Croatian Chronicles:
Discovering My Roots

Flight to Croatia (9/30 - 10/1)

I now have a reason to become wealthy -- 1st Class Travel!

There I am in the SF airport by the United departure gate waiting for the boarding line to ease up a bit. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I hear my name called. Since I had my boarding pass, this surprised me, but I dutifully followed the voice to its owner. "Ahh, Mr. Garma, follow me". And I did, down a private walkway into the First Class entrance to the plane. "Have a nice flight", she said smilingly.

I'm near a window, sitting in a multi-position-enabled lounge chair that's set at a 30 degree angle to the windows, so that you can see through 5 of them. The lumbar roller is rolling out my stress spots. My carnivorous friends take note -- I'll be ordering the Tilapic fillet with cornbread and pomodoro sauce. I know this is an unusual selection for me, but I'll need something heavy to absorb the Vincent Giradin Santeny Cru La Maladiere 2001 Burgundy. The appetizer sampling has too many samples to mention.

Somewhere behind me, far far away and hidden, are the regular people. Since this is a full flight, I can imagine how they're all stuck together, since I used to be a regular person myself.

Life does have its ups and downs and my moment of Aristocratic splendor ended abruptly in London when I had to stand in the customs line for one bloody hour just to get to the part of the airport where I could continue United's indulgence in the United Lounge. There, I showered and past some time reading as I waited for Croatian Airlines to carry me aloft to the land of my forefathers.

The Bus to Zagreb (10/1/05)

Zagreb is the capital of Croatia and its biggest city.

Like everything in this country, it's accumulated quite a story over the centuries, the most recent weighty chapter being the war with Serbia (primarily), referred to as the “Homeland War”.

After picking up my bag from baggage claim, I stand outside to await my bus to the city. A slight figured man appears before me and starts speaking Croatian. He quickly perceives my befuddlement and begins speaking English, which is unexpected, as rather than being young and hip (two characteristics of English-speaking Croats) his faced is deeply creased from hard living and cigarettes (which he rolls like joints). He wears an old suit. We board the bus and he sits next to me.

We share our stories. He lives in nearby Bosnia. As he tells me of his life in a concentration camp 10 years ago, I note a tattooed number on his hand. He harbors no ill will toward the world, he emphasizes, just keeps trying to make a living.

About half an hour later, we arrive in Zagreb, and I begin my journey to find my hotel, called "Slisko" which thankfully is near the bus station. I find it rather quickly. Later, my Croatian cousin, Boris, would tell me that Slisko was the name of a Mafia man killed mid-day in the town square.

After checking in, I begin my walkabout. The main city centers are within walking distance. Night falls, and I keep walking. Soon, walking turns to limping, as my Achilles tendon persists in giving me the middle finger. My hip – the one injured by a bicycle injury two years ago, joins the tendon’s protest. If anyone spotted me in the shadows, they thought, "I hope that poor old man makes it home before he collapses".

After 36 hours of wakefulness, I thought I'd fall asleep quickly once my head hit the pillow, but I soon learned that Zagreb doesn't sleep on Saturday evening. The talking, shouting, beeping and heel clicking on the sidewalks outside my window endures the whole night and compromises my rest, as did the five 3x2 foot lighted, lettered cubes abutting my room’s window that spells "HOTEL" . This room needs an opaque curtain.

Hello Boris (10/2/05)

Although I didn't consult my watch, it felt like I awoke every hour from 3:00 AM to 7:00 AM, at which time I threw in the towel and got up. I didn't have to stumble far to the bathroom. A single room at hotel Slisko has its bed one stride from the bathroom. As soon as I had the thought, I was beside the pot.

Though groggy and jet lagged, I am determined to end the old man hobble, so I rearranged the room some and "did" some yoga. By 9:00 AM, I’m downstairs flipping through magazines and waiting for Boris. A car drives up at 9:15, and out pops my cousin.

Basically strangers, we’re unsure how to great each other. After an awkward beat or two, we shake hands, both grinning. I expect only to share a cup of java and some stories, but he has other intentions. We spend the day together.

What a difference to have a local person as your guide, especially one so educated and thoughtful. Though Boris is a professor of mathematics, he studied other disciplines. As he shows me the sights -- old churches, museums, town squares, et al -- we delve into economics, political philosophy, Croatian and family history.

"I do not like religion", he says emphatically. "How can people not understand the manipulation?"

This was said after we observed what must be Croatia's approximation to the Israeli Wailing Wall. Annexed to some old church is a short tunnel of stone cubes, and along it and in front of carved out edifices to the Saints, people light candles and pray.

"My Grandfather, your Grandfather's brother, was very influential to me. I loved him and listened to him. He told me two things over and over again. One was that the church is about control. It demanded money from his parents who were so poor that they sometimes had to do without food. Your Grandfather also hated the church. The other thing my Grandfather told me was never to gamble. Your Grandfather was a gambler and although he helped his brother – my Grandfather -- during and after WWII, my Grandfather knew that gambling hurt him”. He went on with a disgusted tone: "During the Homeland War (Croatia vs Serbia about 11 years ago), I heard Catholic priests preach that Muslims were bad and must be killed."

Photo of Ante Sharac holding Vanja, circa 1948.

Boris's grandfather was named Ante Sharac. My mother's father, Ante's brother was named Jack (Ivan) and a third brother was named Josef. Josef was brilliant and sent to Prague to study chemistry. "This was like someone in Africa being sent to Harvard 100 years ago", Boris explained. Ante produced Vanya, Boris's mother, who became a dentist and visited my mother and father when they were in Germany around the time I was born; subsequently, my parents visited Vanya and her parents in Sibinek, where I now type this missive.

Ante's brother, Jack, my Grandfather, produced Doris, my Mother. The chemist, Josef, produced Ruza, also a PhD Chemist, who I later will meet. These three brothers owned a house in Sibenik, and it was the recent selling of this property that brought a cast of characters together after nearly 50 years, as the inheritors -- children of Ante, Jack and Josef – deal with the paperwork and funds from the sale.

Photo of Josef Sharac, circa 1930.

Boris takes me to a lake where the citizen's of Zagreb strut there athletic selves (they are a comely people) and to a park where people walk their dogs and children giggle over ice cream. Afterwards, we visit Ruza for more family history and a look at pictures from her archives, before all three go to Boris's house for a home cooked meal. There I meet his wife, Dragana and son, Ivica (daughter, Antica, was on one of the 1,100 Croatian islands studying biology). As his wife sang to herself as she finished dinner, I try a home made wine from the island that Boris has his summer house. It tastes like a blend of wine and champagne, and after six or seven glasses, I’m a happy camper.

I didn't want to say goodbye to my cousin. But what else could we do. Tomorrow, I'm off to Zadar.

