WHAT IS THE SPIRIT IF IT CANNOT SOAR

       These last two months of my journey have found me immersing myself in the Croatian culture.  I have become a familiar fixture in Baska Voda, no longer looked upon as the “American tourist.”  There are no more curious stares; even complete strangers smile and acknowledge me on the streets. The children playing ball in the street beneath my balcony always pause from their game to say “hi,” curious and wide-eyed with their questions about that part of the world they view from behind a television screen. “Do you know Oprah?  Do you have a big house?  Do you live near LA?”

     I have learned that everyone is related to someone in this village, and everyone owns land that has been passed down from generation to generation.  Their land is their wealth and “For Sale” signs are few and far between.   Even in these difficult economic times when jobs are scarce, the young cannot bring themselves to leave for their roots are as deeply imbedded as the two-hundred year old olive trees their families have owned and harvested for centuries.  

Here, the young care for the old.  Families are bound together in good times and in bad.  

     

~

      Recently, all of Europe celebrated their Labor Day which falls on May the first.  

Baska Voda was dressed for a party and host to the Bosnian tourists who came in droves to enjoy the beaches and watch the locals compete in a festive atmosphere.  For me, it was an unexpected surprise, and like Carnival in Trieste, I was the face in front of the crowd looking to capture the mood with my camera.

      

       For three fun-filled days crowds lined the main street to watch reluctant donkeys carry the men on their backs to a finish line,

waiters showing off their balancing skills with trays of drinks, teenage boys eagerly walking a greased pole over the sea hoping to reach the end and win a lamb,

and the men of the local fire departments showing their muscle in a tug of war.  The town was filled with music from early morning until late evening, the young people’s band marching the streets,

men and women in costume performing a traditional dance.

