Croatia Calls…Again: Part III

 

Diocletian's Palace (c) Day Trips from Split

Part I

Part II

Monday morning ushers in another year of life. I don’t allow myself time to mope about ageing. I've done enough of that in advance.

I have an early-ish bus to catch to Trogir and onwards to Split for another attempt at a tour. I put on an encouraging sermon as I get prepared in one of my go-to birthday outfits. (It pays off. Later, whilst on the Split Old City tour, a young woman will make a detour to compliment me.)  Public transport being what it is between my remote accommodation and Split, the safest option is to arrive almost an hour and a half in advance. Even taking all those precautions, it’s still not easy finding the tour guide. After some trial and error, I end up joining the right group purely by fluke.  

It’s an intimate wander around parts of Diocletian’s Palace that are now more familiar to me from my earlier visit, except with more context on this occasion. As it’s such a small group, there’s more time for questions and digressions. Our tour guide, Yulia explains how Diocletian rose through the ranks of the Roman army despite not himself being an ethnic Roman. He was credited with bringing stability to an ailing empire by dividing it and delegating substantial power to a co-emperor, Maximian.  Yulia broaches Diocletian’s murderous rampage against Christians, misrepresenting the latter somewhat.  They nevertheless have their revenge. When the Christians eventually take over Split, they invest a lot of energy into destroying the vestiges of paganism. Yulia also explains the influence of the French on the architecture of the Riva promenade, which might explain why Split in part resembles Nice and the surrounding region. 

The discussion inevitably turns to the legacy of war, as well as the precarious economic situation. Yulia speaks of young professionals like herself, obtaining degrees that they are highly unlikely to use in a country heavily dependent on tourism and the service industry.  She’s frustrated with the Croatian government for not diversifying the economy and investing more in its youth. Salaries are low and the tax relatively high.  For SME’s this can be an insurmountable challenge. Staff salaries are therefore often paid partially in cash. This wreaks havoc come retirement. Yulia informs us that some older folk rummage for plastic bottles to recycle, for which they receive a modest top up to their meagre state pension. Taxes are at least channelled into universal healthcare (albeit inadequate, says Yulia), free education up to tertiary level and decent maternity leave. 

The proliferation of short term rentals, and landlords taking advantage of the influx of Ukrainian refugees, have led to as much as a tripling of monthly rent, according to Yulia. However, unlike some other Western European states (the UK being one of the worst examples), there isn’t an accommodation crisis. Many Croatians own their homes outright. This could partly explain why I almost never see any rough sleepers or begging. It’s simultaneously refreshing and depressing that this should be an exception to my experience living in and travelling around Europe.

(c) Croatia Travel

The group hangs around a bit more after the tour to chat. For lunch, I head in the direction of the less touristy part of the promenade, suggested by Yulia. By happenstance, I stumble across a locally-recommended restaurant that I have had trouble locating thus far. I order a tangy local dish of minced meat wrapped in cabbage with mashed potatoes, and a Lavender-tinged blanc-mange style dessert. It’s a baking hot day. I am sweating like a mare and my thirst is insatiable. Yet I’d take a heatwave any day -especially on my birthday - over the non-committal summer I’ve temporarily left behind in Brussels.  

Not far from the restaurant is the Marjan Forest Park (pictured above left), where one can enjoy impressive views of Split city and the riviera from above. Passing by the forest is a closer, not to mention free, alternative to climbing the Bell Tower in the Old City. 

Still. It’s an uphill walk in 35 degree celsius heat. To make things more difficult I’m weighed down by my laptop, bottles of water, snacks and toiletries I’ve picked up from Müller drugstore. I reach as far as one of the deserted monasteries in the vicinity. I’m too hot and tight on time to continue. On the way back down, I meet a family, also from South-East London and originally from the same part of Ghana as my maternal grandfather. I chat most with the daughter; in her late teens, young enough to be my child and undecided about her future. I tell her that if I could advise my 17-year old self, I would say be intentional but keep an open mind. And don't be motivated by fear.  Then again, I don’t know if a 17-year old me would have absorbed what an older version of myself had to say. A funny thought experiment.

It’s back to Trogir for (an underwhelming) dinner and luxurious ice cream, before hopping the mid-evening bus in hopes of an early night. I must be up and out even earlier if I’m to catch my pre-booked boat tour to Krka Waterfalls.

