THE MAKARSKA RIVIERA

     

From the airport it’s about sixty kilometers to Baska Voda via the coastal road.  An endless string of multi-story apartment houses and private homes hug the roadway, all of them advertising their “Zimmer, Sobe and Apartmani” for rent. Tourism is the Dalmatian coast’s main industry with everyone eager to get in on the act, including the Germans who rent their units for the tourist season which lasts through September, after which, they close their doors and return to Germany. The competition is stiff but the Russian, Polish, Czech, German and English tourists that come in droves more than fill the demand. When we reach the lovely medieval town of Omis with its hilltop castle 

—this town inspired our first visit to Croatia in 2004--- I am relieved to leave the excess traffic and commercialism behind.  

     The winding road now begins a steady climb up the coast, affording stunning panoramas at every turn; when we reach a point where it has been carved into the side of the mountain, it's dig the nails into the thigh time, for the only protection from the thousand foot drop to the sea is a guard rail! 

My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of a vehicle approaching in our lane, darting into its lane just in the nick of time. At this vantage point the vistas are startlingly beautiful in all directions. I happily divert my attention from the winding road with its blind curves to a collective scene of the sea below, a foreground of islands with mountain ranges silhouetted against the sky and picture perfect fishing villages tightly nestled into the coves and hillsides.

Only passengers' have the luxury of this eye-popping experience, for it would be at the peril of everyone in the vehicle were the drivers to look away from the road for any length of time. At the end of a final curve when the road temporarily straightens, that familiar and welcome sign comes into view announcing the beginning of the “MAKARSKA RIVIERA.”  

We are now less than five minutes from Baska Voda and my butterflies are dancing an Irish jig!

     A quick drive through the village of Baska Voda and we are at “VILLA BOZO”, the three-story apartment house belonging to our dear friend, Iva, and my home for the next five to eight months. 

     Her mother, Baka Janja Granic (grandmother Yanya) is sitting in her chair in the breezeway, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on the table beside her.  When she sees us approaching with our suitcases, her large brown eyes light with excitement and a loud “Oh” comes from her mouth. 

John takes her face in his hand and kisses her on each cheek; she smiles her pleasure and immediately begins to speak in very rapid Croatian.  Of course we are at a loss and all we can say in return is “dobro dan” which is the equivalent of good day. 

     With a flip of her emotional switch, that once happy face now wears a pained expression, her brow is deeply wrinkled as she groans in displeasure and grabs hold with both hands of her lower back; all of this is to remind us of her back problems. It is the repeat performance of an all too familiar scene, but without a doubt, the best welcome we can have.

    We manage to pay a few quick visits next door and unpack our suitcases.  Beyond that, it is a struggle throughout the rest of the day fighting the jet lag that has finally come out from its hiding place.  By 8:30 that evening my head is dropping from exhaustion and I give in to fatigue, calling an end to our first day in Baska Voda.

   

XXX

Baska Voda is one of many towns and villages occupying the Makarska Riviera, but enjoying the enviable distinction of being situated at the base of Mount Biokovo---the tallest mountain in Dalmatia---which rises vertically from the Adriatic to a soaring 1762 meters.  In its presence, John and I are likened to a pair of ants staring up at the Empire State Building.

Clinging to its slopes is the small, ancient village of Bast with its old stone houses

and a lovely little church.  After the expulsion of the Turks in the eighteenth century, the inhabitants of Bast left the protection of the hills behind and came down to inhabit Baska Voda where their descendants remain to this day

     Our apartment is only a three minute walk from the lovely seaside town with its lovely boardwalk, canopied sidewalk cafes, marina of tall-mast sailboats, small fishing boats and several pebbled beaches---in the summer, tourists take their towels to the beach as early as five in the morning to secure a spot.  In the center of the village an ancient tree with a massive trunk and sprawling branches offer shade to a surround of white benches. 

