Cocaine Island Ciovo

______________

✅ ️Наши контакты (Telegram):✅ ️

>>>🔥🔥🔥(ЖМИ СЮДА)🔥🔥🔥<<<

✅ ️ ▲ ✅ ▲ ️✅ ▲ ️✅ ▲ ️✅ ▲ ✅ ️

______________

Cocaine Island Ciovo

The Bicycle Chronicles 2017 – Part 1: From Zagreb to Split

Cocaine Island Ciovo

Safe Shopping

Cocaine Island Ciovo

Here, you can follow his journey in the four-part Bicycle Chronicles 1 , 2 , 3 , 4. From Zagreb, the journey leads to an old Sephardic cemetery in Split, to the unique Tam Tam music festival on Hvar island, and further south. Bojan uses his thoughts about his home country, music, art, travel, politics, architecture, and its people to tell a different kind of story about his country, one that goes beyond banal, consumerism tourism. Following the pathways of Croatia, The Bicycle Chronicles are about the ordinary beauty and poetry of life. The first hints of daybreak. Hrvoje rang me up and told me he would catch up with me later. And so I set off on my journey alone, my only companions the timid morning roads. I made a couple of wrong turns, through force of habit rather than any real lack of direction; I love to pretend that I never want to leave Zagreb. Spurred on by my two-wheeled traveling companion, my own will was little more than an afterthought in our relationship. My departure was fueled by basic laws of physics; any reasons for it would be attributed later, in times of rest. A chirpy, well-rested waitress managed to convince me to order some juice as well. Enthusiasm at seven in the morning — quite noteworthy. Duga Resa. For the first time this year, I spent a couple of waking hours all on my own. The world was fresh. I ran my hand through the river mud, grabbed a handful and smeared it over my face. A swarm of flies quickly engulfed me, taking control. I gave in to their buzzing, to the incessant bursts of an alien tongue that, somehow, felt more like a caress than a sting. A bath ensued, almost ritual in nature. I made my peace with the insects. I waved to a boy playing with a red ball, and we played catch, knee deep in the shallow waters. My attention was drawn by the tolling evening bells ringing out from little wooden churches, and the sight of the faithful flocking to mass on tractors. Jesus of Nazareth met me at every crossroads, with his warm skin and his wooden gaze following me into the woods. The forest is his kingdom, and he is its spirit, seductive and elusive. It is a legacy granted by his crown of thorns. The towns of Slunj and Rastoke. A man wearing the shirt of the local chapter of the Croatian Democratic Union \\\\\\\\\\\\\[1\\\\\\\\\\\\\] volunteered to find lodgings for me somewhere in town. Of course, it all came to naught. I spent the night on a grassy beach on the banks of the Korana, with my travelbag as my pillow. Good thing I had a pack of wet wipes! Hrvoje finally showed up and prevented me from finishing an engrossing article on celebrity hairstyles. The heat was almost unbearable, making the leg of our journey heading to Korenica across Rakovica and the Plitvice National Park seem almost endless. I tensed up as I rode my bike — I felt uncomfortable, even fearful, not really knowing why. This bike ride was supposed to be liberating. I shivered every time a truck passed me by, honking and groaning. I never used to mind these things before, but this was obviously just a part of a larger fear that I needed to conquer. That was one of the reasons I had decided to go on this bike trip. The mangled wreck of a car lay there, flipped on its back like a helpless turtle. Luckily, the chubby driver had survived. The paramedics were stabilizing him as we rode past them. I only calmed down when we got off that miserable road and took a turn toward Udbina. It was only then that I started really enjoying myself and truly absorbing the countryside of the Lika highlands. A land between the mountains and the sea, a highland where the sky meets the earth, an unfathomable Avalon where I nonetheless feel like I belong — mostly because of my grandmother; sensing that this was the source of her steadfast and brusque nature, but also her warmth, and her hidden, smoldering strength. The air was like her breath — refreshing and enthralling, inviting you to contemplate its purity. A cold and gentle night descended on us during our ride. As we entered the gentle area around the town of Lovinac, we were greeted by the barking of an invisible hound. We had been waiting for that greeting since the day we were born. Lovinac has a contemporary spirit, a model of what the entirety of Lika could be like. Crossing mount Velebit. One of the most beautiful, most spiritual experiences of my life. The mountain caressed us with its steep slopes, offering me a badly needed feeling of something more important, more permanent than myself, something I can trust in. It is no accident that ancient peoples thought that mountains were sacred and dedicated them to the gods, from Mount Ararat to Mount Olympus and beyond. Since it is in every way impossible to face off against a mountain, it helps you consider yourself in continuity, from timid beginnings to the inevitable, but not necessarily bitter end. Mountains give birth to us and raise us in their arms, and then inevitably cast us off, only to embrace us once again when they sense that they are the foundation of our joint existence. The vegetation of Mount Velebit enveloped me and my bicycle like quicksand, but a kind that rejuvenates rather than suffocates or