Too much vacation to use or lose, too little time. Not a complaint, just a justification for taking another trip so close to the last big one. Sadly, Sai opted for a break from me instead of another break with me, so I journeyed without her. For the record, I believe that she really didn’t want to abuse her new company’s vacation policy, and that my last trip reporting on her craziness was not a factor.
Instead, my old friend (yes, we’re getting old) Aran invited me to Split town. What an offer! Did you know that Split is the second largest city in Croatia? Did you know that Split is a beautiful Mediterranean town dating back to before Roman times, on the Adriatic coast? Did you know that Croatians call Croatia Hvartska? (The souvenir stand salesman thought I was from another planet, not just another country when I asked him what the moniker on the knickknack meant. No worries, feeling stupid comes naturally to me). If you knew the answers to any of these questions, then bully for you, you knew more than me until recently, and you should probably read no further, since I won’t be telling you anything new. Besides, Aran captained this trip, and I was his trusting passenger along for the ride, so my usual information overload and booked to capacity planning was not in the cards this time around. I didn’t even buy a Fodor’s guide, so I was practically flying blind, and without my usual copilot to fight with to boot.
I flew out of Dulles late on Saturday night, arriving in Munich Sunday afternoon, where I spent four hours kicking myself for lacking the energy to ingest my favorite German braus while waiting for the short jumper flight to Split. As my last three trips to Munich got progressively uglier courtesy of the same pastime, it was probably for the best that jetlag kept me sober until my final destination.
I arrived in Split at 6 p.m. on Sunday, July 31st, and was met at the airport by Captain Aran and his co-pilot Brendan. I went from being the alpha planner (aka Sai’s bitch) to third wheel in under two months! Split’s airport is surrounded by lush green hillsides with looming mountains beyond. This beautiful setting was a promising intro. A half hour drive into town, and the pilots delivered me to the fancy hotel on the edge of the historic city center. Inside the center, motorized vehicles (except for electric donkeys – more on those later) are prohibited, which is smart because the narrow streets and alleys are packed with people, at least in prime summertime tourist season. And even the tiniest dumb Euro smart car wouldn’t fit through many of the passages.
After an unremarkable dinner, we walked the main drags a few times (a north – south main artery full of restaurants, cafes, shops, hotels, etc., with our hotel on the north side, running down to the waterfront, where an east – west carless street features more of the same, with tons of outdoor seating, benches, performance artists, and boat excursion stands before the blue waters of the Adriatic Sea). We also wandered the offshoots from these two baselines, into the crazy corridors and alleys of the old Diocletian Palace (don’t worry, I’ll tell you more about him later too). It was impossible to get lost, even without a map, because you’d always eventually pop out onto one or the other main avenues. Either that, or Aran and Brendan are better directionally than I; it is possible that I might have managed to get lost, and consequently gotten into an early fight if traveling the same area with my favorite wife. Sorry to disappoint, no such drama this time around. The Sunday night crowds seemed pretty tame, and I’m pretty lame, so we ended up at Pub Jazzbina, a low-key subterranean watering hole right across the street from our hotel. This local stop lacked the tourist crowd of the main street establishments except for two Americans and one Israeli-American, (but we’ll just call him American too going forward). Fortunately, they did not hold this against us and it served my purpose in serving me beer to make up for my disappointing showing in Munich hours earlier. The Germans still rule the world in the beer-making department IMHO, though the Croatian stuff (Karlovacko) was potable enough (better than Bud, but what isn’t? Not as good as Yuengling. Easy on the palate for a long night of drinking, if you’re into that sort of thing). I drank more than my fair share, since my pilot companions proved not to be drunks like me. This is good, since guys who fly planes for a living are best sober, but bad for someone looking for drinking buddies. Oh well, more for me! Aran and Brendan gamely went along and hung out, drinking dangerous volumes of overpriced, caffeinated beverages while I imbibed cheap beer.
Side Note #1 – By the way, tagging along with a couple of pilots is a great way to learn (and subsequently forget) more about planes than you’d ever want to. These guys live and breathe their (air) craft. Whenever there was a conversational lull, or if I needed to extend my drinking time at the pub, I’d toss out a random question about flying, and the two of them would be off to the races explaining it. It’s too bad my job is not as interesting. Conversely, whenever we’d be sitting in a bar or restaurant and they felt guilty for talking shop too much, I’d point to my beer and regress back to my blissful ignorance. After a week of this, I may not be able to identify a plane by model on sight like they can, but I think I’m now pretty good at calling it out as a plane (except for when those confusing birds or Superman enter the picture).