For the hungry, there was a huge cauldron of simmering beans and sausage with an outrageously delicious flavor and two eager chefs with ladles in hand eager to pile a free portion on your plate. For the late nighters like me, you got to drink the local wine while swooning and dancing beneath the stars to the rich sound of the celebrity singer, “Guiliano.”      

~~~~~~~

      

        Spring is by far my favorite season and watching it emerge on a coast that needs no enhancement is like watching a rare beauty sprout wings. Everywhere is a riot of color, red poppies, yellow, purple, and pink flowers capturing the landscape, the scent of wild herbs permeating the air.  Earlier on I walked the fields next to the coast and picked wild asparagus growing amidst the olive trees,  nibbling on the tender stocks along the way.

With spring I have witnessed a rougher sea slamming against the rocks and turning a dark and angry blue from the storms that rumble off of the mountains.  I’ve baked in the sun one day and shivered from the cold the next as snow settled in the crevices of Biokovo. And what would Baska Voda be without its less than popular visitor, bura, colliding with the coast, blasting the pollen from the leaves and laying down the tall grasses.  It is serene one minute and wild the next; beautiful beyond description.

        Spring is also a time when the children of age receive their first holy communion; an event not to be missed.  The sight of all those angelic faces gathered at the altar and their parents and grandparents looking on with pride from the pews is a sight to behold.  

Even more special was the invitation that came afterwards to join my friends, Sanja and Marko, for their family celebration in honor of their son,

Karlo, who was among the innocent faces that morning. 

      

       

        In the hills below the tiny mountain village of Bast, we toasted with shots of homemade liquor, devoured platters of aged cheese, cured ham, crusty bread, salad dressed with the olive oil pressed from the olives of their own trees, and a whole roast lamb that some delighted in eating right off the bone.

As if we weren’t already sated from that selection of delicacies, the women could not resist further tempting us with their homemade cakes.  But it was the two-layered cake made from finely ground hazel nuts and walnuts that finally did me in!

Afterwards, the men lined up at the end of a long court to compete in a game of bocce ball,

while the women lined up inside the cabin doing what women do....

It was a perfect afternoon in an unsurpassed setting of rugged mountains, a hillside of olive trees,

the islands in the foreground, and the Adriatic sparkling in the afternoon sun.  Every sense was nourished that day.   

~

      The closest town of Makarska is ten kilometers (6.66 miles) in distance by road. I have walked hundreds of miles along this coast during my five-month stay in Baska Voda, and have witnessed more sights than I have time to describe. But of all my walks this one-way to Makarska was by far the most challenging, and one I happily took on.  I set out one morning, my backpack filled with water, food, camera, cell phone, and an extra pair of shoes.

       The two and a half hour walk took me on a path that followed along the coast past sleepy fishing villages, rock-filled coves,

along the edge of a limestone cliff,

through a restful pine forest,

finally bringing me to the wide, semi-circular beach of Makarska. 

I paced myself so as not to overheat in the sun, stopping to drink plenty of water, maintaining my energy with a picnic on a bench near the sea. In spite of the seven mile walk, I still had plenty of energy left to walk around the town twice and make a stop at a grocery store on the opposite end adding even more weight to my backpack, and another two miles to the journey.  From there, I walked back to the town center and treated myself to an early dinner at my favorite mom and pop restaurant that serves fresh seafood with all the trimmings for less than $13.00 a plate. 

       I was the lone customer seated at an outside table next to a rose garden. When the waitress took my order, I also put in an order for a red rose which she delighted in cutting and placing in a pitcher of water on the table. I was content with the quiet of my surroundings, smelling the rose, eating my fresh grilled sea bass, and watching the sky turn pink from another sunset.  After dinner I caught the local bus, sank my weary body into the folds of the seat, and watched the remainder of the sunset while the bus traveled the coast back to Baska Voda.

~

       How fortunate I am to have been able to experience all  I have these past eight months. From beginning to end it has been an incredible journey, much of which I’ve shared with you along the way.  Now that it has reached its end (I depart May thirty-first) I am filled with gratitude.  If I had had an expectation, and I didn’t, it could not have begun to match all that I have seen, smelled, felt, tasted and experienced.  The people, the sights, the gifts… there has been such an abundance of them.  I weep with joy, am thankful beyond words for the good health that has allowed me to walk and discover the hidden secrets of Croatia, Bosnia, Germany and Italy.  I can never thank the people enough—those angels-- that have helped and guided me along the way. To those friends so dear whom I shall miss…thank you for sharing your cultures, your homes, your families, and your hearts.  And most of all, to my husband, John, who understood my need, cheered me on, and never once complained. I LOVE YOU.  

