So we've made it this far and I haven't cracked one joke about the name of the town: Split. No pea soup comments. No fraying hair-ends. But I can't stop myself. But Neda is already wise to my ways:
"Hey Neda, do they grow bananas here? Because..."
"Shut up."
"Hey Neda, do people double-stitch their pants here? Because when they bend ov..."
"You suck."
I guess when you've grown up with a specific meaning for a word and then someone tells you it means something else in another language, you're never going to stop thinking of it in your original language. Besides, she corrects me, "It's pronounced SPLEET".
"So do they fine you if you split on the slide-walk?"
"Congratulations on being the worst person in the world."
When the crowds get too big, the tourists hold hands. So that they don't get... separated from each other
My poor bike
Back at the dealership.
We wanted to leave town soon (in other words: we wanted to Split early), so the service technician didn't have time to pinpoint what was wrong with engine, but he thought it was probably dirty injectors and to try running some cleaner the next time we gas up. He took me to my bike, which was still up on the stand and showed me what he was more concerned about: grabbing the rear wheel, he shook it right and left. There was about half a cm of lateral movement.
Final drive failure. Again. This is not going to be cheap.
Maybe I could discuss this with the dealership and we could Split the cost...?
