Alaska and Swedish stories coming soon, my Holiday Readers, so check back later in the month (December).

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.