It is in this spot that the old men from the village come to sit and wile away an afternoon or evening; Iva’s late father used to refer to those who regularly gathered there as “the ministry of other people’s affairs.”  Gathering from their expressions and the intensity of their conversation, I would say that has not changed. 

      On a typical day John and I might take in a walk to the village stopping at the local bakery to buy a freshly baked loaf of bread and visit with the young woman who is eager to practice her English and share stories about the young people of the village.  Or, we might sit at the corner café enjoying an espresso with our friends, Milhe and Merlin, to a background of German spoken by the few straggling tourists seated at the tables around us. My favorite pastime, however, is walking the concrete walkway that follows the coast for miles in either direction. 

There are plenty of places to rest along the way allowing us to enjoy the peaceful sound of the sea washing over the pebbled beach, breathe in the fresh clean air and enjoy the views of the islands of Brac and Hvar that lie across the water. 

If privacy is what we desire, there is no end to the empty beaches, private coves or rock outcroppings where one can hide from peering eyes.  And if one is so inclined, nude bathing is completely acceptable. 

      In the evenings we sit on our porch sipping on our Karlovacko beer watching a lingering sunset color the sky in vivid shades of red, orange and purple, tinting Biokovo a light shade of pink.  After dinner, we take a leisurely stroll to the end of the harbor.

    

    

     On this balmy evening I sit cradled in John’s arms beneath the little red lighthouse that blinks its red light announcing the village’s existence.  Others are out this evening, they, too, making there way toward the lighthouse, but when they see the two “lovers” they turn and walk away. That is, all but one shadowy-like male figure that makes his way towards us. We hold our pose thinking that he, too, will turn away and leave us to our special moment.  But he continues toward us and as the light from the lamp illuminates his face, it reveals a snow white beard, a large round face and a ruddy complexion.

     The uninvited stranger boldly approaches and greets us, reaching out a beefy hand in his introduction. He is large and burly with a soft but deep voice that commands our attention. We are now communicating as if we are old friends meeting once again at the lighthouse to share our mutual philosophy that “life is to be enjoyed and each moment is precious, and what more beautiful place is there to do it in but this very spot at this very moment.”  With that, he leans down to embrace me and I can not resist touching his soft beard and returning his embrace.  He has delivered his message so he turns and disappears into the night leaving behind the glow of his presence. It is a very special moment and one that has us filled with gratitude as the lights from the village dance across the water and flapping  sails sound in the wind.     

XXX

In this small village where apartment buildings elbow for space along the narrow streets

and a whisper can be heard between the rows of apartments and old stone houses,

it is customary for entire families to occupy a single building, allowing us to view a typical day in the life of a Croatian.  From our third floor balcony we have a bird’s eye view of the female elders caring for their grandchildren and the village widows, customarily dressed in black, plucking figs from the low branches of a fig tree, or sitting

together at a neighbor’s table passing away an hour or two in idle conversation. Since jobs are scarce, some of the men volunteer their services to go to the mountainside vineyard and pick grapes, returning to their families in the evening. The only loud sounds are those that come from  from the church bell tower where the bell rings at intervals throughout the day, or from the younger boys gathered in the graveyard of the old church near our apartment where they role play. It is a peaceful existence, each day passing without incident.             

     We eagerly thrust ourselves into the culture finding that we are already accepted by some and viewed by others only as tourists.  How do we know this?  It is easily read on the local people’s faces when we pass them on their streets. Some acknowledge us with a cheerful “dobro dan” while others look through us as they pass. Having lived in a small town for twenty years we understand how locals can resent outsiders and what it takes to be accepted, so we are patient.

      The second day of our arrival we were invited to visit with Iva’s sister’s family members. We were greeted first by Iva’s sister, Franca, and her husband, Mio, who speak little English, so we were soon left to the  company of their son, Marko, and his wife, Sanya, with whom we began a friendship during our visit in 2009. 

