was the Spring Break I never had. See the appropriate pictures here. The not-quite-so-appropriate ones on facebook.

But again, part of the fun was that were always mobile. We took off each morning with a destination in mind, stopping in for the night at picturesque ports, or harbouring in sheltered coves, the ever-changing coastline and clear blue skies following us romantically. The delicate balance between drinking too much in an evening and wanting nothing more than to lie in the sun on the bow all day was rarely tipped.

In the mornings we set off, moving at snail's pace after long nights. As the day progressed with far too few pages of a cheesy International Bestseller read, we would slowly recover from the morning haze. We moored alongside deserted islands and lunched on salami and proscuitto, local cheeses and fresh vegetables washed down with Croatian beer and rose (or perhaps a bit of bubbly for pomp and circumstance). We cavorted in the cold, salty waters of the Adriatic, peering down into the clear blue depths, where splintering light reflected from the seabed below. We would arrived at our destination with daylight to spare, comfortably shacking up next to a fellow Yacht Week boat and befriending our neighbors with offerings of Red Bull vodka or another popped cork spraying undrinkable prosecco in their direction. In the evenings, after a walk and a shower, we would dine on board, or at a local restaurant. Seafood was divine - octopus, shark, mussels and calamari freshly caught and cooked, and bottles of strong Croatian wine flowed. The evening unraveled delightfully from there, but I'll spare the gory details.

As expected, the week ended much quicker than expected, and suddenly we lurched to a stop and in desperate need of a proper bed and a serious scrub down. Despite a niggling in the back of my mind of a flight out of Skopje, Macedonia in two days time, I pushed it aside with explorations of the city of Split with Dan and Dom Heynen, and joined Gill on the island of Hvar a day later. We climbed bell towers, giggled at locals as they doggy paddled in speedos at the local beaches, drank fancy and overpriced cocktails at seaside lounge bars, scrutinized tourist maps to plot our route, perused the old cities, and rented scooters to explore the island. I won't complain about my bruised scooter and the 200 euros worth of  damage, but I will attest to the fact that  at 6 AM on Monday Gill and I came to the sudden, slightly sickening realization that we had a day and a half to get off an island and cross four countries to catch our flight.

We booked it. The 7:30 ferry arrived into Split at 9:40. A 10:00 bus left from the Otogar for Dubrovnik and was scheduled to take four and a half hours, with an unavoidable dip into Bosnia on the way. I sat at the edge of my seat and we watched the seconds tick by before we rolled into the station with minutes to spare before the 3:00 bus over the border to Montenegro. On the way we took a car ferry across the Bay of Kotor, southern Europe's deepest fjord, and rolled into the small town of Herceg Novi, where an overnight bus was waiting to take us through Montenegro and Kosovo and into Macedonia. We breathed a sigh of relief as we boarded that final bus, content in the discomfort of a fitful night's upright sleep knowing we'd reach Skopje by morning and in time to catch our 40 euro Pegasus Airways flight home in the following afternoon. We arrived at 5AM after 22 hours in transit, and fell asleep on the floor of the bus station for three hours before we were ready to face the day.

Skopje is a city that appears to be one large reconstruction site. Apparently the city was all but destroyed after an earthquake in 1963, and it has taken till this year to get moving on the rebuilding scheme. It's clear that they're in a hurry. Cranes litter the skyline, and every architecturally stimulating building seemed to be covered in scaffolding. All around the town brazen new statues are being unveiled, including one hideously tacky Alexander the Great fountain(!) where he is seen on horseback upon a grand white pedestal, surrounded by roaring lions and battle-ready soldiers. See left. That, and the fact that Gill and I were were too tired and too hot, made it difficult to get a good impression of the city, which was deadly quiet due to Ramadan. After making a concerted effort to get our fill of culture by stopping in at a few churches, we fell asleep again on an old, brown, sandpaper-like sofa in Skopje's national art museum before finding any conceivable space that might have air-conditioning (the local mall), until it was time to taxi to the airport and go home. Then the whirlwind was over.

Yes, getting places can be stressful. Plotting a route can take ages, especially in countries where the bus schedule isn't readily available online, (god forbid things are still done on paper!), or a flight is delayed, or you're just too hungover to decide which island you'd like to moor at for lunch. Unforeseen challenges provide an occasional adrenaline rush, forcing you out of your comfort zone. But once you've settled into that window seat, or that perch on the bow where the 180 degree view lends nothing but vast expanses of water; once you've got two hands tight to the handlebars of a scooter as you race along a deserted country road, or you're walking down a quiet side street towards some undiscovered landmark. Once you're doing that, there's nothing to do but take in the the view as it passes, and try to capture the moments of beauty in the landscape. You're moving, but you are there.