Despite setting myself a bed time, my sleep remains light and insufficient. I’m too worried about oversleeping and the guests on my floor are needlessly noisy. The following morning, I just about make it to the bus stop on time. It means I’ll arrive at the travel agent 40 minutes early. (That’s the way it is round here, I’ve come to understand. The bus service is so limited that the choice is between being pointlessly early or missing the event altogether. )

I assumed I’d booked myself on a boat tour to the Krka waterfalls. I’m mistaken. Most of the trip is by coach; packed out and not an especially friendly bunch.  I’m sat next to the same sullen blonde on the outbound and return. Apparently a solo traveller herself, her body language is so closed off I’d have to go out of my way to engage her. It might be the Christian thing to do but perhaps I’m not that righteous. I feel so often invisibilised as a Black woman, often by other non-Black women, that it seems incumbent on them to make the effort.

As is usually the case with these all-day road trips, the tour guide, although polite enough, is in a constant hurry.  I help a French couple with some interpretation duties, mildly annoyed with myself over some less-than-ideal vocab choices. After all these years, my spoken French can still be temperamental. The couple seems to follow, nevertheless.

(c) me

We have a couple of hours to wander around the picturesque Krka National Park (pictured right) known for its fauna, flora and various wildlife. This includes the odd venomous snake, apparently.  The park’s main claim to fame are its many waterfalls. I bump into another Black family on holiday; this time from the US. The children catch my attention; stunning twin daughters in their mid-late teens and a little one (on the sulky side) perhaps 10 years younger, and of a deeper chocolate complexion than the rest of her relatives. Knowing how little annual leave is afforded the average worker in the US, I commend them not only for travelling outside of North America, but for not choosing the most obvious destination.

At some point, I have a post-birthday conversation with my mother. I make the mistake of referring to some of the bizarre reactions I’ve experienced. ‘See? What did I tell you about travelling around the old Eastern Bloc on your own as a black woman?’ Pre-1989, mum would have had far fewer qualms. She had an uncle who spent time in Hungary. Since the fall of the Iron Curtain, she believes, whatever prejudices kept at bay under communism have been unleashed. I try to reassure her that nothing serious has befallen me. A part of me still regrets opening up. Mum will only worry.

My group reconvenes again for a brief and leisurely boat ride to nearby beach town, Skradin.  On returning to Trogir, I’ll find out from the tour guide that two of our party have been left behind at Krka National Park.

Crossing the bridge back to Trogir Old Town, a young-ish man walking in the opposite direction looks at me with what could only be described as alarm. As if I’m a trick of his imagination. In spite of the sheer awkwardness, rather than look away I nod a greeting - as I am wont to do on this trip. There’s a delayed reaction before he comes to. From the corner of my eye, I see him hastily return the nod.

There’s more opportunity to practise my French whilst killing time at Trogir bus stop. I strike up a conversation with a Parisian of French-Caribbean heritage, for no other reason than the relief of seeing another brown face round these parts. I’m also sat next to a family of French-Canadians. By now, I’m sufficiently warmed-up to have more fluid, grammatically-correct conversations.

Later that evening, after dinner, I take a twilight stroll around the marina. Once again, I internally rejoice to be in such splendid surroundings. Before catching the last taxi boat, I head towards the bridge near where I first bumped into Joe and Zara, as if to conjure them up just by being in that locale. To my delight, they happen to be crossing the bridge at the time I take a pause to soak in the scenery. I’m so excited to see them again, asking questions that I forgot the previous time. Like how they both came to live in Ireland and when Joe had last visited the Caribbean to see his mum (not since he left as a pre-teen well over a decade ago). They fill me in on a day of shopping in Split. They strongly recommend that I pass by the beautiful beach town of Baška Voda on a future visit to Croatia. 

I gabble to Joe about all the unequivocally peculiar reactions I’ve received since our first encounter, as well as my mother’s I-told-you-so trepidation. It’s a lot worse in Bosnia-Herzegovina, says Zara. They use the N-word. My heart sinks. Sarajevo was on my wishlist. I tell them that I’ve seen more diversity in Trogir that evening, towards the end of my holiday, than at any time before. I have had a brief interaction with a Surinamese man at the cash machine, have seen a solitary black girl with a group of older white folk, and various other brown faces dotted around the Old Town.

Blue Lagoon (courtesy of Seget Nautica)

As is always the case, the last full day of my trip rolls around with a quickness. I try again - unsuccessfully - to enjoy a lie-in. The end-of-holiday melancholy and worries about over-spending are weighing on me. Remaining present is a constant struggle. My mind instinctively races to the next thing, whether good or bad. I’m aware it’s robbing me of what’s left of the trip. It’s exhausting trying to resist this reflex.

I’m meant to have an easy day spent in and around Seget Vranjica village. I’ve been seriously entertaining the idea of a half day boat tour to the Blue Lagoon, led by Luka, the man who kindly dropped me off at my accommodation when I first arrived. If nothing else, as a thank you for the favour.