Carlana
It was in this vein that we came to meet Carlana at Jazzbina on my first night in town (A & B had landed days earlier with their human cargo, whom they’d be shuttling to onto their next destination next Saturday, when I’d be heading home to my ever-understanding wife). What’s a Carlana? It’s Carla and her cousin Lana, two Croats kind enough to humor some out of towners with smoky conversation. Early observation – Croatians smoke a lot. What’s a Jazzbina? Good question, but I never thought to ask it at the subterranean watering hole right across the street from our hotel, so that definition will have to do.
Side Note # 2 – Are Europeans fitter (i.e. thinner) than Americans because they smoke more and eat less? Or because they walk more and drive less? Or because they drink sodas in smaller containers (typically a quarter liter, just over half a can, versus our liters of free refills)? Or some combination thereof? Regardless, it seems to work for them, aesthetically speaking.
It didn’t work out as well for Brendan, who found the smoke irritating and left, leaving Aran and I to entertain our two new local friends. The married men, a decade and a half older, fatter[1] and uglier had no business bothering the young, pretty ladies, but they bought us a round, and we returned the favor, round and round, until the lights came on hours later, at which time the girls saw us for the trolls we are, and they scampered away like cockroaches before we could stomp them. Why Aran wanted to stomp them is beyond me; he’s a weird guy (prerequisite for most of my friends). Nothing untoward occurred, but I found the evening thoroughly depressing, which is why I am telling the tale. It’s also because not much else happened on this first night. Why would sitting and drinking with two pretty girls be depressing? Glad you asked.
Carla is a tough as nails Navy girl who told us how she was prepared to kill her abusive ex-boyfriend if he came near her again. She was also angry that an older relative died on his own before she could kill him after she learned that he had abused her more timid cousin from the age of six. Lana kept this dark secret until years later, after the old man had died of causes not named Carla. We had no reason not to believe the angry, tattooed, dirty blonde, though I found her frightfully charming. It took Carla some coaxing to admit her military position, after we questioned what exactly she did “working on a boat.” I had her figured for a pirate.
Lana was much more introspective and reserved in mannerisms, if not in outfit. Brendan thought she came across as standoffish, but I think he prematurely judged because his early fire escape had him miss Lana lighting up on topics of common interest, such and Game of Thrones and Stranger Things. Her favorite GOT character? Of course, Jon Snow. Fucking Kit Harrington. Lana’s a beautiful brunette, gorgeous smile, long legs, and a model’s midriff. Everything else was nice as well, but those abs were insane! Her short red crop top showcased this and other features that led me to possibly endorse the merits of smoking. She was smoking hot, not that Aran or I would recognize this, other than for the sake of Split research. She is a schoolteacher for some kindergartners primed for early puberty.
Our in with the women was Aran’s request for help with their difficult language (the Captain is smooth). The teacher took on us students, and taught us such important phrases as good day (dobar dan), thank you (hvala), beer (pivo), sorry (oprosti), you are pretty (lipa si – how did that one end up in there?), and mother fucker (jeben ti mater). Lipa si we of course wanted to know so we could use it on our wives. Jeben ti mater may be their response to us hanging out with other women in a foreign country without them. Again, this was for research! I learned more than how to say “fuck your mother” as Lana would so adorably repeat it (she could say much worse to me and I’d still enjoy the company, in the interests of studying foreign cultures, of course); I learned about how tough the Croatian people are, in their turbulent battles against their neighbors as well as in their own daily lives. Croatians fight off the competing cultures of Italians, Serbians, Bosnians, Russians, Muslims, differing Christian denominations, and almost as many enemies as Donald Trump, though the girls did not speak ill of Mexicans. At home, Croat women stand up for themselves against brutal, chauvinistic men (such as Carla’s ex), and their families will fight to the death for matters of honor. And here I was just looking to learn how to order beer properly and to talk about Game of Thrones (parts of it are filmed in Croatia, including in Split, for those who didn’t know).
The more beer we consumed, the more consumed with guilt Carla seemed, to the point where I had to break out my best Good Will Hunting psychologizing, “It’s not your fault.” Rinse, repeat. To no avail[2]. It was around this time that the brutal honesty brought about Carla’s self-blame for her late sister’s terminal cancer. Croats may be skinny, but these girls were freaking heavy. I’m glad we weren’t picking them up.
Aran and I returned to the hotel to cry ourselves to sleep. If, by some crazy chance you are a Croatian with an ex named Carla and you happen to be reading this right now, even if it’s not the same Carla, please, leave the girl alone (for both your sakes). And if neither of those criteria apply (not Croatian, no Carla ex), but you’re also reading this, don’t abuse your girlfriend either. Most importantly, if you’re reading this and your name is Sai, please, PLEASE do not beat your sweet husband. That’s it for my public service announcement. But one more thing. If you are that Carla’s ex, Jeben Ti Mater.