      I WENT WITH THE WIND AT MY HEELS AND ANGELS BY MY SIDE.

       I would also like to thank all of those people, 2,400 of them to date, who have been following my blog.  Frankly, I am amazed by the number.  Since most of you did not leave comments I don't know who you are.  If I succeeded in allowing you a brief moment to step away from your everyday life, and it is my sincerest wish that I did, then I would like to ask you to brighten my life by leaving a comment sharing your thoughts about what you saw and read. For those of you who did leave comments, I can tell you that you were my inspiration to write when I would rather have taken another long walk or sipped on a cappuccino at an outside café.

      I have had many fascinating travel experiences over the years and have kept journals, in particular, one that involved my search in the Marquesas for the story about my cannibal king relative.  I am considering additional writings if I have enough of an audience, so if you are interested in reading more, your input would be the inducement for me to continue and share that travel story. 

      After the Marquesan experience I wrote a novel.  It is the story of a young sailor who became disenchanted with his hard life aboard a whaler in 1848 and jumped ship on a remote cannibal inhabited Marquesan island in the South Pacific.There, he was captured by the French, imprisoned, and later escaped to another island where he fell in love with the daughter of the chief of a cannibal tribe who…  Are you curious?   It is entitled “THE CANNIBAL KING” and is based on a true story.  The young sailor was a distant relative who died on the island of Nuku Hiva in 1902.  If any of you are aware of an agent or publisher in search of a historical, romantic, adventure novel, please pass this information on. Or, if you are interested in reading the novel, you would inspire me to search harder for a publisher by leaving your comments.  A writer friend told me, “Writing your novel will just be the beginning of your literary journey.  Finding a publisher will be the real challenge!”   Was that ever a mouthful! 

      You can leave your comments or suggestions, if you have any, at the end of this, or any of my other blogs by filling in the comment box at the end of the blog.  If you don’t know how to choose a profile when you go to post your comment, choose “anonymous.”  Please be sure to let me know who you are and I will respond.   You can also e-mail me at: casecustom@windstream.net thru the twenty-ninth of May.  After that my e-mail is: casecustom@brmemc.net  I can’t tell you how much hearing from you will mean to me.                          

     

Thanks for joining me on my journey.     

   DOVIDENJA

AUF WIEDERSEHEN

ARRIVEDERCI

MY DUMPSTER ANGEL

       Having a female visitor from home those two weeks in April was a pleasant diversion from my (anything but boring) daily life in Baska Voda. We were friends united from another part of the world, a knock on the wall apart, voices easily heard from balcony to window, two women eager and willing to be on the move.  For that brief moment in time I shared with her the magic of Croatia’s historic old towns; for me it was a page revisited, for her a whole new chapter.  Together we walked the coast, cooked up some “hot damn” tasty meals on our two-burner stoves, and played our share of gin rummy over a glass of red wine and whatever else our limited pantries would yield.  So, when my friend and Croatian travel companion, Deb, asked me if I’d like to join her for a two-day adventure to the medieval town of Dubrovnik, I could not pass up a repeat visit to that beautiful walled city at the southernmost end of Croatia that attracts travelers from all over the world.

~

      I tossed and turned that eve of our departure, wide awake at 5AM, an uneasy feeling dominating my consciousness.  I laid in the darkness for the longest time listening to the rain tapping softly on the roof then washing down the gutters onto the street, wondering if we were in for another day of inclement weather.  

     At 8:30 I heard that familiar knock on the wall.  I went to my balcony and tapped back on Deb’s window.  She said from the other side, “Are you ready?”     The exhaustion from a sleepless night combined with the voice that was telling me, like a disapproving parent, you shouldn’t go, should have been enough for me to tell her that I wasn't ready and the reason why, but I didn’t want to disappoint her or renege on a commitment so I told her I was ready and agreed to meet her downstairs in five minutes.    

      The gray clouds hovered over Mount Biokovo, a gentle but steady rain flowing in a stream down the road soaking, Deb’s, sandaled feet, our small travel umbrellas hardly adequate to keep the backpacks, protruding from our backs like large humps, free from the rain.  We were not getting off to a very pleasant start, and by the time we made the uphill, quarter mile walk to the bus stand, we were wet and cold, I fighting the nagging voice that kept saying, you shouldn’t have done this.  Under the shelter of the bus stand I freed myself of the weight of my backpack, pocketbook and umbrella, setting them down on the concrete bench and keeping a watchful eye on the road for the bus, trying hard to put on a happy face.         