On the boat, I do some grounding exercises to help me stay in the moment. They appear to do the trick. The sight of clear, teal-coloured water never grows old. Our return journey will be a lot more eventful. A distant forest blaze will darken the skies and there'll be the constant buzz of firefighter planes overhead. For now, the boat ride couldn't be more tranquil.

On reaching the Blue Lagoon, buyer’s remorse sets in. I should have done my research. I recall Martina the tour guide sounding underwhelmed about the island. It’s really aimed at those interested in swimming and/or water sports or a picnic stop off point for those on island tours. Apart from a couple of over-priced, cash only bars/restaurants staffed by rude personnel, there’s not much to do. As much as I wanted to patronise Luka, I fear I’ve just wasted 30 euros. Now that I’m here, with almost five hours to kill, I try to make the most of it. I switch on a podcast and go for a walk. I find a semi-secluded spot uphill where there are lovely views of surrounding islands. 

Reflecting on the last few days, I’m glad it’s not my first experience of Croatia. Whilst I’ll take away some positive memories and I still find the coastline beguiling, the reception has also been a lot more mixed. I hope I'm not deterred from returning soon. There’s much of the country I’d still like to see.

That evening, I'll have one of my most pleasant culinary experiences of the trip at a restaurant on the other side of Seget Vranjica village. My waitress is warm and attentive, despite the busyness.

In the distant hills, I see the amber glow of the still-blazing forest fire. It's after dark that I better understand the measure of it. I'm told these conflagrations are common in that region at this time of year. There have been several that week alone. The fumes will reach my bedroom during the night and I'll be awoken by the constant sound of the fire-extinguisher jets, resuming the work they've had to stop at nightfall.

On check-out day, I'm overly-precautious about arriving at the airport early. I make time to sit idly by the Seget bay but cut it prematurely short. I decide to make up for it at Trogir bus garage, which overlooks the marina. I'm sufficiently ahead of schedule and the airport is so close, that there's no hurry. At the station, I cross paths with the friendly bus driver whom I met on arrival.  For the first and last time, we exchange names. I feel it's providential, just before I leave, to have bumped into one of the most consistently kind individuals I've encountered on this trip.

Soundtrack: John Gómez and Nick the Record present the TANGENT compilation feat. Various Artists + The Burning Bush: A Journey through the Music of Earth, Wind & Fire by DJ Harrison & Nigel Hall.

La Vie Continentale will return in the autumn.

Croatia Calls…Again: Part II

  6 + 1/2 min. read

Part I

 Riva Promenade, Split (Booking.com)

My itinerary is such that I have tours in various parts of Dalmatia scheduled most days. Saturday afternoon will be spent in Split main city. My plans for a nice lie-in are scuppered for a variety of reasons. Some unwanted life admin has landed in my inbox like a turd, weighing on me. There’s also a lot of ambient noise in the thin-walled hostel. Not entirely a bad thing. It can be comforting in its own way, except certain guests are oblivious (or inconsiderate) about their noise levels.

 

Stepping out into the sunshine, overlooking the beach a mere stone’s throw away, my spirits are immediately lifted. Somewhat spoiling the view are the tight bare cheeks of a male neighbour, standing naked without compunction on his balcony next to his fully-clothed significant other.

Whilst I’m yet to be as awestruck by my surroundings as when I stayed in Slano near Dubrovnik, it’s still a pleasing landscape. The water remains a crystalline aquamarine. The familiar pale terracotta-coloured rooftops come into view en route to Trogir.

On the bus, a mother and daughter throw several wary looks in my direction. Eventually, I try the charm offensive. I smile. This goes nowhere with the older woman. The adolescent girl only hesitantly returns my smile on the third attempt. My mind casts back to my conversation with Joe the night before. My previous experience on the Croatian coast lured me into a false sense of security.

Even having researched the journey, the distance from Trogir to Split is far longer than I envisaged. I was deceived by Seget Vranjica's proximity to the airport.

Despite setting out over half an hour earlier than necessary, to give myself that wriggle room, I still arrive in Split with roughly only 10 minutes to find the meeting location for the tour. To complicate matters further, the park is known by a different name to the locals. It’s not far but the nomenclature issue only adds to the confusion.  These are the rare occasions I miss not using a smartphone. 

When I eventually arrive at the venue, I meet other tour guides but none are the right one. I'll discover later that my guide and I did indeed miss each other.

I’ve come this far. I should make the most of the city, yet the disappointment saps me of the incentive. Another guide recommends I visit the Cathedral. The office is closed for lunch. Besides, I’m not a fan of paying for what should be sacred spaces, freely available to the public.