Ghost Frogs
We started Monday with something much more uplifting than the history of Croatia and Carlana, in the morbid display of 507 dead frogs. No, not the French, we’re talking true amphibians, harvested, stuffed, positioned and preserved in hilarious poses by a crazy Yugoslavian a hundred years ago. Froggyland is the world’s only museum of its kind (according to the sign), which is fortunate for frogs everywhere. The “taxiderm-artist” created scenes of frogs playing poker, shooting pool, and getting a barber shop shave; competing in track and field events, wrestling, and tennis; frog circus acts, froggies in school, froggies at the pool (complete with high dive and water slide), and froggies with tools. It was a very interesting way to spend fifteen minutes and five bucks. But PETA people, do not misunderstand me. I do not condone the killing of our furless friends, and hope that no copyfrog taxidermists take the mantle from the long dead Yugoslavian. Brendan refused to even honor the establishment with his presence. He must really love his living, leaping brethren. Or maybe he suffers from ranidaphobia (I looked it up); poor Brendan, such a tadpole.
Afterwards, Aran and I climbed the narrow stairs to the top of the Saint Domnius bell tower for old city views from above, before heading up Marjan Hill for more panoramic pictures of Split. During this second climb, a storm moved in, and the ever-weather-following flyboy assured me that the best course of action in a thunderstorm was to head to the highest ground. I think it works better with aircraft that can clear the clouds. Like most people, Aran is taller than me, so I trusted him to act as the first lightning rod if it came to that. The old Jewish Cemetery is also on the Marjan Hill, but the bolts missed us, so there was no need to add to it today. There is a real, modern, downtown city with tall, glass buildings and urban scenery such as cars and people in suits, but the Diocletian historic section and its surrounding old Europe stone and terra cotta tile roofed structures are much more fun. We plotted to get away the next day.
Adrianna sold us our tickets for our next morning’s excursion, an all-day boat trip promoted to be the best day of our “vacation” (true vacation for me, downtime between flights for the cohorts). It’s an interesting competition for your money. Ten different stands (plus or minus) all selling basically the same service, with fixed pricing (we let our Jew try to negotiate, no luck). Everything went smoothly, except for Adrianna’s final instructions telling us not to drink that night, or we might regret it on rough waters. Shut up, Adrianna! Killjoy! Chumming with your chums is nothing to be ashamed of.
After another average meal[3], the guys humored me with a stop at To Je To (pronounced Toe Yet Oh, or something), a small bar boasting the area’s best selection of microbrews (I’d also read positive reviews in my limited research). After seeing the place, I thought “That’s It?” Not because I was disappointed, but because that’s the translation of the name. The craft beer Barba boasted a pale ale label and hopped the taste buds much better than the boring Karlovackos and other mass produced offerings had elsewhere. To Je To is a cool place with a hippie vibe (except for us), playing classic American and alternative rock early, supplanted with local artists taking the “stage” (end of the bar) later.
We retired relatively early after a quick visit to our new favorite pub Jazzbina, where I continued my blatant disregard for Adrianna’s warnings and found no new local girls in need of hackneyed movie counseling.
The Sneeze
Tuesday, we woke early to meet our 8:30 boat trip to the nearby islands. First, we broke fast at the hotel buffet, which ordinarily is a detail I’d skip, except when Brandon (the pilot formerly known as Brendan, through my misunderstanding Aran (easy enough to do) and froggy-fearer’s failure to correct my mispronunciation heretofore in the trip, until I saw his name in print and made the correction myself, but by this time I wanted to report him as I called him, thus the duality you’re now reading), gave me early morning comedic relief, which causes me to chuckle still, days later as I recount the event. Visualization is required, so close your eyes as you read this (hopefully you printed it in Braille). You know how people look when they feel the onset of a sneeze? Add in slow motion, as that is how it seemed to unfold, and wonder about the glass of apple juice in said person’s right hand, hovering over a full plate of food, as you hold your breath and instinctively slide back in your chair to avoid the inevitable mess. Brandon did well at first, directing his foresensed sneeze into his right sleeve, but the aftershock brought his right arm spastically up, splashing juice in his face and all over his (did I mention that it was full?) plate of food. Like a champ, he laughed along with me, adding that it was his intention all along to top his crepes and eggs with apple juice. It was an early warning sign sneeze that B was in for a turbulent day ahead.
The Buoys on the Boat
The sea was angry this day my friends, like an old Seinfeld reference. Our little boat was bounced around from crest to trough, wave to wave, tossed like the contents of Brandon’s juice glass, spraying salty seawater in our faces as we struggled to hold onto something to hold ourselves down, so that we wouldn’t be as violently lifted and slammed back down with the next big hit. Our coccyxes, kidneys, and elbows seemed to take the worst of it. By the first stop, we were battered like Croatian women. (Sorry, ignore that, too mean, too soon). The boat was supposed to carry 10 passengers plus 2 crew. We were comprised of two French couples, two Italian couples, two gay pilots[4], two Croatian sadists “steering” the boat, and one American third wheel, to put us one over the capped limit. Adrianna, who booked our excursion, was not very good at math. Now before you jump to any conclusions about the Croatian school system, keep in mind that she is a girl.
