La Paradise

I found heaven. If I’m ever asked about the happiest moment of my life, I have an answer.

As we approached the Sea Organs of Zadar, I heard faint music coming from up ahead. It got louder as we approached, and once I could hear it clearly, I stopped dead in my tracks. The most beautiful ambient music that ever touched my ears.

“What is that … ?”

“Pipes in the water underneath us,” Matthieu said. “The waves of the sea flow through them and create sound. It was a good idea to use the water to make music. I can tell you it is diatonic …”

I had to sit down. Anyone who knows me knows my love for ambient music, and this … angel songs composed by the Adriatic Sea … it was too much. The sound waves were an ethereal soundtrack to the quiet people walking around in slow motion on white cement, sparkles reflecting off the softly undulating sea like the sun had thrown glitter over the water to make the dance even more enchanting.

I couldn’t understand how everyone around me was acting so normal. I was drifting between worlds. Everything slowed down and was very bright, like when you’re about to faint or when you’re peaking on mushrooms. My mind drowned out every sound that wasn’t the water song. It was almost reminiscent of an orchestra of singing whales. My body felt light.

Maia jumped in the water, and I joined her, once I remembered I was on Earth and wasn’t dead. I could still hear the orchestra in the water as I floated down to the cement steps. They were painted in soft, slippery sea moss. I sat on the bottom step, half my body still immersed in the warm salty sea, feeling like a mermaid on her velvet throne. All of my senses were overwhelmed. My physical heart literally hurt from the beauty. I’ve never felt anything like the Sea Organs of Zadar.

If you ever go to Croatia, be sure to bring sunglasses. Zadar is a bike reflector, and the sun’s high beams are always on. Everything is white – the buildings, arches, columns, cobblestones … If it’s not white, it’s peach, a color that catches the sun as ardently as the fruit. The architectural colors and the sea aren’t the only reason this city sparkles: Zadar is like a millionaire’s mansion where there’s lots of expensive stuff that only gets touched by the maid, who cleans it every other day. If I dropped a piece of pizza in a gutter here, I’d consider picking it up and finishing it anyway. That’s how clean this place is. The stones are slippery, like they’re freshly mopped with lemon pledge. I almost fell like five times just strolling around in my flip flops.

Driving into Zadar reminded me that it’s mid-summer. Queen Anne’s lace and buttercups and wild blackberries splashed fields of dried-up tall grass. Every few meters, a roadside stand offered tomatoes, watermelons, onions, cantaloupes, and rows of garlic hanging in nets.

Zadar is three thousand years old, but what makes it so grand to me is its quaintness. Liz would adore it. One of the first streets I walked down was lined with women crocheting gorgeous cardigans, afghans, shirts, blankets (all white and beige, of course). Every other shop had a spinning display of lavender sachets, (I guess there are fields of lavender nearby, although I haven’t seen any yet), so the streets look and smell like a quaint cottage with a Grecian air. And the owner of this cottage is a cute old lady in a white crocheted shawl serving tea in intricately-painted china. (Many shops also sold adorable tea sets, from doll-size to normal-size.)

Speaking of size, everyone is very tall here, even the women. I had to stand on my toes to read the signs advertising Croatian beer in English: “Karlovacko – Speak the language Croatians understand.” Their advertising didn’t work, though, because I drank mojitos all night.

Maia found a hostel in the middle of the city, but the lady upstairs (who was about my age and had green and blue hair and very good English) said they were full, but her friend’s dad rented a room in his apartment.

A short, skinny old man with a white beard met us downstairs and led us through the crowd. I’m starting to get used to the narrow European streets.

“This an emergency because she have no rooms, so don’t expect much,” he explained as we walked at 90 mph. Maia, Matt and I exchanged smiles – little did this kind soul know we had been sleeping in a van for close to a week. A bed of any caliber would be divine.

“You got place by cheapest ‘caffe bar’ in town,” he said, as we followed him through a dark green door and up four flights of stairs.

In the back of his cramped apartment were two connected rooms – the first with a pull-out couch neatly made into a bed with a red sheet printed with smiling cartoon Dalmatians, and the other with a queen-sized bed.

I sat on the windowsill overlooking orange roofs, and I heard him tell Maia and Matthieu, “There is a Bible in there, but I don’t know if it’s in English.”

“This is o.k.,” I heard Maia respond. “I don’t think we will need it.” I tried not to laugh. The man was shirtless, and his cigarette needed to be ashed five drags ago. He was so eager for us to have a good stay.

“Who will stay on the couch?” he asked.

“Me,” I said.

“Oh, I thought it will be him.” He pointed at Matt. “Well, it’s only 100 kunas because it not so good.” I thanked him. That’s about $20. And I even got a little fan propped up on an ironing board.

The orange sun was setting over the Adriatic as we left, and the moon was whiter than milk up ahead over a majestic Roman-influenced cathedral. The moon was even more beautiful than the fireworks that lit up the sky as we made our way across the bridge from Marasceno, the bar we drank at while sitting in woven nests hanging from the ceiling (white, obviously), with floral cushions. Maia looked like she was perched in an Easter basket. The blue and pink lights shining on our outside dance floor didn’t help. Midget-sized boats floated at bay near us. The three of us locked arms and burst into song while drunkenly strolling under fat palm trees back to our green door.

And yes, my rock-hard couch bed was divine, as anything would be as you fall asleep to the sound of Croatian music from the streets below your window.