Nearby a quartet of elderly men dressed in traditional clothes sing in close harmony, acapella. I want to thank them monetarily for this unexpected morale boost but I’ve used up my change. I’m better off holding onto what cash I do have. Whilst cheaper than Dubrovnik, high local taxes mean that many establishments and small business owners prefer hard currency. Moreover, cash machines charge extortionate rates for withdrawing money. There are very few commission free options.

Trogir Marina (Tourisme Croatie)

I hang out for a bit in the Town Hall, asking the receptionist for local tips. In spite of my mood, I allow myself to get lost in the side streets of Split’s Old City. I discover a quiet church that is free to enter and the subterranean passage below the Diocletian Palace. I hear a lot more French and see a lot more Afrodescendants than in Trogir. 

The widespread proficiency in English is remarkable. More so than you’d find in France and outside of major Belgian cities (or even within some major cities). I hear the usual, less than convincing reasons: ‘We learned it from TV’ or ‘Nobody else speaks our language so we have to learn English’. Whatever. ‘It’s down to a good communist education’, I suggest to one very fluent shopkeeper.

Whilst I’m charmed by the limestone streets of this UNESCO-heritage site city, Split’s riviera is too Monte Carlo for my taste. One too many huge ocean liners, speedboats and other emblems of conspicuous consumption that I find grotesque. I have no regrets about not staying in Split-proper. Trogir has more appeal, the lack of diversity notwithstanding.

It’s a less stressful return ride from Split, not having anywhere in particular to be. Back at Trogir, I wander through the extensive farmers’ market next to the station and pick up a few useful items from the all-purpose German drugstore, DM. I decide to follow Martina the tour guide’s advice and get lost a little in the side streets, treating myself to some local sweetmeats along the way.

I realise it’s too late to enjoy a sit down meal and catch the last bus.  I grab some local food from a friendly take away en route to the bus stop. I hope for enough time to sit wistfully by the bay and admire the distant hills overlooking the turquoise water. Except the last bus is already waiting at the garage. I’m welcomed by the same friendly driver who dropped me off on the way from the airport. I’m only a couple of days into the trip but I can already observe a spectrum of reactions. On one end, the fetishised looks from old-timers and an unhealthy curiosity that verges on the rude; on the other, an effusive warmth.

Sunday has been set aside for a day of proper rest. No big excursions, just relaxing in my accommodation and enjoying the marina at the foot of the hostel. Yet, a few days into the holiday and I’m paying the price for self-sabotaging habits that I’ve allowed to leak into the holiday. Poor sleep hygiene means I’ve been passing out instead of going to bed. I'm up too late watching stimulating content and at the same time trying to maintain a version of my spiritual routine.

I don’t wake up as refreshed as I should be. It’s a wasted opportunity. If I can’t take it easy even on holiday, then that’s cause for concern.

I eventually unwind, filling up on some spiritual nourishment or pure entertainment online either in my room or on the beach front. The Seget bay is a lot busier than that of Slano, where I was able to find discreet little corners of paradise.  Heading to one of the beach bars, I again pick up on some peculiar reactions. One man keeps turning around furtively, giving me agitated looks as if we have unfinished business. Another lady stares and smiles, eventually making a heart sign. At this stage, I’m ambivalent about what should otherwise be an amicable gesture. There is zero diversity amongst this crowd. There wasn’t much, if any, at Slano either but it never felt like an issue.  

Seget Vranjica beach (courtesy of Croatia Gems)

After wasting 4 euros on a bland smoothie, I purchase pastries from a politely-staffed bakery and camp out at one beach bar with my laptop. The view from the shaded terrace is idyllic. The staff glance in my direction with mild irritation that I’ve ordered so few (non-alcoholic) drinks in the several hours that I’m there. It doesn’t help that they don’t accept card payments. 

Later that evening I venture to the other side of the bay to read, paddle and enjoy more of the view. It's still busy but the ambience is less tense. The clear waters reveal sharp rocks underneath. I'm nervous as hell to see kids horsing around, apparently unsupervised, even after dark. There appears to be no lifeguard, until a young man with 90s poster-boy looks manifests in the deckchair beside me.

Dinner that night is at one of the few nearby restaurants. The menu is varied and enticing but they're severely short-staffed. One customer takes out his loud frustration on one of only two waiters.  Opting to sit upstairs, I hope for a discreet table overlooking the marina but there are none available.

The staff are professional and helpful. Just seriously overworked. I jettison any ideas I’ve been entertaining for dessert. It’s hard enough getting somebody’s attention to settle the bill.