So, back to the boat, please forgive my insensitivities to women, Croatians, gay pilots, and people of decent taste. Wait, I don’t think I’m done offending just yet, so those listed above (and particularly my lovely, understanding wife) should skip the rest of this day and come back tomorrow for some cleaner fun (less misogynistic, objectifying, horrifying reporting). Still here? Shit. Because Aran and Brandon, who are not gay by the way, will back me up on this (assuming their own lovely, understanding wives are not around), as would half of the French party, at least half of the Italian brigade, and both the sadistic Croat shipmen, when I explain that one of the Italians, a blonde named Isabella (we’ll shorten to Bella, please don’t call her Izzy[5]), had the most amazing breasts. They were mesmerizing. It is possible that her heavy top and off-center of gravity affected the tides and/or simply excited sea god Neptune, causing our rough ride on the water. It’s also a strong suspicion of mine that our captain was intentionally targeting waves to cause the ripple effect from the ocean of commotion on her chest, and not just because he was a sadist. He wanted to see if they’d pop the rest of the way out of her skimpy white bikini top (they were already projecting out the top and bottom of the straining white fabric). To complete the picture, her gray thong bottom left little to the imagination (in Brandon’s words; I imagined plenty about the trouble I’d get in with Sai if she saw me staring. It wasn’t my fault; they had a gravitational pull that stirred the sea). I probably should have buried this whole experience like the Vegas slogan, but those bouncing boobs waves will haunt my dreams.
By the way, Bella #2 was not unattractive either, and though not nearly as top-heavy, she sported a similarly skimpy outfit, in her case with a black thong. That’s the highlight. For the non-gay guys and gay girls still with me at this point, it’s your turn to look away, because it was downhill from there, and I’m about to spoil what at first appeared to be two of Rome’s finest offerings since… ever. What has Rome ever produced better than double d’s? Start fresh with the next paragraph. First chink in the armor, Ted, was that neither Bella appeared to shave above the knees, which was odd considering their swimwear (where?). Bella #2’s razor may have lost traction before finishing her pits as well. The entire Italian team (girls and guys) chain-smoked the full ride outbound and every other chance they could (thankfully Captain Spine Crusher finally told them to back off on the tobacco train so that those of us in the back of the boat only had to worry about coughing up seawater, instead of seawater with blackened lungs). Since I’ve previously endorsed the smoking diet, it’s a bit hypocritical to complain about it now, but I’m a hypocrite, so that’s what I do. But the ultimate deal-breaker for me (and backed up by some others I know but won’t name) was Bella #2’s breaking of proper thong etiquette. I don’t write the rules, and I haven’t fully researched them yet, but I’m pretty sure there are two standards: 1. Don’t wear a thong if you don’t look good wearing a thong. 2. Don’t wear a thong if you’re trying to hide something under said thong, such as a maxi-pad. Bella #2 met criteria #1 ordinarily, but failed miserably on the second one. As much as the Italian kids (in the words of Blink-182, no one likes you when you’re 23) were climbing all over each other, it was almost a relief to know that Bella #2 would not be conceiving a child in front of us, but still, TMI. That part could have been better left to the imagination.
Sorry for the lengthy lady-part tangents. I will now resume regular programming. After approximately 90 minutes of turbulence, during which I did not vomit even once (in your face, Adrianna!), we reached the thankfully calm interior of the Green Cave. The dual high portals in the rock allowed boats to enter through the first, cruise around and back out the outdoor. In between, people were leaving their boats to swim in the green tinted, clear pool of water. But not us. Our cruel captain decided that we weren’t ready to have any fun yet[6], so he instead moved on another 20 minutes to the Blue Cave.
Unlike the Green Cave, the Blue Cave is not an open door for any boat to just pull through without stopping, to the stunned confusion of its 11 passengers. This more popular attraction is part of a park system, where you need to disembark, procure a separate ticket (like at a deli counter), and wait your number to board a special skiff designed for the special cave. Holding a similar number of people, the shallower boat with its passengers crouched down can allow entry to the cave without beheadings or creating new convertible boats. The professional park boat captains (unlike the crazy cowboy Croat captain counterparts some may have experienced) knew the nuances of navigating through the delicate cave interior (no motors allowed beyond a certain point – the captain used a long wooden pole to push our dinghy around inside). And the captains policed their boats to make sure everyone stayed in it, as there is no swimming allowed in the glowing bright blue waters. I suspect this is because years ago, the Green Cave looked similar, but thanks to too many tourists swimming in it, the color turned. My theory may further bear out if in the future, it is renamed again the Yellow Cave, though the urge to swim in its waters may wane by then. The actual Blue Cave visit lasts less than fifteen minutes, though with the line of boats trying to unload or pickup, plus the prime season queue for the second boat, the total time stretches to closer to two hours. In other words, it’s a neat experience, but I don’t know that it justifies the long commute and longer lines by itself. For us, it was just a second stop.