       It was shortly after 9AM  when the bus arrived.  Hurriedly, I grabbed my items from the bench and boarded.  The bus was crowded making it difficult to find a seat.  When we spotted a double vacancy, Deb, slid into the window seat and I followed.  I set my backpack on the floor with my umbrella and reached for the purse that had once rested uncomfortable on my shoulder, shocked at the discovery that it wasn’t there.  My breath caught in my throat as I said to, Deb, in a near shout, “Where’s my purse?”  I checked the aisle, the seats around me and the floor. No purse!  Panic set in. The bus attendant was making his way down the aisle to collect our fare and stopped dead in his tracks at my emotional outburst.  “Stop the bus!  I left my purse at the bus stand!” A woman in the adjacent seat understood and repeated what I had said to the attendant.  Two minutes later the bus pulled off the side of the road and I got off.  The driver closed the doorr behind me leaving Deb looking at me through the window with dismay.  Then the door opened and we were both standing on the side of the road in the rain, me shouting, “Everything is in my purse, my money, source of getting more money, camera, passport, keys, cell phone, credit card…gone!” 

     I started running down the road, my backpack banging on my back, the rain soaking me from head to foot.  “Got to get a ride,” I said, waving frantically at the passing vehicles and shouting, “stop, stop!”  A small pickup truck stopped.  The man struggled to figure out what I was saying, but the urgency in my voice was enough for him to push open the door and let me into the truck which was crowded with tools and had room only for one passenger, leaving Deb standing in the rain alongside the road.  I couldn’t even be sure that the man understood why he was offering his assistance, all I know is that he turned his truck around in the middle of the road and sped away, me shouting at him like a wild parrot, “Bus, bus, pocketbook, pocketbook, Baska Voda, Baska Voda,” and stabbing my index finger toward the empty bus stand that was fast approaching on the opposite side of the road.  He barely had time to apply his brakes before I jumped out of the truck and stood in front of that cold and lonely concrete bench, stunned by the realization that in that brief span of time someone had made off with my purse.  

     What happened thereafter was nothing short of a nightmare, and much of it is a blur.  I do remember walking in a near sprint in the pouring rain back to Baska Voda, and urging, Deb, who could do nothing but spoil her day as a witness to my faux pas, to continue on to Dubrovnik.  I then went to my next door neighbors who alerted the police of the theft and gave me another key so that I could get into my apartment.  I will never forget standing in the middle of the living room, soaking wet, cold, and overcome by that feeling of helplessness, the likes of which I had never experienced in my life and hope I never experience again.  I was totally alone in another part of the world, a woman without an identity, asking myself, what am I going to do?  Furthermore, I was consumed by anger, chastising myself for not listening to the voice, realizing that all that had just happened could have been avoided.

       It took a while, but once I got over the shock, I shifted into gear and set the wheels in motion, realizing that I really wasn’t alone after all. I had my laptop, “Buddy,” and my ability to use the internet and make Skype calls,  John,  my daughter, Lisa, and my friends, Veli and Iva, all of them doing what they could from there end to help.

       That afternoon I stopped to share my story with my friend, Antonia, who was working at the bakery and offered to take me to the police station in Makarska to file a police report: which was just one of many of the hoops I would have to jump through in order to replace my passport.  In Makarska, the police were pleasant, sympathetic, and aware of my plight, advising me to come back the next morning as there was always a possibility that the purse would be turned in…minus the money, camera, passport, and cell phone, of course. 

       On our way back to Baska Voda, Antonia, and I decided to play detective. We stopped at the dumpster directly beside the bus stand and rummaged through the trash to see if the perpetrator had dumped my purse there; when that proved futile, we walked around the area calling my cell phone from hers hoping to hear it ring from the tall grasses along the roadway. “Using your cell phone as a means of locating mine is pretty clever,” I said , praising Antonia's idea. 

      She laughed, “It's not original, I watch America’s CSI.” 

      I decided to take it a step further by having Antonia write a message on my phone so that in the event someone found my purse they might have the presence of mind to check the message center. She did so leaving her name and phone number as a main point of contact. 