Soundtrack: John Gómez and Nick the Record present the TANGENT compilation feat. Various Artists

Part III

Croatia Calls…Again: Part I

 6 + 1/2 min. read

Seget Vranjica village near Trogir, Croatia (image: Croatia Gems)

It’s that time of year again. For my summer/birthday break, as usual, I’m looking for a change of scenery. The last few have been spent becoming acquainted with Eastern Europe. My first foray into this part of the Continent was visiting the Dubrovnik region in Croatia, for my 40th back in (still) COVID-afflicted 2021. I became instantly enchanted with the Croatian coastline. I knew I would return but wanted to be intentional about it. Otherwise, the lapse would be too long.

In the interim years, my summers have been spent inland. I’ve missed birthdays by the sea. Whilst I’m not a swimmer, there’s something about being near a vast body of water that helps put my soul at ease.  Last year, when visiting the Hungarian capital, I bumped into a fellow solo traveller who would go on to tour the former Yugoslavian coast. She mentioned Split. I made up my mind that that would be my next summer destination. Thank God, my financial situation has improved enough for this to be a reality. I find a very good deal on accommodation in the city's peripheries, close to the seafront.

I catch a flight at dawn to Split airport via Munich. On arriving, the warm climes, clear blue skies and eye-catching vistas instantly have me upbeat. I randomly spark a conversation with one of the few black faces I see around; a lad from the Caribbean, now based in Germany. His parents are in the military. He seems ambivalent about his adopted home. Keep your head up, I say. 

At the bus stop, I meet a portly young man in town for the Defective dance festival. Although I’ve never attended, I admire the musical taste of hunky Melvo Baptiste, one of the organising DJs. The coincidences don’t end there. It turns out this bus stop gent is a Bruxellois who happens to share the same postcode. He highly recommends Trogir, where I intend to spend a lot of time. I don’t take these fortuitous encounters for granted. I see it as akin to a Divine welcome. 

The first part of my journey to my accommodation, in the seaside village of Seget Vranjica, is straightforward. It’s a scenic route. We pass a number of marinas, heads bobbing up and down in the water. I wink at a little blonde girl on the bus, who returns my bonhomie with a dead-eyed, 50-yard stare.

From Trogir station to Seget Vranjica is less simple. Public transport is cost effective but infrequent. I find a bus driver who promises he’s heading in my direction. I’ve printed several possible bus routes but I have the ‘wrong’ one to hand. It’s through the kindness of surprisingly hospitable locals that I eventually find my way. A woman and her elderly mother welcome me onto the patio of their summer home, surrounded by vines and olive groves. One of their neighbours generously drops me off at the accommodation, refusing any monetary appreciation. 

I’m welcomed by one of the building managers, Sally. I'm ahead of check-in but later than I'd hoped to arrive. Sally's surprised I don’t use Uber and even more shocked that I don’t possess a smartphone. 

The hostel is a small complex of student-halls style accommodation; self-contained units with a communal kitchen. The best of both worlds. I can enjoy privacy without being cut off from civilisation. I have an intimate little room to myself with ensuite shower. It smells amazing when I arrive; just as I read in the reviews. It takes some getting used to the limited space but it’s fine as somewhere to sleep and shower. What I’ll soon come to discover, to my frustration, is how far Seget Vranjica is from Split; much closer to the airport than the city itself.

After a wash and a nap, I’m back out for a tour of nearby Trogir’s old town.  

Trogir Old City (courtesy of Pelago)

I rush to the bus stop, afraid I’ve missed my ride. Except it’s not me that’s late. I’m about to give up when I see a plush coach-like vehicle on the horizon. 15 minutes late, the bus gets me to Trogir just in time for the start of the tour. The guide, Martina, is a bright and genial local with spidery eyelashes, and several years experience in the tourist industry. The tour group is made up of a medical doctor from the US on holiday with her son; a painfully shy French-Canadian with an apparently very good command of the Serbo-Croat language, and a family now based in Argentina by way of the US and Brazil. 

Trogir is alive with touristic buzz. The town is pretty; a more compact version of rival Dubrovnik. Martina takes us through the history of Croatia’s occupation by numerous foreign powers and their diverse impact on custom and language (Ottoman Empire, the Venetians, briefly France and the Austro-Hungarian Empire). Like most of these tours, a little goes a long way. We take the scenic route around what’s barely a square mile, encompassing the Town Hall, St Lawrence’ Cathedral and the bayside promenade. 

Despite the tourism, the town hasn’t succumbed to the familiar gentrification. Hundreds of locals still live in the old town, laundry (in)famously drying outside their windows. Martina assures us the best way to appreciate Trogir is to get lost in its side streets. As if she read my mind. 

Towards the end of the tour, Martina opens up about the lasting traumatic legacy of the civil war. She grew up hating Serbs. One day her grandmother chastised her harshly, admonishing her not to judge a people by their bad leaders. Martina then shares an affecting, Good Samaritan-style family anecdote of when Serbs readily came to their aid in life-or-death circumstances.

