We parked at Kamp Matija for two nights; from where we
parked Patrick (the van), we could walk to the sea in two minutes.
We went to Krka National Park the first day. Walking through
this park is like visiting a fairy tale. A narrow path leads through trees with
roots that spiral upward from pools and streams and waterfalls. Hundreds of
waterfalls. Soft streams just big enough to dip your toes in and cascades so
tall you can’t see the top from below. The fish look like they’re levitating in
air because the water is glass. Neon blue and green dragonflies buzzed around
us, and butterflies kissed wild lavender and sage.
Maia and I swam as close to the largest falls as we could;
the current was strong. After, we passed an old woman with three teeth sitting
in front of a table in the middle of the woods. She was selling candied nuts,
figs, and different kinds of wine. She let me taste the fruity wine, and then I
bought a box of seven figs for twenty kunas.
Back at the campsite, the three of us sat up talking under
the moon, reciting poetry to each other, and Maia and Matthieu sang a beautiful
French song about World War I; this lead to Matthieu saying, “No more war. I
don’t want to hear about that. Just sleep together and shut the fuck up.” I’d
say that’s the best philosophy I’ve ever heard.
In the morning, an old woman approached us wheeling a wooden
cart filled with jam in glass jars. She wore a pink nightgown-looking dress and
a matching hat. Maia and Matthieu bought a jar of prune jam, and we ate it for
dinner with our loaf of bread.
The past four days or so, Matthieu has been just dying to go
snorkeling. While we were eating dinner, Maia surprised Matt by pulling out a
grocery bag with a pair of plastic goggles and a snorkeler she had bought at a
small shop in town. Matt’s face lit up. “I’m going to see so many feesh
tomorrow!”
We woke up at 8 a.m. the next morning to catch our boat
tour. We didn’t have time to get coffee first, and I was dead. I realized I
have become addicted to the coffee here. We have a cup at a café about every
three hours, so it’s no wonder. It is, however, a wonder that I’ve been
sleeping so well with all that caffeine pumping through my blood.
We sat on the top of the boat. A family with seven kids was
speaking in French by us. Dolphins danced for us in the distance. After two
hours of sailing, the boat stopped at a big island for an hour so we could
swim. Sea urchins stuck to the rocks below where M&M swam. I lay on my
skirt and passed out, exhausted, for the full hour.
Our next stop was another island for food. We made our way
through the streets, surrounded by rolling hills etched with thin, man-made
rock walls. A white canopy was stretched over wooden tables, all set for our
group. Each table displayed a pitcher of yellow juice, a pitcher of water, a
bottle of wine, and a basket of bread. The four parents of the French family
sat down next to M&M and me and started talking in French. When the father
found out that I am moving to Paris to be an au pair, he joked that I could
feel free to take on his children as practice.
Servers brought us plates of freshly-caught fish, chicken,
rice, and vegetables. Our table polished
off two bottles of wine before Maia had finished her second cigarette. After the
meal, the parents disappeared somewhere, and all seven kids migrated to our
table and began talking with us in French and English. They were all out-going
and adorable. As it turned out, they were from Lille in France, which is where
Maia is moving soon to finish school.
“I have a friend who just come back from Florida,” said the
15-year-old girl. She dreamed of going to the U.S., she said. When I asked
where, she didn’t know. I told her there are way cooler places than Florida.
When they pulled out a deck of cards, Maia jumped. She’s
been as anxious to play cards as Matt has to see fish with his little goggles.
She joined the kids in a game, and Matt and I went to go swimming. The adorable
little blonde boy from the group followed us, matching Matthieu with his
goggles in hand; however, before we found the perfect swimming spot, Matt and I
stumbled upon another restaurant with that lovely word “kava” on their
chalkboard. Kava is the Croatian word for coffee. We had to sit down and have
some. It was after 2 p.m. and neither of us had had coffee yet. We had hardly
had a sip before the captain rushed by us. “Come on! We are leaving!” he
smiled. We thought he was joking because we were under the impression we had
another hour, so we laughed. “No, I’m serious!” he said, still smiling, but not
joking because I saw our people making the exodus back through the streets. We
chugged our tiny coffees and Matthieu ran back to the other restaurant to grab
his wallet, and I was left sitting there alone. I looked over at the little boy
who stood there patiently waiting for me, his goggles now on his face.