     I knew that John was anxious to present Marco with the set of Case hunting knives he brought as a gift, but he waited for the right moment, conversing in the meantime with Marko over a bottle of beer.  Finally, he said to Marco, “I’ve brought you something.” A look of surprise washed over Marko’s face as John passed him the knives, and for a moment Marco was at a loss for words.  As an onlooker, I could see the emotion on Marco’s face as he quietly shifted his attention from the knives.

      His voice was soft as he spoke and I had to strain to hear his emotional delivery.  “I can not accept this gift without giving you something in return, John, because a knife given cuts the friendship.” He paused. “I must at least give you one Kuna (a coin) in return for this gift.”

      John’s immediate response was to insist that Marko owed him nothing.  It was my impression that Marko realized the differences in our customs and that, coupled with John’s response, allowed him to accept the gift and leave the friendship completely in tact. Pulling the trio of knives out of their sheath and admiring his new acquisition, Marko thanked John and told him how useful the knives would be the next time he went to the mountains to “hunt the pig.”

     Again, as an onlooker, I found a bond developing between the two men, and a kind act that would not go unnoticed by others.

     The connecting balconies between apartments often affords an opportunity for an intimate encounter between myself and Iva’s sister. This bright and sunny day, leaning across the rail of our third story apartments, I express to Franca my desire to learn her language. With that, she begins to  coach me on the Croatian alphabet as well as  providing a few useful sentences…as I said earlier, a whisper can be heard across the neighborhood. Later that afternoon I have a chance encounter with a very pleasant lady from the neighborhood who reveals to me, with a smile of approval, that she is aware of my effort to learn her language. News travels fast in this small village!

XXX

The bustling town of Makarska is eight miles away; larger than BaskaVoda in area, it boasts two large grocery stores, a variety of shops and a beautiful, wide-mouthed cove with a lovely beach. 

It is here that we come to do our grocery shopping and walk the boardwalk of elegant palms that border the harbor. 

It’s fun to duck into the side streets and visit the medieval square with its old stone buildings draped in deep pink bougainvillea and climb the stone stairs to the old church in the center;

We love to casually stroll along the sidewalk where large tourist boats are moored in the harbor.  Across the street, chatty people gather in the cafes, the air drifting with the smell of pizzas baking in open hearth ovens. It is not uncommon to have a chance encounter with a complete stranger---usually Croatian---and ending up with an invitation for coffee, wherein, we find ourselves seated at one of the sidewalk cafes passing an afternoon over an espresso, and sharing friendly thoughts and impressions about our vastly different cultures.

    
     Although the Makarska Riviera is named after the town of Makarska it is in no way the ending point for this section of coast that stretches for sixty kilometers and affords—in my opinion--some of the most spectacular scenery and pristine coastline in Europe… it’s no wonder it is referred to as the “Riviera fifty years ago.”  To miss this drive would equal being in Cairo, Egypt and avoiding the Sphinx and Great Pyramid at Giza. 

     The weather is right.  The tank is full.  My driver is rested.  “Let’s drive the coast," he says this bright and sunny morning.   No argument from me!

     This day ranks as unforgettable as we once again relive this unrivaled coastal experience. 

          Settled back in my seat, our favorite jazz CD filling the car with sound, I surrender myself to it all, absorbed in the sights presented around every curve. It is, in many ways, a repeat of the northern coast, but raw and unencumbered by man’s concrete intrusions.

  It is Croatia as once seen through the eyes of the earlier visitors who came to settle its shores.  To see it is to want it! 

I linger in a vision of my “Villa Giovanna” nestled on a hillside or seated in a quiet cove, its shuttered windows open to the lavender and pine scented breezes of the Adriatic.

WELL I CAN DREAM CAN'T I!