Dinner is at one of only a couple of places that Martina would endorse (indeed, the cuisine will be one of the most underwhelming elements of this trip). As I settle the bill, another local starts speaking to me in fluid English extolling the virtues of the menu. ‘This is the best pizza in Dalmatia’, she boasts. She also happens to be a tour guide, coincidentally called Martina. She claims to be the former neighbour of her namesake, who is allegedly named after her. Whilst the younger Martina insists that Trogir has only recently become touristy, her elder strongly disputes it. ‘She grew up during the war’, she observes ‘we didn’t have much tourism then’.

Filip's Marina Taxi Boat, Croatia

There’s enough time between dinner and the last taxi boat to my accommodation for a leisurely stroll around the bay. A marching band passes the restaurant. On one end of the promenade, at the old fortress, there’s a Techno music festival. A few hundred metres away is a stage for free local events. Performers dressed in folk costumes play traditional music whilst young children, also in costume, stand mannequin-still in front of the stage. They look mortified, as if held hostage.

On the other side of the marina, I see a good-looking young black man coming in the opposite direction with whom I assume is his Caucasian girlfriend. Just as we pass each other, a voice carries over the wind.’How are you auntie?’.  

‘Did you just call me auntie, you cheeky monkey?’, I shoot back. And so we start to converse amiably. Contrary to assumptions, they’re step-siblings. Joe, the young man, was born in the Caribbean but moved to Ireland as a child. His step-sister, Zara is originally Croatian. Her mother married his dad and they were both raised on the Emerald Isle.  Neither is new to Croatia.

We chat about our affection for the region, lodging in remote places and me not possessing a smartphone. Joe asks if I’ve encountered any strange behaviour. It’s then I have to admit my reservations. On the bus from Split Airport, I couldn’t tell if the passengers were trying not to notice me or if I were being over-sensitive. Elsewhere, there have been a few stares. Then there was the stony-faced little girl. It’s the opposite of my experience in Dubrovnik and the surrounding areas. Where I expected some odd reactions, it was surprisingly welcoming. I also saw a lot more Afrodescendant tourists on that part of the coast.  I assumed the rest of the region would be the same. Joe is ambiguous himself, not sure whether these are stares of curiosity or hostility. Zara confesses that, after growing up in monocultural rural Croatia, she was scared on first meeting her step-family as a child.  We part ways, without sharing numbers. We’re in the region for roughly the same time. I suspect we’ll cross paths again.

The last taxi boat leaves at 10pm. I receive mildly askance looks from some other passengers. Nothing that will spoil the serene half-hour crossing, however. The sun sets noticeably earlier here than in North-West Europe. Now well after dark, the waves take on a black velvety effect. White and amber lights signal distant city life. The night sky is clear enough for the constellations to command my attention.

Part II

Part III

Soundtrack: John Gómez and Nick the Record present the TANGENT compilation feat. Various Artists

The Dubrovnik Diaries: Part 4

 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

I now just have the weekend to separate me from my inevitable return to real life. I endeavour to resist the melancholy by living in the moment. I think of my empty flat waiting for me, bringing to mind a question Ciaran posed about romantic loneliness. An old friend writes a touching but frank birthday text about a wistfulness than can accompany this milestone. 

It must be said, that this has been a more sociable birthday trip than others. Staying in a hotel helps (as oppose to an AirBnB studio), as do amicable locals and fortuitous meetings with other tourists.

Following a local recommendation, I schedule a day trip to small town Ston, 15km from Slano. It is known for its rampart- even longer than its better known Dubrovnik counterpart – and dubbed the European equivalent to the Great Wall of China. 

The intimidating edifice is immediately visible on arriving. The steepness and perilous-looking height of some sections are worrying. Despite being lengthier, a day around Ston’s fortresses is a lot cheaper than Dubrovnik's. As it’s midday, I put off scaling the wall for a few hours, when it’ll be marginally cooler.

I while away time at the Veliki Castle Fort and stroll through nearby streets. I find a playground and have fun on the swings until the discomfort of the chains digging into my hips forces me off.

I order drinks at various establishments and make a video call. I grab some lunch on the go, staining my new cream cardigan to my annoyance.

Finally, the hour arrives. The man at the toll gate explains there’s a long and short version of the walk along the walls. He claims the longer is well over 1000 steps but takes just 40 minutes. I don’t hide my incredulity. It looks too narrow and steep to complete in that time.

You’re young, he counters, you can do it.

Young, he calls me. 

A mixture of vanity and tenacity powers me on, albeit with hesitation. On the way up, I bump into a helpful Peruvian who swears the walk is shorter than the prescribed time and not as risky as it looks. He does advise me to stock up on water. 

