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.