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.