Dubrovnik

Another bus; it seems like I’m in them so often. Such a wayward life.

Dubrovnik lies at my back. The two nights I spent there were lovely; it gave me one full day to see the city, which is really all I needed, I think, to see what I wanted to see—in short, Old Town, which lies on an outcropping of the rocky Dalmatian coast. Surrounded by walls, Old Town is like a castle, surrounded by turrets and ramparts.

I like to wonder through places like Old Town; places where the streets wander like casual conversations, slipping in and out of shadows and happening on small, pleasant discoveries. Though clearly a historic site, Dubrvnik (like Splt) is alive with activity: restaurants and little shops, and even people living within the walls in apartments, hanging their laundry out to dry on lines between stonework buildings.

I walked the Old Town walls, which ring the entire city, and as I looked out over the red tile roofs, I imagined what life would have been like here hundreds of years ago, what it would feel like to be in such a place: from food to clothing to shelter, all one’s material needs could likely be met without ever having to leave the protection of town.

But then again, man cannot live on bread alone.

On the east site of the city lies the port, where ships and their crew could find haven and respite. I imagine what it would be like to be a merchant sailor here, how comforting to return home after a long trip abroad—to come back to the safety of these strong, tall walls after so long at sea.

We don’t build walls of brick and stone anymore. But I think the safety we derive from walls, be they physical or emotional, can’t be denied. Like food and water and clothes, safety is one of our most basic needs—the presence of which gives us courage to take risks, meet challenges, and make extraordinary discoveries.

For me, my adventures are possible only because I have the safety of emotional walls, built by the love and support of my family and friends. I can set sail to distant places because I know I have that kind of home to return to.

And in about a month, I will, after 28 months away.

Right now, it’s hard to think so far ahead. Right now, my mind is all filled with Kotor, and what new adventures and discoveries it might bring. 

Hvar

By the time I finally reach my next destination, I will have taken one ferry and at least three buses to get there—about 10 hours from hostel to hostel. Some distances are more difficult to cross than others, regardless of how such distances are quantified, but each is a new adventure.

Hvar is a lovely port town that lies just off the coast of Croatia and has a tendency to attract a lot of young college students. I stayed at a hostel where I was fortunate enough to meet a group of young college girls from Britain. We went out together my last night in Hvar, and I left them at close to 1am when they boarded a boat to continue the drunken festivities while I returned to the hostel to prepare for the next day of traveling. (I am, after all, not as young as I used to be, and have never been overly fond of the Dionysian revelry so common among college-aged youths). But it was nice to go out and see Hvar’s nightlife.

As we walked out to the loud, crowded bars, I talked to one of the girls and conveyed to her the similarity I observed between Hvar and New York City. She seemed surprised at this, but for me, they have a lot in common.

Hvar, like NYC, has a lot of history. In fact, Hvar’s history is far longer than New York’s, but like the bustling city, you wouldn’t think to look at it that it had much history at all. Sure, there are buildings here and there that give an echo of what the city’s been, but for the most part, it denies its history, living in the current moment.

You won’t see much of all Hvar’s been walking through the city, besides maybe a distant fort or old church or piece of stonework. Hvar was colonized by the Greeks in about 384 BC, and since then, it has been under control of Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Neretvans (Slavs), Austrians, French, and English… and has been passed off a countless number of times. Yet, you’ll find little to tie the island to its historic roots; that’s not what the city is, not who the city purports to be. It is a city of the now; a city that doesn’t look back, and therefore, like New York, it makes the perfect destination for youths who also don’t have much of a past, and who are interested in the now.

In Mongolia, there is a saying that to visit a land you should drink the water—kind of like a “when in Rome” sort of saying. It’s one I try to follow, so while in Hvar, I tried to forget my history and live in the now: lounge on the beach, go out at night, lose myself a little. But though all of these things are fun, I realize that this culture isn’t really mine. (Accept maybe the lounging on the beach and swimming in the sea; I think I’ll keep those).

And maybe it’s good to lose yourself a little, to live in the now and not let yourself be restrained by old fears or regrets. Traveling, I think, does that: already Hvar is part of the past, and I live in the now of the lovely Croatian coastline moving past me. Dubrovnik is just ahead.