After Blue, we went to a crowded, “private” beach, where we docked offshore for a fifteen to twenty minute swim. As the eleventh wheel, I passed on this opportunity, recognizing that my sorry swimming skills might not mesh well with the many passing boats. I feared that if I drowned, Sai would kill me. In his defense, since I’ve been libeling him so far with cruel labels, let me point out that Captain Evil did at this time offer me a life jacket if I wanted it, but I still declined. We stopped again at another beach island (it doesn’t matter which beach, they all looked similar, nice, and beachy), and this time I swam a bit with snorkel gear, but didn’t see anything exotic. It was nice to cool off. And I didn’t drown!
Then, guess again, another island beach, where we had a middling meal, most notable for how the French contingent hoarded all of the Italian bread at our table. Instead of starting an international incident, the three hungry Americans feasted upon the sight of topless sunbathers on the other side of the small island. It’s amazing how pacifying breasts can be. No wonder nipples are used for pacifiers.
Our final stop was the party island of Hvar, which during daylight hours did not present the crazy, hedonistic scene of depravity from the brochures, but a more crowded, commercially developed mixture of old world buildings (forts, churches, etc.) with souvenir shops, cafes, ice cream stands, and other modern crap. From our short foray, I can say that Hvar might be worth a daytrip, but we didn’t see enough to name it Croatia’s Ibiza or anything. But then again, I’ve never been to Ibiza either, so maybe Hvar is exactly like it.
Our return sojourn was delayed a half hour because Captain Death decided the waves weren’t ripe enough yet, but when we finally left, the old man was still dissatisfied with his soup (angry sea, non-Seinfeld people). We were again tossed about like jailhouse salads until we eventually staggered off the boat battered and bruised, but otherwise thankful to be alive. Apparently French, Italian, American and Israeli-American are also on the list of Croat enemies, as the crew clearly wanted us dead, or at least seasick.
Roger, Trogir
On Wednesday, Aran and I headed a half hour away to Trogir, a neighboring medieval town of more narrow alleys and shops. We climbed the crumbling Kamerlengo Fortress remnants at the one corner (erected circa 1420) and enjoyed the defensive vantage over the city with the blue waters of the Adriatic wrapping around. There was the requisite large cathedral, but since churches are against my (non) religion and Aran had already attended a stiflingly hot wedding at this same venue on Friday night, we did not partake. (Hypocrite that I am, I make exceptions for exceptional churches, such as the Vatican, or Sagrada Familia, or if there is nothing else to do, but this one was nothing special and we had something better to do). Instead, we found a nice pizza shop (my pie with prosciutto) and a .5 liter beer, chased down with some gelato. Imagine, cheap beer, ice cream, pizza (not in that order), in a charming setting, and tell me what more you could want? At the same local market where I embarrassingly learned the Croatian word for Croatia, Aran again learned that Hvartskans do not negotiate like marketeers everywhere else. Either that, or they are just really stubborn.
Back to Split, we repeated our routine of dinner, dive bar (TJT), and pub (Jazzby), with me still drinking for three. At To Je To, the bartender had a noticeable lack of accent, and told me she was Honduran (go figure). She also mocked the local beer appreciation when I asked for a comparison of the “swill” the girl next to me at the bar was drinking, versus the Barba beer I had found to be my favorite. While the packed scene overflows the small seating section, there is room next door at another gelato shop, where Brandon matched me cone for beer. Aran and I encouraged him to go for a record, but the proprietor told us the record was 27 cones.
Laura welcomed us back to Jazzbina (pronounced Lao (like the Asian country) rda (my best phonetics for a rolled r)), as did ever-present bartender extraordinaire Ivanna (pronounced e vonna). We’ve come to the place enough times now that they know our drinks and greet us like Cheers. Apparently to Croatians, all Americans are named Norm.
Krkattle Call
Thursday, as Brandon was too hungover from pistachio gelato overdose, he opted out of the long car ride up to Plitvice Lakes, the scenic national park on the docket for the day. An hour into the three hour trip, Aran and I also bagged the plan, but not because of too much brain freeze. We jumped at an earlier exit to Krka National Park, shaving hours of drive time down to see an alternate popular attraction. And Krka is definitely popular, with its wooden plank pathways jam-packed with people, and the pool below the main set waterfalls also filled with people, only here in less clothes. The falls are nice and the park is beautiful, but it’s short of spectacular. The clear green waters abound with small fish swimming against its currents. The flowing Krka River reminded me a little of Great Falls, only if the Potomac was not so brown and disgusting looking. It’s nothing like Niagara or Iguazu, but a nice half day excursion nonetheless.