Pictures above are of Boris's son Ivica Culina, daughter Antica and wife Dragana.

To Zadar (10/3)

The author of the Lonely Plant book for Croatia says about Zadar: "...has undergone an astonishing transformation from morose and war damaged to ebullient and dynamic." The plan: Bus from Zagreb to Zadar -- which is about the center of Croatia along the coast -- see what the author exclaims, and then head south along the coast to Sibenik, former home of my mother’s father and launching point to a nearby island called Kraponj, where my father’s father hails.

http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=11847&u=745|23

After smothering myself in a nostalgia born of stories, not memories, I’ll head south to Split to meet my friends (Mike, his gal friend Colleen, and buds George and wife Pam; and their friends Stan and wife Mary). The plan continues from there, but you’ll hafta wait for future submissions to learn about it.

Did I mention that the Plan was supposed to include a stop at Plitvice Lakes National Park, one of the natural wonderlands of Croatia? That part of the Plan was tossed when the surly bus driver proved to me that I don’t where I am. Duh.

Humper

Two people commander a bus in Croatia: driver and ticket master/luggage-humper. The Humper took one look at me, grumbled something when I massacred his language, and made an effort to aim at me for the duration of the bus trip. The ticket I presented him was to Plitvice; I had none yet for Zadar.

The bus stops many times along the 100+ km trip. Unbeknownst to me, it stops at Plitvice. When it continues after stopping at Plitvice, I remained sitting on the bus, wincing every time Humper walked by checking passenger tickets, including mine, again, sure that he would find something wrong with the punched remnant of a ticket I had and throw me off the bus.

The bus stops by a restaurant, and everyone gets off. I’m confused. I ask the dapper driver the whereabouts of Plitvice. “Passed it” he said, with an Imperial carriage that seemed so befitting a man of his occupation. It’s raining. I made one of my very rare, decisive, on the spot decisions: “May I buy a ticket on to Zadar?” He scowled, though it’s less menacing than Humper’s who is called over and, shaking his head in wonder, presents me a ticket to Zadar.

Accommodating Zadar

Traveling like I do is work, perhaps the most I’ve had of late. You gotta figure out how to get from A to B, get the ticket, find the bus, deflect scowls, know when to get off the bus, find the luggage storage so you can be less encumbered as you trot around looking for accommodations that you can afford, arrange for the place and price, find the place, and pass out for an hour before exploring B.

The sweet lady that rules the luggage storage at Zadar tries her best to give me directions to the least expensive place that Lonely Planet says is close to the “old’ town, but, as I’m finding in every city, Zadar’s roads and walkways are a labyrinth (or perhaps my sense of direction is). I walk ­-- no trudge -- ­ for over an hour, getting more and more frustrated as I twice circle back to where I began. Finally, find the dump, pay my $20 for the night and proceed to get lost on my way to the bus stop to retrieve my luggage. Then, now with luggage hoisted on my back, as opposed to the sane alternative of rolling it, I, again, get lost trying to, again, find the dump. I do make it. I’m wet from rain and sweat. But undaunted, after a quick rest, I suit up and discover Zadar.

Except, I get lost finding it. Or at least this “old” part.

Rummaging around Zadar

Zadar has a population of about 69,000 people. Like most places around here, it’s old; it began in the 9th century BC. That’s before the God that we in the West know was, at least in the current manifestation of “God, Christ and the Holy Ghost”. Over time, like the rest of Croatia, various people came to drive those already here, out. The fortress wall that surrounds “old” Zadar was fortified by each succeeding conqueror. It is a massive spectacle. There’s beautiful old stuff everywhere next to sparkling bays and inlets which in Croatia are everywhere.

Not as massive, but an equal spectacle, some would argue, are the women under, say, 25 years of age (the others must be working or at home). They are uniformly shaped as God intended (the pre-Western God): ­ tall, long legged, lean -- and come with sprayed on blue jeans. Somehow, Croatia has been able to put a pair of blue jeans in an aerosol spray can. All women of this age category wear them. The men wear a looser model that probably once was on a hanger, as well as stylish running pants and the like. I couldn’t help but notice.

I’m hungry. Besides the meal at my cousins in Zagreb, I’ve existed on the almonds and various powders and potions I brought with me. Somehow, my level of intimidation at trying to order food exceeds my real need for food; after all, I’m still basically conscious and able to walk about. With all the fasting I’ve done over the years, guess I’m used to not eating. But it would be more comfortable if I did, I would think.

Hunger trumps intimidation. Before I leave Zadar, I score a piece of pizza in one of many, many such providers in each Croatian town, typically nestled in groups within the historic buildings that together constitute the “old” sections of every town I’ve visited so far. It was simple, really. I abandoned any attempt at speaking the Croatian language and just approximated the behavior of the Brits I’ve observed: “Hey, mate, how bout a piece of that lovely pie?” It worked.

Sibenik (10/4-6)

My trusty guidebook said that “Nik Travel” in Sibenik could book me a private accommodation and they did. After disembarking from the bus after an hour and a half ride south along the coast from Zadar, I go to the Information Booth and without hesitation, after some garbled attempt at “Good Day”, went straight into English and inquired the whereabouts of Nik. As providence would have it, I find it, almost straightaway, about one km away.

http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=8949&u=1904|37

Again, rather than ask in Croatian if the Nik gal understood English which usually results in a confused look framed by knitted eyebrows, I ask the question in English. “Yes, yes”, was my answer. Sigh. In 20 minutes, the dapper owner of an apartment appeared in the office and drives me to my very own apartment for the next two days. I scored on this one -- two bedrooms, three beds, bathroom, kitchen and balcony just for moi (err, “te” in Croatian) for about $35/night. Helps to be here off-season, but for the rain.

Did I mention the place also has a TV? And my sister would take great delight in knowing that the first channel I surfed to was airing the “Gilmore Girls”.

It was hard to tear myself from that fascinating show, but I was a man on a mission. The Plan for Sibenik is to find the home island of my father’s father (the “Garmas”) and to find the house of my mother’s father (the “Sharacs”); the former being about 5 km away, indicates the map, and the latter being up the hill from my apartment, so says cousin Boris.

I begin with what I deem to be the easier of two, and set off to find my mother’s father’s digs, which he owned with two brothers once upon a time many more moons ago than anyone likely to read this has seen.

I get about 200 meters away before being waved down by a local man about 60 years of age. He’s smiling and talking a mile a minute, and before I can sputter “Ja ne razumijem… Ja govorite engleski” (which takes me 15 minutes of preparation), he has my hand clasping his and they’re both shaking up and down. “Ne, ne, ne”, I protest… “I’m not cousin Igor”. He pauses for a second, and then dives back into the banter and hand shaking. I shake my head some more. He steps back, takes a long look at me, shrugs and we continue our respective missions -- his probably to find Igor and mine to find Grandpa Jack’s crib.