Surely my grandmother would approve of her name attached to such a beautiful place. I wonder…with Venice so close, and evidence of the existence of a strong Venetian influence in some areas of the coast, could she have been one of those Venetians who once feasted their eyes on this unique piece of nature?  Or… is she seeing it for the first time through my eyes?  I turn to John for some of his words of wisdom... “Why do I feel such a strong connection to the grandmother I never knew?”  There is silence, for like me, he can not find an explanation.

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PART OF YOUR JOURNEY, I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW THAT YOU ARE WITH ME.   REMEMBER TO CHOOSE ANONYMOUS AS YOUR PROFILE, THEN POST YOUR COMMENTS! 



CONTINENT TO CONTINENT

THE TROUBLE WITH AN ADVENTURE is that it consumes all of ones time living it, leaving no time at the end of the day to quiet the mind and allow all that has happened to spill out onto the pages.  But now I must and will write for I fear that you, my fellow travelers, will go in search of a new travel companion leaving me to make this journey on my own.  So let’s begin.

    

      John can sleep anywhere, anytime.  For me, sleeping on a plane can be a challenge--even if it is a night flight.  But I guess I must have dozed off because I am startled from a sound sleep by passengers moving in the aisles and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. 

     As Lufthansa’s sky hotel passes over the snow covered Italian Alps and a hint of light creeps from under the shaded windows, I am consumed by the happy thought that our destination is less than an hour away. 

     While I rearrange the belt that has crept awkwardly up my bodice, make a futile attempt at working the wrinkles out of my clothes, and run my fingers through a hairstyle gone awry, I think to myself as the lovely flight attendant leans down with my breakfast tray in hand, what hidden suite do they go to during the night that allows them to emerge looking crisp and refreshed while we, the passengers, look like we’ve spent the night on the wing of the airplane! 

     The male German flight attendant announces that we will land in 20 minutes and the plane begins its descent into Frankfurt, Germany.  I don’t think there’s a person whose every flown who wouldn’t admit that once those wheels hit the runway, a real sense of relief, if not gratitude, sets in, And if you listen carefully, you just might hear those subtle little sighs of relief coming from the passengers around you.  Subtlety, however, is not on the minds of Russian passengers when their planes land.  On the contrary, everyone breaks out with a loud and enthusiastic hand clapping the very instant the rubber scrapes the runway, and this persists until the plane comes to a complete stop! If you ever experience it for yourself, you’ll bust your sides laughing, just as we did on our flight to St. Petersburg, Russia, two years ago.   

XXX

John has said many times that Germany is the second U.S., and if I didn’t know better, I would think I was back in the Atlanta airport.  Like Atlanta, Frankfurt is a bustling hub, with connecting flights to all parts of the world…which is evidenced by the diversity of cultures and languages I feel challenged to identify, but with little success.

     We board a double-car tram which travels along an elevated rail outside the terminal and have a bird’s eye view of the activity below in a landscape dominated by Lufthansa’s giant sky birds.  The tram delivers us to another wing of the airport where the sight of swinging pendulums on Black Forest cuckoo clocks and the smell of German sausage simmered in sauerkraut remind me that we are, indeed, in Germany.  Now we must kill three and a half hours before our connecting flight to Split, Croatia.  Much to my surprise, we aren’t fighting sleep…yet!

    

     There are plenty of places to spend our dollars at the duty free shops, but Gucci and Armani---to mention a few---aren’t affordable at any price, so John is content with his purchase of a bottle of THE BLACK GROUSE blended scotch whiskey, and with that we find a comfortable place to people watch.

     I suppose we are just too accustomed to the stinginess of the American carriers who serve you a snack package containing 13 peanuts and a small plastic glass filled only two thirds full with a slightly flat beverage (Lufthansa excepted) so when the flight attendant serves us a sandwich and a beverage on the one-and-a-half-hour flight to Split, Croatia, you can imagine our surprise. Once I consume the sandwich I fall into a sound sleep, waking only when the pilot announces in his heavy Croatian accent that we must prepare for our landing.