“You think we can jump in lightning fast before the boat
leaves?” I challenged. He nodded, and we ran down the dock and dove in at the
same time. We climbed out of the water back onto the dock and ran through the
streets – we were the third to last to board the boat.
We made our way to the top again; this time, the French kids
crowded around Maia and I in a circle. For a while they played cards, and
little man (Gabriel) didn’t leave my side. Then they all started asking me
questions in English. “Is this your first time in Europe?” “What are the
differences between here and the U.S.?” Etc., etc.
Their father brought over a bag of popcorn and some waters,
and we all shared it. Even though Gabriel was so tiny and young, his English
was pretty good, and he kept trying to talk to me in English. His 13-year-old
cousin stood by to interpret words for him and to remind him to use “I” instead
of “me” and to use verbs. Without my asking, Gabriel began giving me French
vocabulary lessons, pointing at things and saying the name in French. At one
point we went through the body together, naming each part. He would point at
his head, and I would say, “Le tet,” then he would say, “Head,” and we would
take turns practicing each other’s language. He told me the French word for
dolphin, pinky finger, fishing net, waves, sky and more. His family kept making
fun of him saying he was in love with me, but still, he didn’t leave my side. He
was too cute.
After two hours sailing back, everyone on the boat was
baking in the sun. The merciful captain stopped the boat in the middle of the
sea and people began jumping into the water to cool off. At first, I watched
from above as people jumped in by twos. With each splash, water sprayed the air
and little rainbows formed until gravity pulled the droplets back down. I
canon-balled and swam to Maia. We both swam under and opened our eyes to see
the angel rays shining up from below. The boat speakers played Croatian music
just loud enough to hear over the splashing and laughing.
Twenty minutes later, the captain honked the horn and
everyone swam to the ladder. My French lessons commenced for the next hour or
so until we landed again at 6 p.m. I hugged the little man goodbye, and the
teenagers gave us their names so we could find them on Facebook.
We were back on the road by 7 p.m. and had arrived at
Sibenik by 9. The sun hadn’t set yet, which made it easier to find a place to
stay the night. A woman at the desk of the hostel brought us just a few meters
away to our apartment. So many green doors…
Through this green door were five flights of stairs, leading
to a huge apartment with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a balcony. I ate the
best meal of my entire life at a fancy restaurant where they tell you what they’ve
served you as they set it in front of you. My spaghetti looked like a castle
with a bay leaf flag. I’d never before said, “Oh my god…wow,” when taking a
bite of spaghetti. The wine was the only thing lacking, though, apparently,
because Matthieu laughed about how they had refrigerated an unopened bottle of
red wine, which I guess kills the tannins. I’m learning more about wine every
day.
Back at our apartment, I fell asleep to the sound of
never-ending church bells at midnight through the open balcony doors,
announcing Maia’s 23rd birthday.
When I got out of the shower, Matthieu had already run
through the scorching morning streets to buy breakfast supplies. “Flea! Your
coffee will be cold!” he called to me. When I entered the kitchen, I found them
sitting at the table, a place set for me with orange juice with ice cubes, a
coffee, and a slice of bread lathered in nutella. Maia sat by the balcony
window, sleep still in her eyes, her lips puffy, smoking a cigarette. “It’s perfect, mon amour,” she
smiled at him. Church bells went off again. They go off for five minutes
straight every hour, which is why M&M woke at 7 a.m.
It’s mid-afternoon, and we’re escaping the summer heat in
another apartment now. M&M are taking a siesta in the other room. A few
moments ago, the apartment owner knocked on the door and handed us a hot pot of
home-made spaghetti, a loaf of bread, two ripe tomatoes and a cucumber. So far
today we’ve visited Saint-Jacques Cathedral right by the water and drinking
coffee at a café by a garden of lavender, Echinacea, yarrow and a fountain. The
real celebrating in honor of the lovely Maia will begin tonight.
(I always think about how weird it must be for the locals to have tourists taking pictures of their underwear all day)
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