I spend an hour looking, but never find it. I do, however, get very wet. Very wet!

Well, I have another day and a half to find it, I reason, so let it go. Before going through the gate in a tight alley that leads up one story to my apartment, I enter a modest size grocer to buy some grub to cook; I have a kitchen after all. Everyone parks their umbrellas by the door, but I don’t have an umbrella because I’m real decked out in a super tech jacket that does it all: anti-wind/wet/cold and some style to boot. I wander around, and bring my catch to the cashier. She looks at me with some tired took, sighs, takes my apple somewhere to be weighed, brings it back in its own brown bag and tells me what I owe in English. She definitely didn’t take me for Igor.

Serendipity in Kraponj

October 5th is my second day in Sibenik. I head off to find Kraponj, the small island that once long ago produced my paternal Grandfather, Anton Garma. The lady at the bus depot's Info Center confuses me. The local bus to Brodviska, the small town on the mainland that is the departure point for Kraponj, doesn't leave from the bus station, but from somewhere else unfamiliar to me. I sat on a wall (stone of course) and considered a taxi. I knew my destination was close, about 5 km, but the Lonely Planet warned of the expensive taxis. "Well, I'm this close, can't let money stop me", I reasoned as I climb into a Mercedes taxi and tell the completely non-English-speaking Croat what I wanted to do. And we're off. 5 km. $22 dollars.

The taxi driver points to where the boat will take me to the island, which I clearly see is but 300 meters away. I walk down a small hill, look about as nonchalantly as I can and wait. Three guys are trying to place a fork load of cement bags in a boat the size of my bathtub. A couple of women lean against a wall; uncharacteristically, they don’t speak to one another. Mostly it was silent, and I saw no evidence of a passenger boat.

I enter a cafe up the hill and was summarily dismissed by an irritated man saying "Arrete, Arrete." So I entered another cafe across the street and approached a woman behind a bar. Yes, she spoke English and told me when the boat would arrive, but was particularly disinterested in my expressed my familial reasons for visiting Kraponj.

But the Mike Dikta look-alike character I observed sipping his pivo (beer) at a corner table is not. "Say your Grandpa's name again", he bellowed out in a strange Croatian-Aussie accent. I told him. He waves me over. I sit down just as my kava (coffee) is served. Lovre is his name and he proceeds to tell me all about the Garma's he knows. "Come with me" he tells me, and we walk down the hill just as a small canopy covered boat arrives to putter us to Kraponj.

Along the way, Lovre introduces me to everyone in earshot, and retells my story. Some nod appreciatively; others say the Croatian equivalent of "No, don't know Anton, but what about so and so Garma"?

The boat slides into its docking station. No one asks for fare, so I follow Lovre who beelines for an elderly, hunched man. They start talking. The man looks at me. They continue talking. The man again looks at me and slowly, like a sun rise, he smiles and thrusts out his right hand to shake mine. His name is Rocco Garma, and he claims he is my father's cousin.

Lovre fades left, and Roco takes me for a walk around the island known for it's flatness, average elevation (three meters) and fame (sponges and the world record holder for underwater breath holding). The walk lasts one hour, but seems longer as I fence with his Croatian and he shakes his head disapprovingly that I don't know my mother/father tongue.

He shows me Anton's house, which is next to his own. It’s rubble. Nice looking stone though – a naturally formed heap. Roco's doesn’t look much better, so I’m shocked to find a modern looking, clean home inside the, well, visibly organized rubble that constitutes the outside of the house. Inside is a diminutive woman in traditional grab, almost Muslim like, with a scarf covering her head. His wife, he says. We shake hands. No sun rise here, just some head nodding. I decline the offer of drink and Roco and I continued our walkabout until I say goodbye at the wharf. We hesitate for a moment, we two of different generations, from such different worlds, and yet connected by blood. He sighs and turns away.

The return trip to Sibenik is less expensive. Knowledge is a valuable thing. Armed with knowing when and where the bus would come, I used it. But not knowing what the fare was or what the fare man told me it was, I held out a hand filled with coins. He took 15 Kunas ($2.10) and gave me a receipt that I saw once seated read 6 Kunas. Well, another rip off, but I was happy that I wasn't in a taxi, particularly since a busload of teenagers just returning home from school kept me entertained all 5 clicks to Sibenik.

Photo:http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=1742&u=1904|87

Two hits in one day?

Back in Sibenik, I try again to find my mother's father's house. It starts raining hard. I persist. The rain, failing to dissuade me patiently waits for the night to join ranks and together they press me to abandon the search. Finally, I do so and begin a new search for an Internet Cafe. This proves to be almost as tough as finding Granpa Sharac’s house, but this time I prevail in finding perhaps the only such place in a town of 30,000 people, carefully tucked away upstairs in a bar which says "Bar" outside, not "Internet Cafe". I find this to be the perfect combination... beer and a computer... and I type away as an efficient bar maid climbs the curving steps to my perch and feeds me beer. She makes several such trips and I am happy.

One More Attempt

October 6 is the last day to find the house that Grandpa Jack owned with two brothers, the recent selling of which brought my far flung relatives here in Croatia in communication with us Americans once again. I only have till 10:00 AM to accomplish this deed. There are literally many twists and turns in this story, but suffice to say I found it.

I ask three people, including the Tourist Agency, where it might be, and they all squint, close an eye, and pointed.... there! One problem is that all the maps of Sibenik that I've consulted look like they were made by someone who went into his backyard, pulled a chicken from the coup, dipped her feet in ink, and had a lusty rooster chase her over parchment that was then marked with street names and shrunk down to a 8 by 11 sheet of paper, the very one I have in my pocket.

I need to find "Ruze Vukum #1". With the map crumpled in my hand, I climb one of the many steep stone stairs that cling to steep hills reminiscent of Sausalito, CA except these stairs are massive stone blocks. The view takes my eyes way out to sea.

I find Ruze Vukum #1 just about 1 km from the alley where I was staying. One thing that my Grandfathers have in common is that both their houses are now basically rubble.

Satisfied with my intrepid deed, I roll down the hill to the bus stop just in time to board the bus to Split for a reunion with friends and the start of the sailing trip to the islands on a gulet named “Hera”.

To Split (10/6)

The bus trip to Split swung along the jagged Dalmatian Coast. Red tiled houses dot the landscape, many with large signs displaying four languages of the word "room". It seems that a large portion of those who live anywhere where tourist go either supplement or rely primarily on room rentals for their livelihood. Some of the homes still have bullet holes splattered across their outside walls, a chilling reminder of the "Homeland War" that ended about 11 years ago.
Photo:http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=10915&u=918|6

General Wesley Clark, then Supreme Commander of NATO, who bombed Serbia into submission, is still highly regarded here.

