The weather forecast said “bura” was coming later on that afternoon.
I know… you’re wondering… what’s’ bura?
Bura are intensely high winds that
rumble down off the mountains like a derailed freight train, smacking the Dalmatian coast with enough force to let you know it means real business;
the leaning pines with their twisted branches all along the coast are evidence of bura’s wrath. We’ve been awakened in the night to the growling winds of bura, whipping and tearing at the fronds of the palm tree outside our bedroom window, and banging the secured doors and shutters against their frames like a thief bent on entry. If an item isn’t anchored down during bura, it won’t be there the next morning, and chances are it will be long gone. Bura has been known to overturn semi trucks and deliver an unsuspected surprise to boats at sea, threatening their safety. You don’t want to mess with the mighty force of bura, especially if you’re driving the coast road…which can be treacherous enough without the added unpleasantness of Mother Nature’s ill-temper. That’s why John made haste to leave early for our drive to the Split airport, that final day of our joint adventure. If the forecast was accurate (there was no reason to believe otherwise) and if the ominous black clouds were any indication of what was in store, we certainly were in for some rough weather. I was trying hard to conceal my apprehensions, both out of concern for John’s flight, and also for my long return drive later on, that could find me dealing with the likes of bura. “If they haven’t cancelled the flight when I check in then I guess it’ll be okay.” John said, sensing my anxiety.
It was drizzling rain when he stopped at the unmanned entrance to the airport. The machine spit out a parking ticket then John proceeded to the parking lot.
The wind was blowing and it was beginning to rain as we dashed into the tiny terminal. We headed straight to the Lufthansa ticket counter, encouraged by the sight of the long line of passengers checking in for their flight to Frankfurt. “Looks like the flight’s on,” John said moving his suitcase to one side.
We had promised one another the night before that there would be no emotional good byes, easier said than done, for I was fighting to hold back the tears stuck at the back of my throat as he turned, took me in his arms and imparted his final words: “It’s been exquisite.”
Turn around and don’t look back, I told myself silently.
I hurried out of the airport into the windy, gray day. A gust of wind caught my umbrella and turned it inside out allowing the droplets of rain to settle where the tears wanted to be. I climbed behind the wheel of our borrowed car, turned on the ignition, and took a deep breath. John was right, it had been exquisite, and despite the hollow feeling in my chest, I knew the time had come for me to begin my journey. And if bura was how I was to begin, then so be it.
I admit that I felt a certain amount of apprehension driving on my own. I’d traveled the road before, but still needed to keep a close watch for the turn back to the main road.
The rain stopped and I began to fumble with the wiper mechanism while keeping my eyes on the road. But the wipers had a mind of their own and were now grating against the windshield. I kept fumbling with the knob, succeeding only to turn on the rear window wiper. Now I had three blades dancing and singing an unhappy tune, and nowhere to pull off. Finally, I spotted a service station. I went inside and tried to explain my plight in English, but all I got from the attendant was a blank expression. I gave him a pleading look and pointed outside to the car. My anxiety was apparent for he followed me outside. I climbed behind the wheel and pointed to the wiper stick. Mistake! I now had the dancing wipers in front and a six foot--and then some—strange male hunched down along the side of the car, reaching across the steering wheel-- which was already a near-marriage with my “girls” – playing with the mechanism and babbling on in Croatian. He maneuvered the stick to the north, south, east, west and every imaginable position in between, and all he managed to do was turn off the back wipers. He leaned into the car now, to study the wiper stick. More Croatian! A scraping we will go sang the blades. A beefy arm was inches away from the “girls” now and I was just about to call the exercise to a halt, when “ouala” the music stopped. The attendant withdrew his imposing frame, smiled broadly at his accomplishment, and began instructing me in Croatian how to operate the wipers. I thanked him profusely, and with only the purr of the engine, head back to the highway. Two miles down the road it began to rain! North, south, east, west and somewhere in between, I managed to start the wipers. Please, God, let me remember the off formula!
An angry sky appeared in the direction I was heading and I was holding my breath. The only way I could gauge the severity of the wind on the two-lane road that hugged the sea was to watch the branches of the palms. The winds came in gusts and occasionally pulled at the vehicle, but they were not severe. Once outside the city of Split, I chanced it and made a stop at a large grocery store to buy some candles in case bura hit and the power went out. Yes, I turned the wipers off! When I finally finished navigating the steep portion of the coast road and arrived at the Makarska Riviera sign, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. I had only a few kilometers left to go.
Later, in the safety and comfort of my new home, I waited, but the winds of bura never came.
XXX
“Scalinara,” an Italian word, means stairs. Since a long flight of stairs leads to the front door of my apartment, it is appropriately named. It even has an Italian feel with the tiled floors, shuttered windows, French doors, terraces and terra cotta pots.
There’s a wide walkway along the side of the building that allows me to watch, and hear, all that’s going on around me.
Like the woman on the second floor apartment across the walkway, stretching to peg her laundry on the line while barking her disapproval at the boisterous young boys playing basketball beneath her terrace. There’s the old widow dressed in black who shuffles back and forth along the pavement, lost in a memory. I quite enjoy the now displaced boys bouncing their basketball off of my terrace wall, screeching and shouting at me in broken English when I open the doors to my bedroom and greet them. 
