A Summer Pause in Prague III

7 + 1/2 min. read

Part I & Part II

St. Barbara's Cathedral, Kutná Hora
(image courtesy of visitcentralbohemia.com)

The next day, my mind is set on a trip to Kutná Hora, one of Prague's smaller historic neighbours.  It’s less than an hour from the capital by train, which allows me wriggle room to be back in time for the boat tour I have scheduled that evening.

It’s raining hard on the way to Prague’s vast and confusing main station but I won’t be deterred.  It’s not everyday I’m in the Czech Republic.

The train is from a different era, with old school, Agatha Christie novel-style cabins sans frills. It already feels like an adventure.

A slight woman in our cabin - perhaps intoxicated - is behaving oddly; popping in and out of the space, covering her hands repeatedly with moisturiser and smiling to herself.

Meanwhile, outside the weather has cheered up a little. I have a clear view of the Czech countryside, in between reading David Foenkinos’ Je Vais Mieux. As much as I see Prague’s appeal and there’s far more to discover in the capital alone than a mere week could afford me, it would be a shame to miss out on a change of scenery.

One of Kutná Hora’s main claims to fame is a church comprised of bones. However, as I mentioned when encountering a similar landmark in Faro, I’m ambivalent at best about this kind of morbid attraction.  Instead, I follow my nose on arrival, hopping on a bus into town with a crowd of other tourists. An East-Asian North American man with his two young daughters ends up being my unwitting guide. I follow him off the bus. It’s on his suggestion that I head towards the magnificent Chrám Svaté Barbory - or St. Barbara’s church.

Entrance is not free.  I’ve mentioned on these pages before that I’m not keen on paying to enter God’s sanctuary but with no other plans, and the cashier willing to honour my student discount despite forgetting my card in Brussels, I might as well. 

St. Barbara is most impressive from the outside. I try to follow the guided map for the premises but it takes a while to get my bearings. The Cathedral does have lovely views from the grounds, overlooking vineyards and what I’ll later learn is a convent, inaccessible to the public.  After climbing the steps to the church’s lower balcony, I make my way to the neighbouring village.

There's nothing extraordinary about this day trip but it’s a dry, occasionally sunny day and the town is pretty and clean. One of my favourite holiday pastimes is roaming; no particular destination and a margin for getting a little lost.

(c) Kasia

I read somewhere that Prague's outskirt towns like Kutná Hora are comparable to the fairytale-like homesteads in Alsace. Having lived in that region, I think it’s a fair comparison; lots of pastel-coloured buildings on winding cobbled streets, somehow stuck between modernity and bygone centuries.

Lunch is in a Blues café with a very eclectic playlist. I’ve been so spoiled by the usual English proficiency that it’s a slight shock to come into spaces where that can’t be taken for granted. The waitress at the café has a lot more English than I have Czech but not enough to follow me easily. Fortunately, some customers are on hand to assist.

It’s back to the train station to make sure I’m in Prague way ahead of my boat tour. I rule against going back to the accommodation first. There are too many impediments en route. I thus arrive almost a full hour before the tour. By this time, the skies are throwing a tantrum and there’s no real shelter.

The sun starts to make a timid appearance as we board. It’s not clear enough though for vivid sunsets, one of my main motivations for booking an evening boat tour.

The boat itself is much newer and more attractive than the usual vessels for this kind of budget-friendly river outing. I redeem my token for a free drink and plonk myself by a window. The route itself isn’t extensive and the pre-recorded guide is barely audible. Nevertheless, I appreciate seeing cities surrounded by a large body of water from this vantage point. It’s become a tradition of mine to ride rivers at dusk towards the end of a city break; a wistful farewell.

I notice a woman in a hijab seated alone; the one other solo female traveller in the vicinity. On disembarking, I attempt to converse. We manage to make stilted small talk but (a mutual lack of) language gets in the way. I do learn that she’s from Turkey and is only in Prague for a day. That seems pretty typical. From what I gather, most other tourists’ sojourn in the Czech capital is even more transitory than mine.

(c) Mikhail Mamaev

The next morning I’m not as quick out of the door as previous days. It’s my last full day in Prague. I’ve set it aside to take in the city at a more leisurely pace. I was very tempted by the idea of going to the Museum of Communism but that deserves a day to itself.

I make my way to the Franciscan Gardens; a small oasis of a park in the city centre, recommended by Monika and Jeff, the tour guide. It's one of the best weather days of the week, which isn’t saying an awful lot. At least there’s very little rain. 