Upon arriving in Split, I park my luggage in a secure zone, and went looking for Daluma Travel where I arranged a "private accommodation" in Split near the Old City which features Diocletian's Palace, one of the most intact and spectacular ancient architecture in the world.

Daluma was within one block of the bus station, and there I met my email correspond and owner of the agency, Stepjan, a white haired man with twinkling eyes and an easy smile. He told me he arranged a room within 200 meters from the hotel in the "Palace" where I would meet up with my friends later in the day.

Hotel Peristil, Split, Croatia: www.hotelperistil.com

In the 15 minutes it took to retrieve my luggage and return to the agency, the owner of the apartment containing my room was already waiting under an umbrella to escort me. She’s in a hurry to show me the accommodations and then board a bus to get to the school where she taught literature. Our walk to the apartment is a comedic scene of me both pulling my wheeled luggage and lugging it over steep stairs, as she maintains a breathless pace.

She is a sweet, elderly woman with sad eyes. Her place is in disrepair, but the bathroom, though small (they all are), is clean and functional. I settle in for a half hour before seeking the exclusive Hotel Peristil where Mike Kilbride and soon-to-be comrades in sailing are staying.

Of course, I get lost, but after wandering for awhile, I’m back on track through the blessed instructions from a Turist Biro (one's in every town). There's a message for me from Mike at his hotel. I will join them in the hotel restaurant at 6:30 PM, which I do, and thereupon meet the my comrades: Mike, gal friend Colleen; George, wife Judy; Stan, and wife Mary.

Krka (10/7)

After getting acquainted with the comrades last night, Mike, Colleen, George, Judy and I go on a private tour to the Krka State Park. Along the way, we stop in Sibenik, where I had already visited, and got an insider's look at the history of the place. Our tour guide is an endless reservoir of knowledge.

We get to Krka about a half hour before the rain. It's a natural wonder.

A boat ride takes us to a mezzanine of waterfalls and wooden paths suspended over soggy moss, rivulets and rocks. All of us are wet and totally delighted.

Tomorrow, I meet my mother's first cousin, Vanja, mother of Boris, and her husband, Mirko. Then board the gulet and sail away to our first island adventure in the rain, of course.

A Relative Joy (10/8)

Miscommunication and a change of plans about when to launch the sailboat, a 66 foot Turkish made "gulet" named “Hera” put some egg on my face; twice I had to call my Mother's cousin, Vanja, via an English/Croatian speaker to change plans. But finally, the date was set: today at 9:30 AM we meet at the beautiful Hotel Peristil which is not only within Diocletian’s Palace, but shares an original wall with the palace garrison wall built some 1,700 years ago.

Diocletian was quite a character.

This Son of Jupiter thought it politically expedient to kill Christians, but was particularly wary of his potential future. Since he knew that the Roman emperors before him commonly ended their reigns in a particularly unsettling manner -- assassination -- our guy decided that he'd rather retire, the first Roman Emperor to do so. In 295, a good ten years before retirement, he started building his retirement palace in Split, now a Unesco World Heritage site. Finished in 305 and considered one of the most imposing Roman ruins in existence, the harbor-facing palace was built from lustrous white stone from the Croatian island of Brac. The highest walls measure 26 meters, and the entire structure covers 31,000 square meters. There are now quaint and chic shops intermixed throughout and within ancient buildings. Three thousand people live inside the walls, but if you close one eye to this, and open the other to what was... there you are, gladiator, sword in hand as the lion leaps for your throat.

Just before 9:30 AM, I stand amidst all this antiquity, in the drizzle, looking for Vanja. I saw her before she saw me, and despite her being nearly 50 years older than the picture I had of her in my pocket, her beauty was undiminished. I smiled at her and she then knew it was me. She came with a neighbor, Josef, who grew up with her son Boris; together they played soccer across the street from their home in a field that is no longer. Josef is our interpreter. Vanja speaks some English -- after all she had studied English written textbooks all through college and dental school, but since she had few opportunities to speak the language, she is unconfident and hesitant. We walk a short distance outside the palace walls, pile into Josef's black new Jeep, and drive 15 minutes to Vanja's home.

Mirko, Vanja's husband, greeted us at the door. He speaks no English, but his eyes speak his affection for this moment. He’s been ill of late and looks a bit weary and rumpled, but at the same time is delighted by our company. Ushered into the living room, a bottle of Scotch is soon produced and toasts are made. We had an hour and a half to visit, and I want to absorb every minute of it.

Vanja slip outside the room, silently closing the door. Josef, Mirko and I became acquainted. The stories unfold. Vanja pops in again, momentarily; Mirko smiled at her and they locked eyes for a heartbeat. When she’s gone, he looks at me and says something in Croatian. Josef smiles, turns to me and interprets: "I'm in love with my wife". Like father like son, I think, as I reflect what Boris had told me during our café in a Zagreb park -- that he still loves his wife today as much as when he married her. Boris had a good role model.

As the time passes, I start getting anxious. Where was Vanja, I inquire. Making lunch, I’m told. But time is running out, I stammer. She’s doing what’s traditional, I’m told. Finally, the door opens and Vanja motions us to follow her into the kitchen. On the table is a serving bowl full of freshly made soup, a platter of lamb and chicken, and bowls of beets and salad. A feast!

We begin eating with forced relaxation, as we have just 15 minutes to finish and be on our way to make the 12:00 launch time of the gulet. Vanja hardly ate at all as she jumped up and down from the table to serve our whims. Mirko watching her grins and through Josef said that the reason they have a perfect relationship is that Vanja likes to cook and he likes to eat.

I cradle my gifts as we race in Josef’s Jeep to the harbor. Nonplussed by us men gnawing at our bits to get going in our race against time, Vanja had collected some pomegranates and lemons for me from her garden, and had inscribed sweet words in an English-written version of a book about Dalmatia. As we pull up to the broad white stoned promenade that demark harbor from city, I’m relieved to see the Hera still there. Our goodbyes were too quick. I turn and come aboard the boat.

In the stern sits the bulk of my party, too relaxed it seemed, sipping red wine. “Are we ready to leave?” I ask. “No”, I’m told, “The captain thinks it’s too choppy outside the harbor.” I feel frustrated -- all that rushing for naught, I think, as I haul my luggage to my stateroom. It turns out, that choppy water lasted right till it was too late to leave; as Hera doesn’t sail at night, there would be one more night in Split.

Havar (10/9)

As I’m aiming a shower of cold water (that pulsed from a hand held shower head extending from the sink in the bathroom annexed to my stateroom) at specific body parts tolerant of such abuse, the gullet slips away from its mooring, turns to face the Adriatic Sea, and Split retreats past my port hole.