Back in town, I relearned an old lesson about fish and chips and gastrointestinal discomfort, drank more Barba, told a Trump supporter to go fuck himself, and went for a walk. Sorry, the political discourse was not very high-brow, but Brandon’s argument that he, personally, was paying for deadbeats to get insurance under Obamacare really rubbed me the wrong way. Plus, he wasn’t even trying for 27 cones, so what was the point in sticking around? While sitting alone at the crowded seawall, the lovely city of Split delivered again, this time in the form of a fireworks show over the water. My front row seat couldn’t have been timed any better (better to be lucky than good). This light show lightened my mood like fireworks light the night sky (okay, sorry simile, but it was an apt analogy for the moment). Split lifted my spirits, so I rejoined A & B and told them about the heavenly display in honor of Obama.
Before hitting our hometown pub, Brandon had to check in with his family, which gave me opportunity to prep Laura and Ivanna with special instructions of how to greet our third amigo momentarily. First, Ivanna did not want to play along, but Laura said no problem. Before Brandon could place his first Fanta order, Laura told him that “Donald Trump is an idiot.” A few minutes later, Ivanna came around, told me she misunderstood what I was asking of her, and then announced that “Yes, this Donald Trump is idiot!” Jazzby earned a special place in my heart and a fan for life. Brandon may not be joining its mailing list.
Croatian Independence
Friday was the last day before we split, myself to return to my missing wife, while the copilots would venture on to their next destination for a few more days, before they too could rejoin their families. Friday was also the anniversary of the end of Croatia’s war for independence twenty-one years ago, which may have been the reason for the flurry of activity we had seen at the waterfront the day before, though I know in my heart the fireworks were just for me.
The helpful clone at the front desk recommended the Diocletian Palace tour as a must-see part of Split, which makes sense. In typical fashion, Brandon declined, but Aran and I were ready to learn about where we’d spent the last week.
You made it this far without any history lessons, but your luck has run out. Especially since our guide Darko was a former history teacher. As always, fact check yourself for best results, and blame the author for any and all inaccuracies as well as for every exaggeration.
With that said, Diocletian built his palatial estate on the backs of Roman soldiers and slaves between the years 295 and 305 A.D. The Roman Emperor notably retired to Split, rather than being deposed, dethroned, denounced, or destroyed, which was the more common ending for most reigns of his era. His palace stretched 250 meters by 180 meters, with wide aisles to accommodate his legions of troops. There were roughly a 1000 people living in the palace buildings, mostly in service to the ruler’s family. He would not recognize his own home today, as after the fall of the Roman Empire, during medieval times, people moved inside his walled compound, disregarded his Roman order, and put up new buildings all over the place; creating tight alleys and alcoves where once his open architecture allowed 10 men across, now in places you’d be hard pressed to get two abreast (less if said breasts are Italian). The Christians, whom he had proudly persecuted, had the last laugh as they threw out most of his pagan crap, his remains, and repurposed his temples. Jupiter’s place of worship became home to a baptismal pool to indoctrinate kids under a more distant deity without his own planet. I guess that’s better than animal sacrifices, but I’m not sure.
Aside from perimeter walls, few original structures remain. There are coves where the four empty slots once housed statues of the tetrarchy, the four-person leadership team implemented under… Diocletian. Good guess. At least the little people kept some of the ruler’s imported keepsakes, such as several sphinxes still found around town. The Egyptian artifacts double the age of the palace, to some 3500 years ago.
The “tall” bell tower at 60 meters, towers over the octagonal mausoleum that once entombed Dio, like a big middle finger to him. It was added a millennium later, still some 600+ years ago (though restored another 100+ years ago). This is what Aran and I had climbed days earlier. Throughout this historic “city”, there are ranges of architectural styles and influences, including some remnants from the Roman era (including functioning aqueducts). There are also modern touches that seemed out of place to me, such as a fancy glass railing around a rooftop terrace, or the storefront glass of the bank with the original Roman column just inside, or the air conditioning units in the windows, though this last one I surely understand. Daytime temps during our trip were around 30 degrees Celsius (upper 80s Fahrenheit). We were told the winter temps usually average around 10 degrees Celsius (a nice 50 Fahrenheit), with occasional fronts bringing it colder.
Our two hour tour took us all over the place, constantly amazing Aran and me that after a week of walking around here, there were still so many places we had not seen. Darko pointed out several locations where specific scenes from Meereen on Game of Thrones were shot. “Down there, in that courtyard, in Season ___, Episode ____, Ser Barristan was led to ambush by the Sons of the Harpy. Five days of shooting, forty seconds of screen time.” And “These stairs, in Season ___, Episode ___, this is where Dany locked up her dragons.” Someone asked the ironically named Darko about local extras participating, when our fanboy guide lamented that he was too fair-skinned and fair-haired to be an unsullied, and that HBO hadn’t yet taken him up on his offer to be another Lannister.