     After all attempts with the cell phone failed, Antonia dropped me off in the village. I walked to my apartment, a sense of calm washing over me.  I couldn’t be sure why, but accepted it without question.  I had done all I could, now I had to wait and see what fate had in store and begin looking for the gifts.

      That evening I was curled up on the couch watching a movie when a knock came at my door. Who would be ringing my doorbell at 9:30 at night?  I popped on the porch light and saw the outline of two figures through the frosted glass.  “Who is it?”  

      “It’s, Antonia and Josip, (her husband) the excited voice on the other side replied.

      I unlocked the door and was met by two smiling faces, Antonia, giddy with excitement as she broke the good news.  “The police have your purse!” 

      My mouth flew open, eyes wide with disbelief.  I started babbling on with the what, where, when and how questions.

       “No time.  We have to go. The police are waiting for us in town with your purse.”

       I had to ask, “Do they have my passport?”

       “Don’t know, just have your purse.”

      The little white car with the blue stripe painted across the center was parked beneath the street light next to the harbor, two uniformed policeman seated inside.  The town was quiet, a few stragglers out for a walk, stopping across the street to look on with curiosity at the police car parked in their crime free village. I approached and leaned into the open window grateful at the sight of the black purse resting on the console. “Thank you, thank you,” I said. The polite, young policeman behind the wheel spoke excellent English and asked my name, where I was living, a description of the purse’s contents, and the amount of money I had in my wallet. “Six-hundred to seven-hundred kunas,” (about $140.00) I replied. 

       “Six-hundred-and-ninety kunas to be exact,” he said, handing me the bills and loose coins.

      One by one I described the items in the purse.  One by one they were recorded on a log then returned to their rightful owner. Not a single item was missing, not even my plastic toothpick. Then came my passport and with it the reality that I was once again a woman with an identity.  I would have happily kissed the ground they walked on for giving it back to me.   

      More onlookers had gathered across the street watching the two policemen, Antonia, Josip, and I standing beside the police car, laughing, revisiting the event, listening to the story of my dumpster angel unfold.

And this is how the story went:

        A local businessman had come to dump his trash in the ugly green receptacle next to the bus stand at the exact same time the bus was pulling onto the roadway.  He saw the purse sitting alone on the bench, the local bus moving away, his concern for the residents of his village dictating he rescue it.  Later that evening, he made the twenty-kilometer round trip to Makarska and gave it over to the police. 

     The policeman on duty removed the cell phone and began to search the message center where he saw the numerous calls placed by, Antonia, and her message.  He recognized her last name as the same name belonging to a friend and  fellow officers (Josip was a guard at a bank in Makarska.) and called her cell phone.  Antonia answered her phone and added that when the call came from the policeman, she was standing behind her stove making Croatian pancakes for the family’s dinner.  She was so excited by the news that she told her mother-in-law, “You finish making the pancakes, we have to go to, Nanine, and tell her that her purse has been found.”  

       There was no villain in this story after all, only the kind and decent people who gave it a happy ending.  As my friend, Iva, said when I e-mailed her with the good news, “You had an army of angels at your side that day."  I couldn’t have put it any better myself. 

       I have yet to thank my “dumpster angel” for whenever I go to his place of business and residence, which just happens to be next door to the bakery where, Antonia, works, no one is ever there. Nor has, Antonia, ever been able to make contact. If only he knew how his act of kindness had touched my life, and how desperately I wanted to thank him.

~

       After writing about that event today, I hit the save button, closed the Word document, and head for the bakery, feeling the immediate need to dictate a letter to my dumpster angel to be written in Croatian by Antonia.  

      I walked the short distance to the bakery and was met by my darling friend’s smiling face.  I handed her a blank piece of paper and a pen, dictated the letter, went next door to the man’s restaurant and slipped the envelope into a crack in the door, immediately returning to the bakery.  I was barely inside the door when a look of surprise came over Antonia’s face and she pointed toward the sidewalk at a giant of a man with gray curly hair walking by.  “That’s him,” she said.  I rushed out the door and caught him just as he was entering the gate to his house convincing him to follow me back to the bakery.  Antonia introduced me, imparting my words of gratitude and how his act had spared me so much grief.  His smile was warm, his outstretched hand accompanied by a look of pride. He even found room for empathy with a story about how his wife’s purse had been stolen in Germany, leaving her, like me, without an identity in a strange country, and how he understood my loss.  He repeated the story of finding my purse, but added that he had heard my cell phone ringing but did not feel comfortable answering it. I thanked him again, but it was apparent that he expected nothing for his deed, no thanks, not even praise; in fact, he repeatedly shrugged off any recognition.