The day is cloudy but bright. There’s no hint of rain. Being a gullet, this vessel has two masts and corresponding sails, but they’re largely ceremonial. We motor along at nine knots, which means that in two and one half hours we’ll be near the island of Hvar, known for its fragment and medicinal lavender fields, and the sunniest spot on Croatia: 2,724 hours per year, on average.

The first to have taken a shower on Hera, I join the Company sitting at the table and upon cushions in the stern, and begin to explain how it’s done. Everyone looks at me patiently bemused, as everyone here either has boats or has had extensive experience on them.

Stan and Mary, always gentle, nod in approval. I met them at Hotel Peristil the day after they arrived to join the Company for the gulet journey. Long-time friends of George and Judy, they are excited about not only this journey, but the larger one they are about to undertake,

for the sale of their New Port Beach house is the only remaining thing that stands in the way of retirement. The gulet trip is just a prequel.

Before we tie up to Hvar, however, we find a tranquil and quiet nearby bay to anchor and have lunch, which was to become our practice in the days to come. As the cook prepares what would be a marvelous feast, Mike Kilbride dives overboard. Surfacing, he shows us a beaming face.

“Is it cold?”, someone shouts.

“Perfect”, he says, “But if it wasn’t, I’d lie.”

Judy and George Leeper

That comment is vintage Mike. And, in keeping with his manner, he says nothing more as he treads water, floats back upon the water, climbs up the ladder and repeatedly dives into the translucent blue; his joy distinguished from its opposite only by the slight upturn of his mouth, something I’ve seen him subtlety fight to control, as if the pleasure he feels from a good meal, a glass of Cabernet, or recounting the success of his real estate investing methodology might overwhelm him, make him preen too much, and thus make him slip from his vigilant self-control.

I’ve known Mike since college days at UCSB. After initial career success, he struggled. I hired him to work with me at E.F. Hutton, where he excelled, but the purchase of the company by Shearson put us all on the street, and Mike again struggled for years before beginning a pipe construction company in New Port Beach, CA. Now, ten years later, he’s on easy street. Through the sine waves of life, the ups and downs, Mike has always been the same: even, steady, self-controlled and confident. It just took awhile for the spheres to finally catch up. (I’m still waiting.)

On Hera, my gaze moves from Mike to a small, unpopulated island about 200 meters away that keeps winking at me. Unable to resist any longer, I jump into the Adriatic for the first time in my life, swim to the island, and clamber up sharp coral and rocks that lead to a lush carpet of pine needles covering a narrow trail. Looking back toward the boat, I see Mike bobbing in the water, and the rest of the Company in various states of repose. Hera looked regal floating proudly on a brilliantly azure sea.

Besides being sunny, Hvar is a very popular and chic place. Notables and wannabes from everywhere watch each other from one of many outdoor cafes that surround a large town square. Like most of seaside Croatia, this town has its old stuff – Gothic palaces and traffic-free marble streets lie beautifully ornamented within 13^th-century medieval walls.

We wander about and I traverse a path up a hill to see an old walled fort that protected Hvar from pirates, Turks, and various other villains. The view is spectacular. Islands that gracefully sit up tall and thick help ease the sea’s penchant to mesmerize. Red tiled roofs carpet the tops of thick white limestone walls. A soft silence is spread everywhere, and is revered even by the sea birds.

This night I eat with the crew. The Company is elsewhere. Francesco, the Italian co-owner of Hera, co-captain and chef, cooks a sumptuous meal of fish, meats, pasta and salad so fresh that it springs off the olive oil that he made from his own olive trees. The boat stretches to and fro, just exercising the ropes slightly, and the wine, made from Francesco’s grapes, pours from a canteen that has no bottom.

I learn that Francesco has fathered three sets of children by three different wives. At 57 years of age, his oldest is 28, youngest is 6. His current wife is Croatian – a language he has yet to learn after being in the country ten years – and has born him two children. She is 30 and when we meet her, we all recognize that this man must be a magician to have attracted one so much younger and comely then is he. (And taller too.)

The other owner and captain is a good counterpoint to Francesco. Dimar is Croatian, and though I don’t think it’s a testimonial to the relative countenances of Croatians versus Italians, just as much as Francesco is carefree and unperturbed by anything, Dimar wears a permanent frown and is a self-described worry wart. About 30 years ago, at the age of 26, he left his home island of Korcula and went to Australia to make a better life. Now, he has a wonderful stone home overlooking an inlet bay in Korcula’s second largest city, Vera Luka and another home in Brisbane, and of course the gulet, upon which he plans to work half a year, the rest devoted to construction work back in Brisbane.

The third member of the crew is the irrepressible Ivan. This young man of 28 has stories with no end and strong opinions about everything, particularly Croatian political and historical issues. I learn a lot about what they call the “Homeland War” in the early 90s with the Serbs (principally), and what Ivan termed as Croatia’s feeble attempt to migrate from a state-owned to free enterprise economy. He is an apt representative of many young men of the islands: hard working, many having several jobs that shift with the seasons, they are well educated (even if just through high school), attentive, and yearn for a better future.

As the night wears on, the crew and I get silent till the only thing that flickers is one of four channels tuned and delivered by the small TV in the wheelhouse.

To Vis (10/10)

I awake with the Sun, a common occurrence at Hera, and join others in the Company for coffee and a sumptuous spread of bread, our one-ingredient breakfast. The boat would leave around 9:00 AM, so I wanted to take one more stroll through Hvar before leaving.

Seated on the long stone wall that separates the promenade from the sea, I look around.

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A tall, handsome, well dressed couple descends the last few broad white stone steps of a hundred step journey down into the town, and turns left to walk toward me and the town square behind me. Each held one of the hands of a small child. Right in front of me, they stop. He kisses each child and his wife and turns right to where a couple dozen boats are docked 50 meters ahead. She takes the hand of each child and walks straight ahead into the square. I sit thinking, how wonderful to walk to work, to walk your kids to school, as the ancient, medieval fort on the hill stands guard.

We motor to Vis by the early afternoon, and as was becoming our custom, anchored in a soft bay for lunch and a swim. Vis lies before us and rambles around to our left where its peninsula pushes out into the Adriatic. On it, upon a knoll, sat what looked to be a large estate in disrepair. I jump into the water -- after, of course, Mike had leapt in and gave us all his agreeable grin -- and swam to it.

Three stories tall, with views from nearly every room, the derelict building bursts with potential. I walk throughout the building, my mind buzzing with all the visualized potential, and swim back to report my findings to the Company. The place was thereafter dubbed “Joe’s B&B”, and from there out, on each island where we would see such a place, just yearning to return to its former splendor and abide laughing, eating, drinking, sleeping people from all over the world, someone in the Company would call out: “Hey, there’s another Joe’s B&B”. Soon, in our collective imaginations, each island had such a savory place – this chain of Dalmatian islands each with its own “Joe’s B&B”.