One more bit of GOT nerdiness. At dinner that evening, our young waitress, with her piercing blue eyes and braided red hair looked very much to me like a shorter Sansa. She said that she’d never heard that before, which I don’t believe because I am never original, before later confessing that she really is that actress, but that she was undercover and we shouldn’t tell anyone. Silly girl, Sansa was never in any scenes in Meereen, though I asked for an autograph nonetheless, and was expectedly rebuffed. Damn gingers.
In the late 19th, early 20th centuries, newer styled facades were built on the seaport side of town, as locals thought the Spanish and Italian styles of the era would appeal more to the people coming from the sea. It’s interesting to see the mix of styles throughout. Tourism is big business today in Split, but there is still a shockingly high rate of unemployment – 25%. Maybe that’s another reason why the Croatians are so skinny – it’s hard to justify eating like a rich pig when you’re poor.
Side Note #3 – A & B insisted that the locals were insincerely nice. They’d smile and invite you into their shop or restaurant, but as soon as they had your business (or worse, if you elected to take your business elsewhere), they’d scowl or simply ignore you. They (A & B) were particularly upset when a hot hostess didn’t thank us for coming when we left her restaurant. Being a miserable SOB myself, I did not note this same problem. We were often 1/3rds drunk and always 3/3rds loud, obnoxious Americans[7]. I wouldn’t like us either! My biggest beef with the locals (not counting the smoking, since I prefer that they look good, rather than smell good, since I was only looking anyway), was their aggressive line jumping. They were very impatient in queue, and would often blatantly bypass yours truly. Minor complaint. Otherwise, Croatians, lipa si! (No idea if any of Croat lingo spelling is correct, but it should be close to phonetic anyway).
The Dronkey
Darko’s best piece of imparted knowledge was a throwaway bit about the few steps in the old city having long runs versus risers, because back in the day, donkeys would have found normal steps unnavigable. Donkeys were Dalmatian[8] man’s best friend, carrying goods through the narrow passages. Fortunately, for those of us who do not like the smell of donkey dung (also known as dungey), they’ve upgraded to “electric donkeys”, which are basically motorized, speedy, ride-on shopping carts that probably kill a few tourists each year. Why is this important? Because To Je To’s logo had a funky looking donkey that I had mistaken for the funky looking rabbit from the Donnie Darko cover (similar imaging, big ears, and apparently I’m too dumb to tell an ass from a hare). When I had asked a waiter what the symbol meant, he said that it was a drunk donkey (aka dronkey). So by Darko explaining the donkey’s importance to the city, I was able to better understand the dronkey logo, and still make a (loose) connection to the cult classic film.
Our last day in town ended like pretty much every other day, with a Barba ale for me from TJT, pistachio gelato for B, and wildcard A opting for fries this time, before we headed to Pub Jazzbina for the final nightcap.
Jazz Bye Bye
Our frequent flyers ordered their final Fantas, and I had Croatian beer. Jeben Ti Mater that I am, I tormented Brandon again by telling our bartender friends that real men drink beer and support Hillary, while lesser men drink Fanta and like Trump. Because these guys had to fly from the front seat the next morning, and I only had to sleep on my flights, their rest was a little more important and they called it an early night. When they made their exit, I still had beer in my glass, and Ivanna announced “Ben, you stay!” I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a command, but the answer was yes regardless. I would hang out with my favorite bartender Ivanna, and her trainee Laura.
Laura seems to be transitioning well from the girl who stands out front in a low cut top encouraging passersby to come inside, into a more conservatively dressed bartender. And though she finds the inside job more interesting, we told her we missed her welcoming smile on the street when we approached. Then again, since we kept coming back to the same place night after night, and the bar crowd grew with each of our visits (unrelated to our presence, no doubt), pouring drinks probably was a better use of her time. Laura’s big brown eyes expressed a youthful innocence, like a doe in headlights.
There is an older waitress working there too, but I never caught her name since we were often sidled up to the bar and because she did not come across as friendly or interested in our group. This mid 40ish wiry woman looked like she’d endured a tough life and didn’t have time for our bullshit. (There were some other waiters and bartenders working as well, but who wants to read about Croatian men?).
In between the two ladies was Ivanna, our tall, long-haired, strong, blonde beauty with the deep, throaty voice and the heavy accent (think Brigitte Nielsen from Rocky IV, with a bigger nose, longer locks, and more casual appearance. I wanted to have her say “if he dies, he dies”, but I somehow refrained. I know that’s a Dolph Lundgren line anyway, but it’s still my favorite line of the film and I think she would have done it justice).