drowns. At the top of the saddle, we met an elderly man, who reminded me of my late grandfather. He had the same posture and stature; at first glance, a certain humility, which soon gives way to a sense of pride; pride, because of a life lived in harmony with his calling. That is all I can say about him for now. We listened to a live show of a band called Lice mista , from the town of Preko on the nearby isle of Ugljan. It is the sound of the maw of the sea releasing all the bottom-dwelling fish to the surface, facing humans with their glimmering eyes, the clutch of flashes gestated in the brood of their deep sea shoals. The show attracted a nice crowd, including a couple of Polish tourists; the crowd let go and danced the night away. But, naturally, there is something entirely irresistible about night rides; for example, the familiar feeling that the entire world is moving except for you, and there you are, sitting in a bubble, watching the endless spinning of the Earth, the Gordian knot of gravel roads, freeways and highways, heading, by accident, straight into its center. Should you even bother trying to untangle it? Since Alexander the Great cleaved the original, legendary Knot with his sword, you should simply ride your bike down the threads that weave together to form the ropes, all the way until you break through on the other side and realize that you have just pierced your own heart. That is the moment where you become aware of your own motion; faced with a camper or car that emerges out of the darkness by the side of the road and winks at you with their dull, inert eyes, briefly woken from their slumber while their owners are off making love somewhere on a beach or in the woods. The starlit sky hangs over you like a shroud of coarse, glittering salt scattered everywhere by the hands of those who live and die by the sea. Filip i Jakov, Drage, Biograd, Vodice… the towns flew by one after another as we raced by at amazing, surreal speed, helped by the smoothness of the asphalt and the fact that nothing in the world stood in our way. Still, we rode on, even though we found the trip harder and harder. We cooked some pasta on a beach while an amateur fisherman, moored in shallow waters just off the coast, folded his nets just as dawn was breaking. We somehow made our way to the marina outside the town of Trogir, where we discovered the largest agave plant we had ever seen, a giant among plants. Gently tapping one of its thick leaves was like trying to wake up a slumbering ancient beast. But the agave stayed silent. I lay down on a large rock jutting out from the sea and stared for a long while straight at Mount Marjan. I last spent a night in Split over four years ago, when we set off on our first cycling trip. The context was completely different this time. A tour of the modernist architectural heritage of Split showed me a different, unfamiliar face of the city, quite unlike the usual tourist sights, demonstrating the achievements of self-governing socialism: a former retirement mansion of a Roman tyrant and tiny Mediterranean town transformed into something that at first seems even older, like a polis composed of retro-futurist Megaliths, swallowed by the sea back in the age of Atlantis, and now resurfacing again, covered in the patina of the deep sea but completely unblemished in form and structure. In reality, the audacious project of constructing a well thought-out and meticulously designed city, blended seamlessly into its natural surroundings and built primarily for its citizens can still be clearly discerned in there, in spite of all the recent irresponsible construction. It was simply planned too cleverly to be completely devoured by all these urbanistic tumors, however advanced. A common thread between these two cities is the special relationship their buildings and city blocks have with sunlight, a subtle dance in which the light is allowed to reach certain spaces to varying degrees at varying times. It is an acknowledgment that, alongside the mountains and the sea — or river — it is one of the central demiurges of the lives of the locals. There, in an old house that used to belong to a Jewish family from Split, we found a luxury restaurant, filled to the brim with guests. In stark contrast, the old cemetery of Sephardi Jews, who came to the shores of the Adriatic fleeing Spain via Greece, Macedonia and Bosnia, stood empty and silent. We walked among the pale gravestones trying to decipher their messages written in a script none of us could read, but discovered only that this is not a place often visited by tourists. What the hell, we found love in a hopeless place. In his fifteen years as a translator, he has translated everything from Tennessee Williams plays to speculative fiction to reality television, but his favorite professional challenge remains working with young Croatian authors, translating their work and presenting it to international audiences. You can check out some of his design work at behance. View full profile. Share 0 Tweet E-mail. Jump Up The Croatian Democratic Union is a centre-right political party that has had a governing majority in state parliament since , with the exception of periods from to and from to , when the ruling party were its major opponents, the Social Democratic Party of Croatia. Related Entries.

Mephedrone Kobuleti

Купить мефедрон Пхи Пхи

Cocaine Island Ciovo

Hemp Marrakesh

Mephedrone Losinj island

Закладки мефедрона Египет