“Ask a Croatian to name their top three islands and one of them is likely to be Vis”, says the Lonely Planet travel guide. I don’t believe the Company is in accord with this estimation, but we find that Vis is quaint, charming, and has a great cemetery.

Vela Luka (10/11)

Pride shows on the faces of the crew as we glide into Vela Luka, the second largest city on the island of Korcula, and their hometown. Without pretense, but with just a hint of pride, Dimar points to his beautiful stone house nestled in the hill overlooking us as we pass by in the inlet leading to the port. This town seems more oriented to its people than to tourists, though like many places in the islands, its population has diminished as

Photo: http://www.chorvatsko.cz/jidalos/pict/velalu.JPG

state-subsidized industries have stumbled beneath the march to capitalism, pushing workers to seek more prosperous places. Ivan and his older brother were unceremoniously shown the door when the boat factory he worked for was downsized after being bought by a businessman. His father’s 30 year tenure earned him no different dispensation then his sons.

Tonight is the “Captain’s Dinner”, meaning that Dimar and Francesco will treat the Company to dinner. We arrive at the appointed restaurant and sit in a courtyard beside a large open pit within which various meats and fish sizzle over a lunging fire. Once seated at the table, we are disappointed to learn that neither captain would be joining us, as we anticipated, though this disappointment soon recedes as red wine flows abundantly and platters of freshly caught and grilled fish are set up and down the long table.

Suddenly, somehow, something unusual happens. The small talk that is common in such settings, between people of good cheer and on vacation, took an abrupt turn. I didn’t see it coming and now don’t know how it was instigated, but there is Judy, next to husband George, both to my right, explaining in earnest that we’re all sinners, and, in principal, a small sin like a white lie was no less sinful than the atrocities of Saddham. A trickle of nervousness electrifies the Company, save Mike, as we each sit straighter in our chairs. George, of a decidedly different philosophical persuasion, goads his wife a bit. She takes the bait.

I didn’t know about Judy’s religiosity, though I observed her kindness and gentleness; attributes that on occasion are demonstrated by those who practice what they preach. Looking younger and fitter than her years – whatever they are – would predict, Judy, or “St. Judy” (or “Mrs. Leeper”) as husband George would often call her, is the mother type. If her arms were large enough, and if she felt comfortable enough that we wouldn’t mind, I’m sure she would hug us all together as she gave us her blessings each night before bed.

Colleen, Mike’s partner, asks some questions both to clarify Judy’s position and to lead the conversation to why she, Colleen, left the Catholic Church. The conversation at this point was about atheism. Judy declared that she recognizes that Mike is an atheist. In quick response, Mike, who until this moment during this trip mostly cast broad smiles and short sentences, looks square at Judy, and in his deep, resonating voice that I observed spellbinding many an audience, said clearly, in measured tones: “I am not an atheist, as I don’t deny that God exists. But we don’t need God to tell us what to do. We know what’s right and what to do.”

Judy: “We’re all sinners… I know God exist because I have a personal relationship with him”.

Stan: “We have no consciousness at all, so we have no values.”

George: “What? That’s ridiculous, of course we have consciousness!”

Mary nodding here and there was mostly silent. I was listening attentively, wondering if I wanted to weigh in. Then, maybe because I was unusually mute, as if on cue, the Company turned and looked at me sitting bemused at the head of the table, and waited for my two cents. I took a deep breath and…

Joe: “Consciousness to me is being self-aware… there’s no value judgment required to have consciousness. With respect to our beliefs – what we think is true to us – but each of us needs to examine the nature of our personal reality, how it’s formed, what part is from our parents, friends, teachers, culture, nationality… all biases that shape how we interpret our experience.”

George chortles some non-word. The rest of the Company remained silent, lost in their respective musings.

We eat more fish and drank more wine.

Mljet (10/12)

Ancient Greeks called the island “Meltia” or “honey” for the many bees buzzing in the lush forests (“lush” by Mediterranean standards). And forests are a plenty – over 72% of the island is covered by forests, the rest dotted by fields, vineyards, and small villages, the inhabitants of which produce wine, olive oil, medicinal herbs and fish. In 1960, the majority of the island was made a national park, bringing a steady stream of tourists to the island and raising the hackles of many of the peace-seeking islanders.

Photo: http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=11549&u=879|0

Cash is not King here.

Just outside Mljet, we drop anchor, and I drop into the clear blue. It’s been raining a bit and the sky is congested with clouds, but swim I must. Once on the island, we hatch plans for renting scooters or bikes to explore the natural wonders the following day, before turning attention to the most serious of our decision-making – where to have dinner.

Without orchestration, having all departed the gulet individually or coupled, we nonetheless all find ourselves at a highly rated seafood restaurant two strides from the sea. Before the menus are absorbed, seeking to save ourselves from an overdose of wine, George and I separate from the pack and find a pizza parlor close to where the boat is docked. This is the first time on the journey that we two are alone.

I know a bit about this man from Mike’s tales. This stout, certain man likes to be a tad mysterious, telling me earlier with a grin that even his kids (now grown) didn’t know what he did for a living. It was real estate. Mortgage brokering, property appraisal, investing. His was a tough start: a father at 17, no money, divorce, estrangement; but a few good turns, hard and steady work, and a couple of decades later, at 48 or so, he retired. And now, at 60+ the man treated us all to this gulet, patiently counting the many one hundred dollar bills before departing Split -- pulled from a wad that would choke a dinosaur – carefully placing each on the other onto Hera’s wheel house dining table before the excited eyes of Francesco, and Dimar.

We ordered an extra pizza for the crew and return to the boat to eat there, only to discover that the crew was already eating pizza.

To Korcula (10/13)

The next morning, we arise to the birth of a rainy day, but determined to visit one of the “must sees” of Mjlet. Undaunted by the rain, the Company opts to hike about three clicks to catch a boat to the Benedictine monastery, built in the 12^th century on its own little island in what appears to be an inland lake, but is actually connected by a narrow channel to the sea. It’s a wet adventure. By time we return to Hera, the rain has abated, and the crew is anxious to motor on.

Photo: http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=12180&u=43|0

For much of the trip we parallel a long peninsula paralleling the mainland and pass several seemingly uninhabited islands, though several of them prominently display rows of mature olive trees marching straight up steep hills and rooted in stone. Many are several hundred years old, Dimar tells us, and then he relaxes into one of his few smiles as he prepares to tell a joke.

“They say that a vineyard is like a wife and an olive grove like a mother. The wife takes and takes and maybe will give something back, but a mother requires nothing and gives always.”

The mothers look at each other with knowing smiles. The husbands look at each other with knowing smiles. Mike and I look at each other grinning, perhaps grateful to have only known olive groves.