It’s well into the 30s. My H20 supply is almost gone. I head to town with my new informal tour guide. When he hears I live in Belgium he asks, in Dutch, if I speak Flemish. He’s studying in Holland. I explain I don’t care for the language.  As we reach the shops, he’s joined by his surprisingly plain girlfriend.

I resume my solo walk and promise myself I won’t look back and/or down. I hold off for some time but like Orpheus, I can’t resist. With much panting (not helped by carrying my small laptop), I make it to the top. As I feel a gentle wind start to cool me off, I begin singing the Isley Bros' version of Summer Breeze. The summit of the wall resembles a biblical film or TV set. Before heading back down, I take a minute to have a heart-to-heart with God on the deserted fortress. Since there’s no-one around, I hitch up my skirt and remove my T-Shirt for an even tan. I later scramble to put it back on when I hear voices. Two fellow tourists loom on the horizon.

The descent is less laborious but trickier to manoeuvre. I slow down at the most precarious points, conscious that the next set of tourists aren’t very far behind. The Peruvian's 10-20 minute round-trip estimation is exaggerated. And to think there’s an annual marathon along the walls in September.

Still, by the end it feels like a personal achievement. I don’t like fear to talk me out of a venture.

The expanse of the wall means by the time I reach the exit, I’ve left Ston proper without wholly being aware. I even take a moment to paddle my feet in the sea. Unbeknownst to me, I am a couple of kilometres away from the main town. Once again I find myself hurrying for the last bus to Slano.

That evening, conscious that my holiday is drawing to a close, I take a sunset walk around the bay similar to that of my first night. I continue to be in awe, willing myself to bask in the now and draw thoughts away from the unavoidable end. 

On my walk, I see a rogue local woman throwing remnants of dinner into the sea. I’m shocked and disappointment. I wonder how the water remains so clear with such antics.

The following morning, the last full day of my holiday, I head into town to spend a few hours at the Red History Museum; recommended by Ciaran. I’m not usually a museum enthusiast unless there’s an exhibition of exceptional interest. The communist history of Yugoslavia fits the bill. Somewhat familiar with Josep Tito and his connection to Post-Independent African states and the Non-Aligned Movement, I wish to fill the gaps. Namely, how Yugoslavia remained autonomous from the USSR.

The RHM is situated in a still-active factory dating back to the 1950s. That would explain why the toilets have a pre-1989 feel. On the day I visit, the reception is manned by the voluble, charismatic – not to mention super-hot – Chico, who talks me through all the interactive elements of the exhibition. He speaks a very fluid and naturalistic English from “TV and school” he claims. When I complain that the RHM brochure misleads by conflating socialism and communism, he commends me for noticing the difference.

The RHM opened its doors on the 20 April 2019 to mild controversy. Chico finds it amusing that it coincides with Hitler’s birthday. I grimace. It could have been worse, he says. If it had opened on 10 April – which fascists proclaimed as Croatian Independence Day in 1941 - the museum would have received more threats than they already had-or worse.

Courtesy of www.godubrovnik.com

It’s a fascinating exhibition, much of it comprised of a set piece modelling a typical Yugoslavian home during the Tito era. It’s a good balance of social, political and cultural history; with references to the winning Croatian entry for the Eurovision song contest as well as the steady descent into totalitarianism and hinting at the eventual bloody break-up of Yugoslavia. 

It’s always with a heavy heart that I consider the distortions of the vision for a worker-led economic system. Under Tito, progress- albeit shaky at times- was undoubtedly made in terms of education, access to housing and industrialisation. He was a very canny statesman, severing ties with Stalin and instating his own interpretation of Communism, whilst making economic and diplomatic overtures to the West. 

It speaks volumes that leaders from both sides of the Iron Curtain attended his funeral. 

Nevertheless, he was an autocrat. The Yugoslav Communist party suppressed all opposition and were vicious towards perceived enemies. Yugoslavia went the way of many other states asserting Communist ideals (the true objective of which I maintain has never been truly realised). I can’t turn away from this uncomfortable truth. Lessons are to be learned.

Towards the end of the exhibition are two conflicting accounts of the infamous prison camps; one from a former guard who predictably and vehemently denies their brutality and the other from an ex-prisoner detailing the unimaginable horror of life during and beyond the camps.

Afterwards, I have a soft drink at the bar, later joined by a couple of German tourists. Chico explains the origins of the RHM (a family affair started with his politically-conscious brother and sister-in-law). The discussion widens to the geo-political sensitivities that still dog the region. According to Chico the majority of the electorate is disengaged from contemporary politics. He is frustrated about the lack of dialogue around the 1990s Civil War.

courtesy of www.adriaticdmc.hr

Cheeky Chico offsets the gravity with dark humour. I admit to being quite smitten. I should really refrain from pointing out the obvious to handsome men. Chico is nonetheless a tad bashful when I pay him a parting compliment. 