Split

Thus far, the view of my travel from one city to another has been hills and fields and forests and mountains. This time, I look out the window and see the beautiful blue waters of the Dalmatian Coast, islands sprawled over them, peacefully sleeping in shades of blue-green.

I had expected to only spend a day in Split, but ended up spending two; there is so much to do, so much offered up, in this coastal Croatian city. It has an activity that summer elicits and, though I don’t know what Split is like during other times of year, it seemed like the city was in full bloom: young and old enjoying the warm sunlight on both pebbly and sandy beaches; the herds of yachts and boats in the harbor that form a familiar forest of swaying masts; families traversing the white stone streets where stalls pop up like dandelions, selling everything from indistinctive hats and overpriced souvenirs to some beautifully-crafted jewelry and hand-made woven bags.

Pizza shops and ice cream parlors, wine gardens and beer gardens and expensive restaurants and cheap fast-food stalls….

For me, the most remarkable thing about Split is that you’ll find all of these things within walls that are literally hundreds of years old. The Diocletian Palace was built by the Romans in the early 3rd/late 4th centuries A.D., and while it appears like ruins, there are still parts that are well reserved—and still functioning: people live in some of the palace’s old apartments, there are hotels that operate out of pieces of history.

Some people might stand aghast that such an ancient site isn’t partition and conserved and turned into a giant museum with fees for entrance and an exorbitant souvenir shop and café installed. But I love it, just the way it is: it’s a living monument. Churches and mosques were meant for worship, ships were meant for sailing, and palaces were meant for living and working and life: the palace is a statement that beauty shouldn’t be the abandonment of function, but the elegant coexistence with it.

I think there’s something universal about that message. Appearance is just how something looks: appearance is fickle and changes; it doesn’t build anything; it doesn’t create. That comes from the inside, from the drive and motivation of a person, from the way one functions and moves through the world. For me, the world is teaching me how to move through it, with every city I visit, with every site I see, with every person I meet.

Split shows how me how I can transform and re-appropriate the past to enliven the present. California, North Carolina, Tokyo, Pennsylvania, New York, Mongolia--places and people I've loved… somehow the relics of my past form the structures I see and live through, not the walls that confine me, and not the monuments I lock away.

The ferry shuttles me on to Hvar; I look forward to relaxing on the lovely Croatian Island.

Zagreb

Croatia passes by the window in green fields and forests. It was raining when I left Zagreb.

I got lucky in Zagreb, where the weather held out for the day I there. I arrived in the evening and ended up staying out late with a group of other travelers from the hostels, including two girls from Poland, one boy from Germany, and one boy from Australia. It was fun to go out; I really haven’t since I’ve been to Europe. I slept in until 9 or so the next day; by then, the weather was a little cloudy, but not rainy.

Maybe because of its size (which feels small compared to many capital cities I’ve been to) or its traditional culture (which, it would seem, involved knitting, crocheting, and sewing), Zagreb seems like the city that “quaint” was coined to describe: it’s cobblestone streets run through down meanderingly, and here and there you’ll find a farmer’s market or hobby-craftsman selling jewelry or knitted tablecloths. The motif of a red heart (sometimes paired with a boy and girl) is everywhere: the reason, it would seem, is this:

There once was a boy who loved a girl very much. As a gift, he gave her a red heart with a mirror on it, so that every day she could look in the mirror and know that she was the only one the boy loved. Now the heart, sometimes with the mirror, is everywhere: on knitted clothes and painted saucers, jewelry boxes and keychain charms. It’s lovely, cute… quaint.

The cobblestone streets lead to old buildings and churches, too—I think Zagreb Cathedral may be one of the most intricately-decorated churches I’ve ever seen, small but impressive. St. Mark’s is also lovely and very distinctive with its tiled roof.  As afternoon began to wear me out, the streets led me to the botanical garden, lush with flowers and ferns and trees.

Now I head toward the city of Split, enjoying the mountainous, arboreal, quaint beauty of the Croatian countryside through the window of a slow-moving train.