Around a bend and there is Korcula protruding from the northeastern tip of the island. Korcula is the name of both the capital city and the island itself. It’s often referred to as “little Dubrovnik”, which becomes obvious as soon as you approach it from the sea, for like Dubrovnik, Korcula is built around an old fortress that one upon a time (it was built in the 15^th century) protected everyone hereabout.

We tie up right next to an entrance into the old city, disembark and start exploring. Each person has his own agenda for dinner. Mine, again, is with the crew. Ivan tells me that he will take me to meet his cousin who owns a nearby tavern. After dinner we go to find the cousin, and along the way, I see a boy yank a fishing line and flying from the water is a fat squid about 18 inches long that hits the stone promenade with a thud, and immediately spews black inky liquid.

We can’t find the cousin, but we can find beer. I buy both of us a large one and listen to island stories.

Back to Split (10/14)

One final gaze at the looming fortress beside us, and we shove off early in the morning, for we have a long trip ahead – Split is nine hours away. It is a slow and pleasant experience. Members of the Company quickly ease into their respective modes of napping, reading, gazing, eating and drinking. There was a sense that the sailing voyage was ending, and it seems that each of us wanted the space and time to take it all in, and measure what it meant.

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Island after island eases by; each prominently displays olive groves, or vineyards, or clusters of red-tiled, stone homes for our eager eyes. The sun was modest, the wind mostly gentle.

Sooner than expected, Split comes into view. As we turn into the harbor, an 80-ton ferry launches from its mooring dangerously close to us. All eyes became riveted upon Francesco at the helm, silently imploring him to take evasive measures now! For a heart beat or two, Francesco acts as if he might not change our direction, as if our right of way would protect us from Davey’s Locker. I watch him, we all watched him, and hold our breath. With a shrug and sigh, he spins the wheel nonchalantly. The ferry horn is blaring. We wave nervously. Close call.

Tonight would be our last on Hera.

The Cetina River and on to Dubrovnik (10/15)

Waking up this morning is a different experience of late. Rather than the quiet of the islands, here in Split I awake to cars rushing by the port, ferries honking and generating swells that push the boat against the buoys that protect it from the heavy white stones that make the promenade. One similarity to past awakenings – church bells: the first I hear are at 6:00 AM. I resist.

Slowly, we intrepid travelers gather our things, pack and then huddle for a group picture toward Hera’s bow. We hardly have finished our goodbye hugs when a motley van appears filled with three strapping guys and a load of gear. They spill out, shake hands with Mike, Colleen and me, grab our luggage, stuff us in the van, and we’re off to our next adventure – rafting the rapids of the Cetina River.

The journey takes about two hours due south and then east over a small mountain and then down into a valley gorge. Along the way, the guides in the van display an obvious affection for each other. There is plenty of Croatian-heckling, back slapping, mock wrestling and a nose tweak or two. My eyes are constantly shifting from the tortuous road winding in and out, up and down, with the ever present sea to our right, to the tumbling in the seat in front of me.

f meWe're let out near the river. Several other vans disgorge their riders, and soon there are about 35 of us donning gear, giggling (well, the others giggled -- we three don't know how to giggle in Croatian), and then we all haul four large rafts down to the river.

We three are put in a raft with two Germans. Our raft is captained by one of the guides in the van who spoke English fairly well; we after all, need to be able to understand his instructions as he barked orders aimed at saving us from injury. This man is big – he could wrestle bears. Studying engineering in college. Early twenties. He has done this trip a 100 times and yet the joy he still feels is obvious to see and hear, for despite his formidable size, this young man would squeal like a child with every dousing the river gave us. I really got a kick from this incongruity.

I was also interested in observing Frog Legs. He too was in our van. We picked him up along the way, and it was once he was in the van that the puerile activities ensued in earnest. He’s smaller by far than the other hulking guides but seemed to be their leader. As we prepared for the rafting, he strips off his pants and proudly, it seems, presents to the world a tiny bathing suit and bulging thighs, the kind a body builder would possess.

Given that his upper body is of normal dimensions, these legs stand out. I watch them bounce him around from raft to raft, person to person as he directs the pre-launch activities. In my life, I’ve know two others with disproportionate legs such as these, and I suddenly realized that they also bounced around. It’s as if the muscles in such legs need to be used, and like anxious thoroughbreds biting at the bit, one does not walk but bounce. (Perhaps with four legs you “prance”).

The river is mostly gentle, but here and there it would gather itself and speed us away and drop us from watery ledges and twist us about. A competition brewed as each raft tried to power ahead to be the first to navigate the forthcoming set of rapids. When we would reach a stretch of calm, those in the other rafts would spontaneously burst out in song. I thought that the only song a group of Americans might all know is jingle bells.

All too soon, it is over. There are a couple of close calls where someone in our raft was thrown into the river -- and in fact, one of the other rafts flipped over -- but no one was hurt and everyone had a grand time. After drying off and changing into warm clothes, we three jump in that same van which, with driver of course, Mike hired to take us the five hour journey to the fabled city of Dubrovnik.

Dubrovnik Ahoy

The drive from the Cetina River to Dubrovnik is long, slow and punctuated with breathtaking sights as the Adriatic to our right dazzles us, and the dry mountains to our left sit as ponderous sentinels. Bananas sustain us. Our only stop was at a border control check where this coast-hugging, single lane road briefly enters Bosnia and Herzegovina (two words, one country) before resuming in Croatia. This segment is a study in contrasts: that BH is
Photo: http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=11684&u=322|7

economically poorer than its neighbor is obvious, from the disrepair of buildings to aging billboards. And the police are salient, whereas in Croatia they are hardly noticed. More obvious than the police, however, was a U.S. war ship patrolling an inlet near the border, a heavy reminder of the war a decade ago, and of bellicose attitudes simmering still.

After another hour or two, our proximity to Dubrovnik becomes apparent, for the closer we get, the more populated are the towns just north of the fabled city, and more cruise ships are found in the waterways. In my pocket is the address of my new lodging, and I pull it out to present to our driver. He stops to ask directions and soon thereafter, we pull along side a bus stop near the east gate of the historic and fortified “Old City”.

I can tell from the directions that we’re very close to my destination and I want to get on with it, but the driver motions me to wait as he speaks to a young couple who disappear down the alley that I think leads me to my accommodations. Gestures suggest that I wait. We all wait, and wait until, finally, the couple reemerges, whereupon I say my goodbyes to Mike and Colleen (who now will be taken to their fabulous hotel just east of Old City), and then turn to follow my guides.

