postcard 1: cows on a rampage

the one where we move to Croatia.

The 12-passenger van had the turning radius of a boat, stains on all the seats, a pronounced dent in the side and a My Little Pony air freshener tied around the steering column that was doing little to mask the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

As we bumped down the country roads out of my parents neighborhood, tears streaming down our faces, we added non-existent shocks to the van’s qualities. But loaded down with four 50lb suitcases, a giant bike bag, two duffel bags, a 60lb Hazelnut and the largest dog crate you’ve ever seen, the massive vehicle was our best bet to make it to our flight in Chicago two days away.

Northern Colorado gave way to Nebraska which slowly turned into Iowa as the stars came out. Rows and rows of corn marched across the hillsides, plaques displaying their dystopian brand names. In Kimball, we met my sister in a coffee shop—our final goodbye squeeze as we ventured into the unknown.

We drank the last pumpkin spice lattes of the season as we walked down a tree-lined path in Council Bluffs, Iowa and a thick forest filled with burrs and the saddest singular bull elk locked behind a fence in a nature preserve outside of Chicago, true crime podcasts filling the speakers along the way. As the time of our flight grew near, we got more and more nervous, trying not to cry as we repacked our bags for the hundredth time and ate sushi in a Whole Foods parking lot. Hazelnut was oblivious to the angst-ridden adventure that was coming her way and kept snoozing on the bench seat behind us as she had from Colorado to Illinois. We loaded her into the crate at a gas station just outside the airport, and she finally began to realize something was up.

As Topher pulled the van to the curb at O’Hare’s departures area, we realized our mistake. No matter how many crackly announcements came over the PA warning us not to leave our luggage unattended, there was not enough of us to get everything into the airport without some inattention. Topher left me and all of our bags in a pile just inside the door and raced the rental van back to the return, the clock ticking. My plan had been to wait until he made it back to the airport, but a Lufthansa agent warned me that Hazelnut needed to get checked in ASAP so I dragged her crate across the linoleum floor to the ticket counter, making a racket and drawing the pity of half a dozen German women who promised me she’d do fine on the flight. She sat quietly the whole time, probably because she’s an actual angel, possibly because the CBD was kicking in.

Finally, Topher reappeared and our luggage disappeared down the conveyor belt. Hazelnut’s kennel was plastered in “live animal” stickers and a harried man named Victor loaded her onto a cart and wheeled her across the terminal, into a restricted zone, a cellphone glued to his ear and a never-ending pep talk coming out of his mouth to a wayward niece or nephew. Don’t do drugs. Stay in school. Would you jump off a bridge just because your friends did?

At a special TSA station, I let Hazelnut out, holding onto her collar-less neck as her kennel was swabbed and her blankets examined. She gave me a wide eyed look, but trustingly stood on her back legs while she got a pat down and a swab to the tummy. The computer beeped and she was confirmed not a terrorist. My heart in my throat, I gave her one last pet through the kennel door and watched her disappear. She had made it, but I only had 30 minutes to get myself through security and to my gate. Sweating, with just enough time to fill up my water bottle and buy a pack of gum, Topher and I fought our way through the crowds boarding at my gate and peered through the windows. There was Hazelnut, sitting in her crate on the tarmac next to the suitcases, the last piece of cargo to board the aircraft.

Every little bump of turbulence I worried about Hazelnut below my feet in the belly of the plane. I didn’t know if Topher had made his standby flight or what we’d face on the other end, but as the sun set and we flew through the Arctic, I thought I saw a greenish glow on the horizon. As I watched, the northern lights became clear, dancing under the big dipper, guiding my flight all the way to Europe. It must’ve been a sign because after landing an hour early, and a quick and painless customs process, I walked into baggage claim and there was Hazelnut, sitting in her crate with the oversized luggage and looking calm, if not a little confused. She stretched out a paw to boop me through the kennel and out she came, ready to start her new life on the other side of the Atlantic.

Although I now had a giant crate, two suitcases, a duffel, a backpack, a bike and a dog on a leash to deal with, the amount of relief I felt eclipsed any concern I had. We loaded everything (sans the bike, we left that for Topher to deal with) onto two luggage carts and very slowly and clumsily made our way through the Munich airport to an exterior door where Hazelnut could finally potty. Then, we shared a soft pretzel slathered in butter and posted up to wait for Topher’s flight to land.

Hazelnut sprawled out on the airport floor like layovers were something she encountered often, eliciting smiles out of everyone who walked by and selfie requests from two different Japanese women. She obligingly posed with a baby and then went back to sleep.

After two laps around a little German suburb of Munich in a much smaller (but still very large by European standards) van we found a parking space and as we walked towards a restaurant with a little patio, it finally sunk it. We had done it. The three of us were really there, walking around in the German sunshine, all of our possessions waiting in a handful of suitcases in the van.