       All I can say is that it was my good fortune that this kind man happened to be at the dumpster that day in April. Just as it was my good luck that this humble man happened to walk by the bakery that afternoon.  Did it all happen by chance?

    

 

      

     

    

 

   

      

       

    

    

    

        

SAN GEREMIA E LUCIA

       

       Motivating around Venice involves time as there is something...or someone of

interest around every turn. 

Just the sight of a gondola moving along one of the canals is cause for me to stop and visit my romantic side. 

And how could I possibly resist a dazzling display of hand blown Murano glass,

or the hand painted masks that stare back at me from a shop window,

or the leather-gloved hands that applaud my taste in fine Italian accessories.

The city has character written all over it making it impossible for me not to shoot a picture of a balcony,

a bridge reflected in the water,

or an artist with brush and canvas.  

But time was something we had little of that morning as we left my grandfather’s church, leaving me to rely on past memory for those special scenes. Our only priority was to catch the water taxi to the sestiere of Cannaregio and search for  the church of my great-grandparents, Antonia Favretto and Pierina Monello.

      When I found myself  in the large square with its dominant feature, San Geremia E Lucia, I spotted an old woman perched on one of the stone steps clutching a plastic cup in her hand, eyeing me from a distance. Had I allowed eye contact as I passed her on my way up the church steps, she would have looked back at me with those pleading eyes leaving me to anguish over her impoverished state and reach into my wallet.  But I wouldn’t have had train fare if I had given in to every beggar that worked the streets of Venice that day, so I passed her by. 

      Inside the 8^th Century church I was met by a gentle old man with a warm smile who extended a welcomed greeting and handed me a pamphlet featuring the church’s beautiful works of art. What a stark contrast to the cold atmosphere of the church I’d left behind, I thought. 

My eyes were immediately drawn to the apse with its gold (or brass) appointed alter where the seventeen-hundred-year-old body of the martyr, St. Lucy (Santa Lucia), could be viewed from within her class case. 

A rarity such as this demanded photos, so for a few moments I lost my friend who soon caught up offering a little scolding as she approached, “You need to stay with me! I have found a friendly priest who had an appointment but has stayed to talk with us instead.”  Friendly priest…the words were music to my ears.  I put the camera in my bag and followed my, “Sherlock Holmes,” to another altar where the small-statured, gray-haired priest with the kind face waited. 

      Never was my desire to speak Italian--or the frustration I felt at not understanding what was being spoken--more apparent then at that moment.  The dialogue between the two was open and friendly.  The priest seemed receptive to all of her questions, offering in turn what appeared to be definitive answers, and in a spirit of helpfulness and concern as she articulated my cause.  Then the thought came to me-- if I were to let the priest lay his hands on the old document that bore the signature of one of his predecessors and the church’s faded stamp it might further our cause. 

 I took the folder of documents from my computer bag and fumbled through the contents until I found the yellowed and fragile document and presented it to the priest.  His demeanor changed, his attention drawn to the etched picture--which my friend later said he explained as souls in hell reaching up to the saints for forgiveness-- and to the three lines that described a mass that was said for the soul of my great-grandmother, Pierina Monello, on October 2, 1902.  He now held a tangible and convincing piece of evidence; a confirmation of what my well-meaning interpreter had worked so hard to impart. A look of recognition washed over his face and he abruptly turned on his heels motioning for us to follow. We did so until we reached a darkened hallway where he stopped in front of a massive wooden door and reached into his pocket pulling out an old key. I felt heavy with anticipation, wondering what was behind the door, waiting, the key clanking in the lock.
      The door grated on its hinges as the priest pushed it open and stepped inside.  We followed him into the stillness of a small chapel, rays of light shooting through two windows lighting an altar.  Over the altar hung a painting depicting the souls in hell reaching upward to the angels and saints.  I knew then that I was in the room where a service was held for my great-grandmother one-hundred-and-nine years earlier.  If there had been any question that San Geremia E Lucia was the church where my grandmother, Giovanna, had been baptized,  it was erased in that moment. And what a moment it was… standing in that small chapel, feeling the presence of the woman who’d been my silent companion throughout the past six months.

     