One morning, quite early, I was startled out of a sound sleep by the loud boom of a snare drum and music coming from the marching band passing beside my terrace. That was soon followed by the urgent ringing of the church bells. This holy day, Baska Voda's residents were recognizing their patron saint... the protector of their men at sea. After mass, members of the church and their parish priest followed in procession through the narrow back streets, joined in song.
The mountains with their varied moods can be seen from my back terrace. The old stone church with its bell tower from my front terrace. It is only a three minute walk to the village and harbor with its tall mast sail boats and small fishing boats.
It is amazing how little space is really needed for comfort. Scalinara, with its open living room, kitchen and eating area--which may constitute 300 square feet—is all about easy living.
I cook fantastic meals on a two-burner stove. Listen to streaming jazz out of London via my little laptop. Watch American movies and Croatia’s version of “Star Search” on the television, while playing tag with the Croatian subtitles. I revel in the video Skype calls from John, family and friends, sharing thoughts and feelings as if they were next door. I want for nothing. I’m happy with everything. 
My days are well spent because I let them move me along however, wherever and at whatever pace they see fit. I find joy when I least expect it. Discover interesting places when I’m not looking for them. Enjoy being a face in the crowd without being part of the crowd. Feel a tug at my heart when a stranger on the street acknowledges my presence in their tightly-knit village with a cheerful “hello.” Look forward to leaning against the warm glass case and breathing in the aroma of freshly baked bread at the local bakery. There, I may learn a few Croatian words from the lovely young woman, Antonia, who is wiser then her years.
I am tickled at the sight of the engaged old men of the “Ministry of Other People’s Affairs,” pausing from their intense discourse to stop and appreciate a passing female. Find comfort in Sanya’s presence, another young woman ahead of her years, who is always there with a helping hand when I’m in need. Wind up a day lingering in the passing of another magnificent sunset. Walk at night to the little red lighthouse and relive those special moments shared in that very spot.
Time is not as important to me as those memorable moments in between; and there are not enough pages to mention them all.
I am without transportation; by choice, though. I’m all about the experience, and what better way to have one than on foot. You may take in more, but really see a lot less from the windshield of a car.
Walking is freedom to me. It allows me to follow that special scent or unusual sound.
Stop to pet the cat that is meowing and rubbing its furry body against my pant leg.
Pick a handful of wild flowers, anise or edible arugula for the evening’s salad.
Capture a fleeting moment’s scene in perpetuity with the lens of my camera.
Meet a stranger on a path and exchange greetings.
Sit beside the sea and listen to the sound of the water gulping beneath the rocks.
Toss bread crumbs into the water and watch a clamoring school of sardines snatch them from the surface.
Discover what lies within the endless, hidden indents of the coast.
Walk the steep and intricate sets of stairs that connect the lower towns to the upper and peek into vine-protected courtyards.
Explore the little villages with their fishing boats and brightly colored nets sprawled out on the sidewalks.
Whatever direction my feet take me there is always a new or different experience waiting.
There are days when I walk so far that I have to chase the daylight coming back to avoid losing my way in the darkness.
Once I start, I can’t wait to see what’s up ahead, and around the next bend.
When I walk, I am like the fire walker who crosses the embers without ever burning the souls of his feet. I am so focused on the journey that I’ve yet to have the first blister or aching muscle… and I’ve walked countless miles. What I do experience, however, is that charge of adrenaline sending me another kilometer. Which reminds me, the day is wearing on and I only have a few hours before sunset. Let me make a new discovery and I’ll share it with you later.
~~
I said I’d share the day’s walk with you.
Gentlemen, read no further…please. Ladies, with the wind at my heels, I found myself walking Baska Voda’s lonely pebbled beach, my shoes sinking into the loose rocks that crunched underfoot. When I had traveled some distance, a young male bather in his---dare I say--- “birthday suit” came into view. Seeing me, he respectfully wrapped himself in a towel, gesturing the breast stroke as I passed to indicate his recent swim in the sea. I crossed my arms across my chest gesturing a shiver in return, and continued up the beach, unable, however, to resist a quick look back. Having allowed adequate distance between us, he once again became “one” with nature throwing the towel to the wind, then disappeaed. As I said, I never know what my walks have in store. On this windy and cool December day, a nude bather was certainly unexpected!
~~
I'd like you to walk alongside me now.
Close your eyes.
Quiet your mind.
Visualize a backdrop of mountains.
Quiet coves with idle boats and empty stretches of beach.
Stop and listen to the sound of the rippling sea gently washing back and forth over the pebbles and gurgling between the rocks.
Welcome the sound of nothing in between.
Breathe in the intermittent scents of lavender, pine and dried herbs traveling on the wind (if only I could capture those smells!)
Study the blue gray outlines of the islands visually strung together along the horizon, rising from, and falling again into the crystalline-blue waters of the Adriatic. Feel the heat of the sun penetrating your flesh, and the cool air chasing it away.
Listen to the wind groaning and whistling through the branches of the pines; watch it sweep in wide patterns across the water’s surface in a graceful water ballet.
Lose yourself in the moment.
Leave the expectations behind.
Bathe your soul with the sight of one of Mother Nature’s most beautiful creations.
In its presence, you will experience an overwhelming sense of peace and gratitude.
I AM NEVER ALONE WITH NATURE.
In Koln