It’s one quick jaunt back to the Old City for nostalgia’s sake. I hope to bump into Bruno to say farewell but it's not to be. I must arrive whilst he’s on his afternoon break. Ships passing in the night.

That evening before dinner, I decide to take one last walk around the bay and venture into the Adriatic for a dip. The novelty of my environment has not worn off. I stop to take it all in and be fully present; remind myself that I am really here, in case it all feels too distant and fanciful once I’m back in Brussels. I reflect on how safe I have felt. To my knowledge, in Slano I’m the only brown girl in the village (deep-tanned Caucasians notwithstanding). Yet I’ve not been mistreated or made to feel a freak. The same goes for my experience in the rest of the region, the odd leery look from some male admirers aside.

The customer service has been by and large exemplary. I grow to be fond of the staff at my guesthouse and the nearby bar/restaurant run by the same married couple.

I’m still turning these thoughts over when I find somewhere discreet enough to disrobe and slip into the water donning my bikini. The current occasionally picks up. With my very basic swimming knowledge, I try nothing too adventurous. The coast takes on a different beauty from the perspective of the sea. And to think, it was by error I booked accommodation in Slano and not central Dubrovnik. It's one of the best mistakes I've ever made.

With no-one close enough to make me self-conscious, I offer up prayers of thanksgiving aloud for this marvellous experience.

I dry off with the hotel towel I've borrowed and return to a quiet spot I discovered on my first night, with two chairs suspended over the shallow waters. Sunset is almost over. Dinner awaits but I’m reluctant to leave. Returning to the hotel, I see a crowd gathered around a pop-up stage where a guitarist and pianist are doing Jazz, Rock, Pop and Latin covers. I pause once again to soak in the tunes and atmosphere. They’ll play for several hours as I come and go from the guesthouse.

Later that evening, after dinner at the hotel and a virgin Strawberry Mojito (on the house) at my regular holiday haunt, I’ll catch the duo’s encore. A group of English tourists I’ve seen before are also present. I had the impression they wished to keep their distance but they are far more amicable tonight. One of them looks especially merry, breaking away from his group to do exaggerated camp, arrhythmic steps.

                                                 
When I politely turn down his beckoning to dance with a smile, he plants himself next to me for small talk. He claims he’s ‘only’ had three glasses. For someone who is tee-total, that sounds to me like enough to get him in his current state. He invites me to join him on stage for a sing-song. I demure again. When his female friend also calls on me, it seems rude not to humour them. I add my voice melodiously to their caterwaul of Wonderwall. Or rather, the group caterwauling over the poor duo. I know it’s time to slip away inconspicuously when they segue into Queen’s I Want to Break Free. Never one of my favourites by Mercury and co. On exiting, I note for the first time in Slano, another Afrodescendant female amongst the revellers.

Despite nightfall I detour to discover the other side of the coast that my drunken interlocutor has just mentioned. I can only go so far by foot.

As is usually the case when I have to be up and out for a specific reason, my sleep is interrupted. I wake up too early and can’t properly return to snoozing. In the morning, I open my window wide to benefit from the bay view one more time. I wish I’d done that more often. I savour the thought of everything that will prolong this experience until my mid-afternoon flight back West; one last breakfast at the guesthouse, the bus ride to Dubrovnik and then onward to the airport (a fraction of the taxi price)…

During my morning meal, I record video messages for my sister and friends. A tear drops involuntarily during one recording. On my way to the bus stop, I say a heartfelt farewell to the available guesthouse staff; a number of them sadly not yet on duty.

I text my friend, Nika en route to the airport ...I’m in love with your country... In the end, we were too far from each other to schedule a meet-up. That’s fine. It gives me a ready excuse to visit again soon, pandemics-permitting.

My newfound favourite descriptor for this Balkans excursion is “a wonderful parenthesis”. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday getaway. This is comfortably one of my best trips, especially solo travelling. The pleasure of it even momentarily distracted me from the solemnity of hitting 40. 

I try not to think too long about readjusting to the real world back in Belgium, grim weather forecasts and all. There’s a rip-the-plaster-off part of me that just wants to get it over and done with…

But not quite yet. Not while brilliant sunshine, aqua-marine waters and cloud-covered mountains are calling outside my coach window.

Soundtrack: All'n'All + That's the Way of the World by Earth, Wind & Fire

LVC is taking a break for the rest of summer. Bonnes vacances.