Eddy and My Accommodations

At a door in a gate in front of the building where I presume I’ll be staying, I wait again, as the woman half of my guides rings the bell on the gate door. She does it again, and after a minute or two, presses the button again. No response. She looks at us and shrugs. Just before confusion is to permanently congeal, the door magically opens and she disappears. I wait again beside her mute husband (I did determine this relationship at least). Finally, the woman and someone vaguely familiar looking emerges from the house and motions us to a simple courtyard to the left. We all take seats as if there’s something to be negotiated. And, indeed, there is.

The familiar looking man is the owner of the home in which I had already paid Stepjan, the travel agent in Split, for a room and private bathroom. He’s all smiles as he looks at me and says in excellent English, “My name is Eddy and I’m committed to your happiness…. I want you to be completely happy.”

I’ve traveled the world, I’ve known bullshitters, I’m no longer green, and I knew something was up. “That’s good”, I answered as I sat as tall as I could and leveled at him a no nonsense glare, “because I like to be happy.”

Eddy fidgets some and glances down at his clasped hands. “I made a mistake. The people in your room wanted to stay another day and I let them, but this couple here has a nice room for you. Come on, I’ll go with you and show you. It’s in the Old City, so you’re closer to everything.”

I make him repeat it all and guarantee me that the room was of equal quality (which, having never seen the room he offered, I didn’t know what that would be). After all the assurances were expressed, we are about to arise and move on, when two Irish women in their early twenties stride by. Eddy’s attention immediately drops us and rivets into the young women. He didn’t salivate, quite, but then perhaps he didn’t have time to, for after he extracted some guarantees that he’d see them later, they continued on their way. “They’re the ones that were supposed to leave today”, he sheepishly said to me. “I see”, I said, and I did. This Eddy is a player at best; more likely a shyster, I thought.

The travel books tell you that it’s a good idea to check your luggage at the bus stop before you go looking for accommodations so that you’re more mobile and don’t let the hassle of lugging luggage influence the choice of lodging. I reflect on this as I roll my bag down the cobble stone side walks and down the white stone steps of the Old City, trying to keep up with my three guides. They are unsympathetic to my desire to pause here and there to absorb some history, like the Pile Gate, for instance.

The Pile Gate is the eastern entrance to the Old City, built in 1537 and containing the statue of St. Blaise, the city’s patron saint, set in a niche at the apex of the Renaissance arch demarking egress and ingress into this place.

Along the way, Eddy greeted and was greeted by someone every few paces. “I see that you’re the Mayor”, I said. “No, just lived here all my life”, he said. That would be about 40-some years, I thought.

http://www.photocroatia.com/GALLERY/photo.php?photo=9514&u=322|108

We are about a block into the Old City walking on the main thoroughfare, simply called “Placa” when I glance at Eddy to see who he is talking to. A tall blonde woman with a harried look has replaced the couple that was beside Eddy just a moment ago. Noting my confusion, Eddie enthused, “This is great. This is Ana and she has even a better place for you to stay… we’re going there now. I am committed to making you happy.”

Feeling defeated, I meekly follow.

Toward the end of the Placa, right across from St. Blaise’s Church, we turn into an alley, walk through a narrow door, and I bump my luggage up three flights of narrow stairs to a small three-story apartment. “This is Ana’s place”, Eddy says as he takes a seat at a round dinning table beside the room earmarked for me. Upstairs is the bathroom. Helene lives upstairs in a separate part of the apartment with her husband and kids. Her husband was wounded in the war.

“Hey, Ana, Joe can bring women here, right… make an exception is his case… he’s Croatian!”, Eddy says in what was becoming his characteristic heckle. In what was to be Ana’s only words to me, but not really to me, she replied, “I don’t care what he does”. That attitude precisely fit the quality of this dump, where I was to spend the next four nights. Gratefully, outside the building containing the dump was a wonderland.

Stari Grad Walkabout

I’m given the key, and, unceremoniously, both Eddy and Ana turn, walked down the 10 stairs to the door to the apartment (with just a hundred or so to go) and disappear. I breath a sigh of relief and look around. Frankly, it was only then that I had enough focus to truly assess my new digs and designated it “Hotel Dump”. I yearned for that simple but relatively luxurious apartment in Sibinek, but told myself that one needs to give and take when traveling, so I’ll give myself a break and endeavor to enjoy the “experience”.

Quickly parking my stuff, I grab my Lonely Planet guidebook (page turned to the Dubrovnik chapter), gallop down the flights of stairs, and enter the brisk-turning air of the Old City as twilight approaches.

In ten strides, I leave the alley and step into the famed pedestrian thoroughfare, the Placa. No cars other than service vehicles are allowed in the Old City, or “Stari Grad”, so it’s a great place to people watch, and given the worldwide popularity of Dubrovnik, you can see people from everywhere here. Unlike elsewhere in Croatia, here Americans amply contribute to the tourist composition. And what we tourists all observe is majestic, magical and historical.

Right across from my alley is the imposing baroque church, St. Blaise built in 1715, a relative youngster in this place. I stand for awhile and gaze at it, and as the outside light dims with the approaching night, the inside light of the church is revealed in strong colors of blue, red, purple and yellow through its hauntingly beautiful ornate stain glass windows. I turn to the left and gaze at the large and tall stone Clock Tower that demarks the east end of Placa, just before this broad walkway narrows and leads in a slightly upward and curvy path to the western entrance/exit called “Polce Gate”.

Taking this in, my appetite is whet and I decide to quickly dash up Placa to take note of the sights to be recorded on my camcorder tomorrow, before dusk pulls down its inevitable nightshade.

My Lonely Planet guide book makes this surveillance of antiquity easy, at it suggests a self-guided tour that begins from the western gate – Pile Gate – through which I first entered Stari Grad. I again study the Renaissance Gate itself and the drawbridge at its entrance that once upon a time was raised every evening as the gate was closed and the key given to the Prince.

Next, after entering the Old City, I note step-worn stone stairs to my left that lead steeply up to the rampart of the aged stone wall that encircles the town. Right before me, just to the right is Onofrio Fountain, a famous landmark built in 1438 as part of a water-supply system. Sixteen carved stone masks gush water from their mouths into a drainage pool.

Beside the stairway to the town wall, I encounter St Saviour Church build between 1520 and 1528, and a few meters along Placa to the east is the Franciscan monastery and museum built in 1498. Moving east, a quick detour off Placa is the site of a Serbian Orthodox Church dating from 1877, and containing a fascinating collection of icons dating from the 15^th to the 19^th century.

Nearby is the city’s 15^th-century synagogue, the oldest Sephardic and the second-oldest synagogue in Europe. I could recount several more, all inspiring given that their pedigree and location huddled 824 buildings surrounded by massive white stone walls reaching heights of 75 feet and nearly 2 km around at the edge of the sea.

I leave the Stali Grad and climb a nearby hill that overlooks it. The moon by now is high and it baths this antediluvian place in a soft luminescence. A spell is cast. I remain motionless for time uncounted.