Seeing the three ladies in line at the bar, it struck me as sad, as I envisioned young Laura in ten years becoming Ivanna and losing that look of innocence; Ivanna in ten years becoming the hardened waitress and losing her vigor; and perhaps (most morbidly) the waitress in ten years disappearing to an early death from Philip Morris products. Or maybe I was just in a somber mood, knowing that I’d be leaving this beautiful town in a few hours, likely to never return[9].
But on this night, we would celebrate! Ivanna told me “today is important day” and poured herself a small beer while topping off mine. We toasted Croatia’s independence. She served some other customers and came around to my end of the bar again, and we toasted to Croatia again! I really loved her passion and pride in her homeland. The war, having ended in 1995, had left an indelible mark on her. Laura, being younger, seemed to have missed the personal connection, and Ivanna ribbed her mercilessly, calling her a Serbian. No, not a Serbian! For the record, both ladies assured me that she is not.
Ivanna pointed out her boss. I asked for some language pointers so I could butcher his language in telling him that “Ivanna is the best!” He seemed to understand what I was trying to say, we high-fived, and I washed away both his name and the expression with the next sip of Karlovacko. Did I mention that each large beer was around $2.50? I also don’t think they charged me for every round. Needless to say, I had enough for three, party crashed with some young people from the hotel[10], danced with Ivanna to a Jackson Five song at some point (which should give you a good indication of how drunk I was, as I never dance), hugged everyone goodbye, and staggered across the street to the hotel, where I slept through my 4:15 alarm. Aran, the captain and wingman, came to my rescue, woke me and drove me to the airport with time to spare for my 7 a.m. flight. From there, I was on my way back to the once great U.S. of A., and to the always great love of my life, wife Sai.
To Je To!
Figure 1 – Split looking towards Marjan Hill
Figure 2 – Narrow Corridors of Historic Split
Figure 3 – Trogir Fortress
Figure 4 – Trogir
Figure 5 – Inside Blue Cave
Figure 6 – Party Hvarty
Figure 7 – Krka Waterfalls, w Crowds
Figure 8 – Celebrate Croatia!
[1] It’s amazing how lazy I’ve been since running Comrades. Eating the same and drinking more without training for an ultra tends to add up. I’m thinking of cross training with cigarettes.
[2] I didn’t find it an appropriate occasion to go with the “Do you like apples?” bit from GWH, and didn’t have any other worthwhile material to offer.
[3] Most of the restaurants had nearly identical menus, with the same pasta dishes (with shrimp, with prosciutto, or with marinara sauce, on spaghetti, noodles or gnocchi), same fish dishes (tuna steak, salmon fillet, or scampi), or steak options, with average prices running from 80 kuna (pasta) to 120 kuna (tuna) to 150 or higher (for steak). 7 kuna to a dollar. 16 kuna for a half liter beer, 18 kuna for a quarter liter coke. A slice of pizza and a soda would go for around 35 kuna, and gelatos were 7 or 8 kn on average. Or you could try the fish and chips at the barbecue joint that promoted its ribs or wings, and spend the end of the evening testing the depth of ply of hotel room toilet paper, though I’d recommend against it, based on experience. We usually picked arbitrarily, or by whichever hostess did the best job selling us, and most of the meals were meh. Perhaps we should have listened to the recommendations of the staff at the hotel, but as Americans, I feel it’s our duty to never listen to the opinions of others.
[4] Just kidding guys. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
[5] Izzy is the nickname for Brandon’s baby girl.
[6] Watching Bella’s bouncing bosoms does not count as fun. I’m a happily married man, who hopes to keep that status. Sure, I seem to be finding myself humming that old Barbara Streisand song more frequently as of late (I believe it’s called “Mammaries”), but who doesn’t love Babs?
[7] At dinner one evening (when I foolishly ordered the fish & chips), Aran struck up a conversation with a Swedish couple sitting next to us. When he mentioned that we were American, the guy said that he had already figured that out by our volume.
[8] Split is the capital of the Dalmatian region. I didn’t see a single dog of this breed though. I also didn’t see any fire stations, so that could be where they keep them all.
[9] There are a lot of other destinations on the list to see with Sai. Who knows if I’ll ever get back to repeat Split?
[10] By this time, I was seeing double. I recognized Mia from the front desk, as she’d given us several restaurant recommendations that we’d ignored in favor of less flavor. But then Mia #2 appeared, claiming to be Andrea, and addling my simple mind. I think half my conversations at the hotel were with the impostor Mia. Both young, pretty girls with similarly styled, straight, light brown hair could be sisters, or twins, though none of their coworkers seemed to agree with me. Conspiracy theorists take note – Croatia may be working on a clone army. Or at least a team of fembots to try to seduce weaker men than me.
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 