We celebrated with more pretzels, sausages on sauerkraut and big pints of beer. Hazelnut stalked pigeons and ate bites of our lunch and while we didn’t let ourselves sleep through dinner, we did skip it in favor of pajamas and granola bars in the room. At 2am our silly, jet-lagged dog woke us up wanting to wrestle.

At our going away party, one of our friends asked what I was most excited for moving to Europe. My answer was having everything be an adventure, like buying shampoo. While I was good-naturedly teased about being most excited to purchase shampoo, the next morning my answer cemented itself as Hazelnut and I went for a walk. We followed a cobblestone set of stairs up a hill behind our hotel and found an ancient little church tucked into a meadow with a view out over the town, the Alps rising in the distance. We’ve found so many incredible adventures in America, but in my experience these every day adventure happen so much more frequently in Europe.

We were surprised to find ourselves driving past more fields of spookily perfect corn in Bavaria, but they quickly gave way to mountains as we crossed into Austria. Despite the size of the van, we were feeling brave and headed into the traffic of Salzburg. The streets narrowed and the traffic seemingly came from every angle. I was gripping the arm rest so tightly my fingers hurt, so I don’t know how Topher managed to get us into a parking lot, but he did, the manual van only stalling five or six times along the way.

We ducked into an alley and made our way down to the river, gazing at picturesque castles and ornate buildings as we strolled along the water. I’m already feeling like I’m repeating myself, but I truly cannot get over how calm and adaptable Hazelnut has been. At just over a year old, weighing 60lbs, she navigated busy European city streets like a champ, took a nap under our café table and waited for us to feed her schnitzel which, of course, we did. This kind of adventure is crazy and, with a dog, it’s verging on insane, but she’s been such a champ so far.

That afternoon, the highway started to climb up into the Alps. Every time we came through a tunnel, I couldn’t help but gasp at the view on the other side. Castles perched on mountain tops. Impossibly green meadows dotted with cows. Craggy peaks that looked straight off a postcard. When we exited for the town of Filzmoos, it felt like we’d stepped right into a fairytale, the creamy white buildings with wooden shutters half obscured by flower boxes set up against the backdrop of the most gorgeous mountains I’ve ever seen. Go ahead and imagine the Sound of Music, because we were just 20 minutes from where The Hills Are Alive was filmed. We drank aperol spritzes on our hotel’s patio, giddy with the realization that we were just hours from our new home, in a place that felt like magic. At a picnic table next to a donkey pasture we ate spaetzle from a cast iron skillet and more schnitzel and fell deep asleep. This time, Hazelnut did her 2am zoomies quietly.

We set off down a trail just outside of town in the morning sun, our backpacks filled with cinnamon buns and apple strudel. The path wound through forests carpeted in moss and delicate ferns and mountain pastures filled with grazing cows, bells jingling around their brown-and-white necks. Every few minutes we’d be rewarded with a glimpse of the peaks at the end of the valley. It was magical. Towards the end of the hike, as we approached the set of guest houses that were our destination, the trail meandered into a pasture. We went through a set of turnstiles, past an electric fence, and followed the grassy path past a distant herd of cows. As the trail neared its end, we realized that another group of cows was blocking the end of the path. They were grazing peacefully and I told Topher to take a picture of them as Hazelnut and I headed off trail to skirt the fence and give them a wide berth. Then, she barked.

Fifteen brown-and-white heads immediately looked up, their eyes trained on us. The cow in front started coming at us, fast. She got within a couple feet of us and I tried to shoo her away, but that just made her angrier. The rest of the herd started moving towards us and Topher yelled “the fence!” and then we were running across the slippery pasture, a herd of angry cows hot on our tail. Hazelnut ducked under the electric fence and I didn’t have time to slow down. I slipped down the embankment, landing on my tailbone, hard, and ducked under the fence, seeing stars. Topher got caught up in the line, sending a shock intended to stun a cow through his neck. We caught our breath in the road, becoming aware that at least two other couples had watched our mad escape. Tears stung my eyes as I tried to walk, every movement sending shock waves of pain through my back end. We limped to a table at the guest house, set under umbrellas overlooking the most picturesque peaks and took turns laughing and crying (okay, that one was just me) over our ridiculous run in over big beers, despite it only being 10:15. We ordered alpine cheese (me) and more sausage (him) and nursed our bruised bodies for two hours before heading back towards the car. Walking was okay, but by the time I tried to sit down in the van, I was seriously wondering if I’d broken my tailbone.

Every movement sent a burst of pain through my body and while stunning, the ride through southern Austria and Slovenia was clouded by my bovine-induced injury. I was glowering and threatening to turn the pretty cows into steak by the time we got to Croatia, the sun slipping below the horizon.

But there it was as we crested a hill, the lights of our new home, Pula. We’d made it.

I’m woefully behind (read, haven’t started) learning Croatian, so I’ll leave you with the location appropriate sign off I do know, thanks to the Sound of Music.

Auf Wiedersehen,

Mikaela