      That wasn’t all my angel priest brought me that day, for he also gave us the unexpected news that all of the church’s old documents were a matter of public record at the Civil Records Office near St. Marks Square. There was only one problem, it closed at one o’ clock and it was fast approaching noon. 

       

      Before he would let us leave our dear priest made one final gesture of kindness with a gift of a postcard featuring the painting that hung over the altar in the chapel.    

~

     We left the church and made our way down a long, shop-lined street maneuvering in and out of the tourists that lingered on the sidewalks and stopped to window shop.

     At the Grand Canal we purchased a ticket for the water taxi and walked to the first taxi stand only to discover that we were not at the right one. We ran to the next stop just as the boat attendant threw the rope onto the dock and the boat rumbled away. I clutched my head in my hands in frustration and mumbled a few expletives.  My watch said 12:10.  The tension was mounting. 

     The next water taxi pulled up at 12:15.  It took the female attendant several minutes to usher the long line of passengers on board the already crowded boat and untie it from its mooring.  My friend moved to the glass enclosed section below out of the wind and engaged a woman in conversation asking her directions to the civil records office. I remained on deck elbowing for space between the passengers with their baby strollers, shopping carts, and suitcases…an endless stream of them entering and exiting at the multitude of stops, eroding what little time I had, and nibbling away at my hope. 

      At 12:45 we exited the water taxi and followed the woman’s directions hurrying to reach the record’s office before it closed.  We dashed up one street and down another, stepping outside the slow-moving pedestrians, looking for a building that everyone we spoke to said was “just a few hundred meters away,” but continued to elude us.

      At 1:10 I stood on a bridge admiring the Bridge of Sighs in the foreground, the now closed Civil Records office just a minute away. 

So close, yet so far.   

        With nothing left to do but enjoy the rest of our day in Venice, we paid a visit to St. Mark’s Square watching the fashion-conscious Italians seated at the restaurants that lined the piazza sipping on an espresso while the resident pigeons entertained photographers and children alike.  

 

      If I was lucky, I might even encounter a tall, dark, and handsome man with a pigeon on his shoulder to pose for the lens!  (So, I cheated and slipped this picture in!)

     

      Weary from our long walk my friend and I plopped on a step beneath the grandeur of St. Marks Cathedral sharing a hot Italian sandwich and reflecting on all that the day had brought.  For me, it had been a day filled to overflowing with emotional rewards.  Granted, I was leaving without the documents for which I had come, but in all truthfulness I found something even greater, for no document could have brought the feeling of closeness I experienced while walking the streets of my ancestors’ neighborhoods, and sitting in the pews of the churches where they once knelt to pray.  Furthermore, the documents would be there for another visit, and that could be sooner than not. 

~ 

       On March twentieth I closed the door to my apartment at Via Denza and that chapter of my journey where I walked with the angels by my side.  The memories are countless, the experiences rich. It is my fondest wish that I will one day return to that city of quiet elegance and those special people who made me a part of their lives. And to my friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, but gave so much to my experience... Grazie mille!

~Ciao bella Trieste~

    

      Pack your bags one last time fellow travelers for we will end our eight month journey making the most of spring in Baska Voda and all that the Dalmatian Coast has to offer. 

AS PROMISED, HERE IS AN ITALIAN RECIPE FROM THE KITCHEN OF MY FRIEND

~ITALIAN LENTIL SOUP~

250 grams of lentils-washed

Chicken bouillon or Vegetta (if you’re able to find in the U.S.)

1 Laurel leaf (not sure if you can get in the U.S. but they are wonderful if you can find them)

2 1/2 liters of Water

1 TAB. flour

Parmesan Cheese (optional)

Italian Bread Dried and Cut into Cubes

Italian sausage 

Boil the lentils and sausage (optional) until cooked. When the soup is dense and the beans are soft, fry a tablespoon of flour in olive oil.  To this mixture you add some of the soup broth blending until smooth.  Add this mixture slowly to the soup (no clumps, please) with a clove of chopped garlic.

Garnish the soup with the dried bread cubes fried in butter or olive oil and some parmesan cheese (optional).   Soup is even better served the next day, or can be frozen.   Serve with a salad of fresh mixed greens dressed with olive oil and wine or balsamic vinegar, topped with shaved fresh parmesan cheese and a crusty loaf of Italian bread, a bottle of white wine, and your favorite Italian music! Oh yes, don’t forget the candles!

Buon Appetito