Grant and I met in Ein Gedi, an oasis and nature reserve on the coast of the Israeli Dead Sea in October of 2009. In 90 degree heat (that's about 35 for those who don't speak Fahrenheit), we hiked to the top of the Judaen Plateau, which afforded incredible views over the Dead sea and into Syria. We took a dip, or a float, in the Dead Sea, and visited the Ahava factory, where I managed to leave a collection of goodies from the shop in his rented car. After a day together with his friend Radek, he drove back up to Tel Aviv and I hitch-hiked down to Eilat on the Red Sea with my friend Mike.

Determined to collect my very exclusive hand cream at some future date, I kept in touch with Grant, and over the past year we have planned (and scratched) several trips, from Switzerland to Georgia. It was in June this year that he invited me to join him while he was staying at his apartment in Mallorca. I had booked a ticket without a minutes hesitation.

I tend to trust my gut instinct about people. Despite a distinct age gap between us, I immediately warmed to Grant. I remember how he generously offered to drive us to the reserve so we could hike up together. He was enthusiastic about visiting the Ahava factory, which he'd never heard of before. And on the back of his business card he wrote: Kate, Come to Scotland or Spain and we can go exploring! Though I didn't have a lot to go on with only those 12 hours, it was long enough to take away good vibes.

It was only in the few days leading up to the trip to Mallorca that I began wondering if I might be in too deep. Not only was I seeing someone who I didn't really know, I would be staying at his home and had no real way to escape if something went wrong. I had written a "disclaimer email" to Grant in the hopes he would understand that I came to visit as a friend, and nothing more, but this didn't stop me from worrying that I might find myself in a slightly tricky situation.

On the eve of departure, I tossed and turned before the 6 AM flight to Madrid. It was partially in excitement, but I kept going over scenarios in my head. How do I treat this practical-stranger when I see him? What should I do if things became uncomfortable? What was my escape plan?

Turns out, as expected, I had absolutely nothing to worry about. Grant was a knightly host. He picked me up at the airport, and we aimed straight for his local beach, Cala Major. The following day he rented a car and we explored the island together for three days. He showed me his favorite swimming holes, and his local eateries. We finally got to know each other, during long hours driving or lounging on the sand, he told me of his plan to publish a novel and direct a film. I got glimpses of his childhood, his family life, his past relationships, and his future goals. He heard far too much about my life as well. We maintained and developed a platonic companionship throughout the trip, which was perfect.

As for Mallorca - I had heard good things about this Baleriac gem between Menorca and Ibiza. It seemed ideally sandwiched between the two islands, Menorca known for its tranquility and natural beauty, and Ibiza for wild nightlife and famous DJs. It was just as imagined - in Palma, the capital, a vibrant social scene went late into the night, with jazz clubs atop bougey hotels and tapas bars serving Mallorcan wine and typical Spanish fare. During the day, couples walked groomed golden retrievers down the boardwalk, or shopped along the Passeig de Born at Louis Vuitton or Carolina Herrera. But there was another side to the island. Grant took me along dusty roads to hidden coves with pristine water. We stopped in little village along the coast for cafe con leche and a stroll along a rocky shore. We drove through towns in the middle of the island with beautiful limestone buildings, surrounded by vineyards and olive trees. During the day we picnicked on chorizo, jamon and manchego, sun-ripened avocados and olives, and in the evenings we drank strong Spanish riojas and Pomadas (Mallorcan gin, lemonade and ice) over tapas or paella in the setting sun, followed by live jazz at the Hotel Saratoga. It was paradise.

I was sad to depart on Sunday morning. I left my favourite bikini hanging to dry on the balcony of Grant's apartment, adding to a growing collection of my forgotten items in his repertoire. I saw it as a sort of subconscious way of maintaining a tie to the place. I hope to return one day, and perhaps, when I grow up, buy a place of my own.

Before the trip, I re-watched one of my favourite films, Before Sunrise. In it, two strangers meet on a train and decide to get off together in Vienna and spend the evening together. The film is a conversation between this young couple as they wander through the cities cobbled streets, stopping at landmarks and in a variety of shops, restaurants and bars. Though they begin awkwardly, each learns to enjoy the others personality and nuances through the course of the night. While doing so, they are discovering the city in each others company, providing as a unique contextual memory of the place.

When it was finished, my roommate turned to me and said "not many people would actually do that, would they?" It takes a lot to get off a train with someone you don't really know, just as it takes a lot to fly out to visit someone you've met only once before. A bit of bravery, a bit of trust, and perhaps a little foolishness as well.

For me, there is great allure in exploring the unknown, partially because it comes with risk. It is easy to take the familiar path and pass on opportunities because they seem scary, or present something alien. But aren't we always looking for something new? What fun is there in chasing the familiar?