 I find a quiet corner to read, hidden within the low cut maze-like hedges. Before I have a chance to bring out my novel, an elderly gentleman sitting opposite begins gently interrogating me in broken English about my origins. It initially appears as if he’s trying to evangelise. Yet he’s still not appeased when I explain I’m a born-again Christian. In the end, it transpires he wants money. I'd have preferred if he'd just asked from the outset, rather than using the Gospel as a pretext. I give him some of the few coins I can find rummaging around my purse, bid adieu and move to another part of the gardens. 

Not long afterwards, another distraught man makes a dead stop before me - although I’m not alone in that vicinity. Up until this point, I’ve not seen the kind of begging to which I’ve sadly become accustomed in other capitals like Brussels or London (that will change over the course of the day). In any case, it’s the first time I’ve been approached. Based on anecdotal evidence, I have a theory that those begging or sharing religious material (or both, in this instance) tend to make a beeline for Black folk, as they assume we’re more receptive.

I feel a little less serene after those encounters. Plus, I’m out of loose change in Czech crowns (I find it hard to gauge the exchange rate. I keep underestimating it and feel I’ve spent more than my frugal self normally would, even on holiday). I move on soon enough, stopping by the adjacent church, Our Lady of the Snows, on the way out.

And so goes my day. Dipping in and out of sacred spaces, most of them a little too bling-bling in aesthetic. I do the very tourist - seemingly indispensable - Prague thing of walking back and forth over Charles Bridge, named after the monarch who commissioned it. I catch strains of the famous Bridge Band Jazz quartet, stationed amongst jewellery vendors and sketch-artists. 

(c) Shushan Meloyan

Next stop is the Old Town Square for some over-priced iced indulgence at the U Prince Hotel terrace. Monika swears by the views of the city from the top. It’s also supposedly a top-spot for IG photo opps. On arrival, I'm quite surprised - even a little disappointed - about how compact the space is. Taking the stairs down, I’m not overly-impressed either with the dour but somehow still gaudy decor.

On the way back to the tram stop, I stumble upon the restaurant that I couldn’t find for love or money a few nights before.

Before returning home to freshen up for dinner and a phone call with my mum, I head towards the Castle district to catch the number 22 for a spot of tram hopping. With the regular and clean tram service, it’s a hassle-free way to observe the change in cityscape. On the outskirts, near the terminus, I spot the first and only Afro hairdresser I’ve seen so far in Prague. You’d have to be pretty determined to reach it if not based in the area but at least it's there.

As the day progresses, the old (delayed) birthday melancholia resurges alongside the typical end-of-holiday blues. I make a conscious effort not to allow these feelings to take me out of the present.

For my final evening of this trip it’s more dinner and Jazz. By the time I get through speaking to my mum and making an unplanned detour, it’s cutting it fine to have dinner before my concert reservation - once again at the cavernous U Malého Glena. To avoid hopping between venues once more, constrained by time to make the choice between food and music, I decide to dine at the club.

Whoever cooks the traditional beef goulash and dumplings I’ve ordered does not put their heart in it. Bland, possibly store-bought, it’s not what I’d have wanted my last culinary memory of Prague to be. Fortunately, the music makes up for it somewhat. The piano-bass-drums trio is led by vocalist, Miss Kafka (she claims it's her real surname, a possible distant relation to Franz. I can't work out if she's pulling my leg). All inspired in their own way, I appreciate Lady Kafka’s Jazz vocabulary and risk-taking improv.  She seems to inhabit the moment. During the set, I shush and frown at a small intergenerational huddle of drunk clients who turn out to be friends and family of the band.

Kafka claims, in confidently fluid English, that she’s not as voluble as she usually would be on-stage. It clearly bothers her. I reassure her during the break not to force it, during a congenial conversation which ends with the vocalist asking for my details. (Like most of the other exchanges of personal info on this trip, nothing comes of it).

Charles Bridge at nightfall
(c) Lars Kuczynski

It feels good that my Prague holiday began and now ends with Jazz.

I slip out during the second set to make my way gradually home.  Now that I’m familiar with Prague city centre’s layout, I realise how close the Jazz club is to Charles Bridge. The view from the crossing is even more enchanting at night, especially the now illuminated Prague Castle district. 

As I’ve been partial to doing most nights that week, I search for Benny Sings’ One Night in Prague on my MP3 and slowly - contentedly - make my way across the centuries’ old bridge.

Soundtrack: Maravilhosa Bem (album) by Julia Mestre; Mutt by Leon Thomas; One Night in Prague by Benny Sings; On Time by Lecrae

La Vie Continentale will be on a break until (N. Hemisphere) Autumn 2025

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