     I don’t have a window seat allowing me a view of the Adriatic as it comes into view, but I have seen, and been mesmerized by this sight so many times that it is etched into my memory.  So as the plane begins to reduce altitude I imagine the series of oddly shaped islands of the Adriatic, some of which remind me of the shapes formed in a bubbling Lava lamp, and of the calm, crystal clear, brilliant blue sea dotted with fishing vessels. As we approach land, white stucco homes with uniformly tiled red roofs line the many coves that form deep indentations along the coast. In the background, the end of a rugged mountain range separates the country’s arid interior landscape from the sea, and the crowded and pulsating city of Split dominates the scene.

     

    I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth and a colony of butterflies fluttering in my stomach.  I wonder…will I be standing where I left me two years ago, a tear replaced with a smile, and a welcome sign in hand?

XXX

     We breeze through customs and on the other side our Croatian friends, Merlin and Milhe, await our arrival.  We embrace, all genuinely happy to be reunited after two years.  Merlin, a petite woman with a lively step and an easy and unruffled manner owns the Rent A Car M & M in Baska Voda. Her husband, Milhe, a seaman by occupation, has a devilish grin and a wit to match. I say to him, “You are looking good. Milhe.”  With a twinkle in his eye and a hand moving over his round belly, he replies, “No, too much eating.”  Milhe is out to sea several months at a time.  Merlin always refers to his homecoming as “the honeymoon.”  She’s a fabulous cook (my mouth waters at the thought of her octopus salad) so one can hardly blame Milhe for over-indulging. And it is, after all, a long time between “honeymoons.”     

     Outside in the small parking lot our car waits. It is a balmy 84 and not a cloud in the sky.  We are home, safe and sound.  Everything is perfect!  Well, almost everything…jet lag hides and waits like a tiny criminal.

    It is now 1:30 in the afternoon and we have successfully made the crossing over a vast expanse of ocean, delivered in just ten and a half hours to another continent...none the worse for wear.

     Settled comfortable back in my seat I am left to my thoughts and an uninterrupted, beautiful coastal scene passing by my window as John makes the 45 minute drive to Baska Voda. Out of nowhere  a vision of my twenty-seven-year-old grandmother, Giovanna Favretto Abele's, crossing over the same ocean some 108 years earlier creeps into my consciousness.

     It was June 11, 1903 when she left her birth place of Venice for Genoa, Italy, acccompanied by 2 young sons, a toddler son, and a two-month-old baby girl.  Once there, she booked passage in steerage aboard the ship, Princess Irene, bound for America, leaving just ten dollars left in her pocketbook.   

     I begin to picture her standing on the crowded pier holding her baby girl, Vittoria, protectively to her breast, the other three children clinging to her side.  She orders William, the oldest, to guard the bulging satchels with her few worldly possession on the ground next to her.  She quiets her restless children long enough to gaze at the ship that will deliver them to the unfamiliar land where her husband awaits her arrival, all the while fighting the fear and loneliness that begins to wash over her.  But she stubbornly refuses to give in to her emotions holding tight to my grandfather, Guglielmo’s, promise that in America, she will have a “better life” than the one of poverty and toil she is leaving behind. 

     Unlike our comfortable flight across that same ocean interrupted only by the occasional turbulence requiring a seat belt,  her two-week crossing over the swells of an unpredictable ocean, confined in the hot and crowded bowels of the Princess Irene had to be grueling. There were no attendants to see to her and her children’s needs, no movies or computers to keep their restless minds occupied.  Perhaps the only entertainment  and respite from the unpleasantness might have come from a mandolin and attending voices belting out songs from the “old country." 

     Although I can’t even begin to compare her voyage with mine—hers was a monumental task; a testament to her strength and courage---I can make the leap by saying that like myself, my grandmother was pursuing a dream, innocent to the twists and turns that fate held in store. A horn honks and I'm jolted back to reality.  All I can think about now is Baska Voda.