Monday, July 16, 2007
Bidding Adieu (Unfortunately, not My Own)
(Towels held down by rather large rocks on the beach of Razanac so that they're not tempted to fling themselves into the waters of the Adriatic by the famous Sirens of Hrvatska. Click on photo for larger view.)
This past weekend, we journeyed up I-295 in Jersey to see my mother off for her annual trip back to the old country. She usually leaves in mid-summer and then returns in late September so as to maximize her stay on the Adriatic Coast. She stays with the slew of relatives that all own beach houses and continually display proof that life seems much more enjoyable over there in a country still affected by the 1990's Balkan War than in this country which is constantly told to be aware of terror. While we'll be cringing behind our rose bushes searching for people intending us ill will, she'll be floating in the slightly salty waters off the coastal towns of Baska Voda, Makaraska, and Crikvenica. I am openly jealous and deliriously hopeful that our retirement down the road allows us just a bit of this easy pleasure. Days of sipping liquids on the rocks as mists of seawater brush our faces. Nights of laughter, roasting,imbibing of local cheap wine, and forgetting each night's festivities as they're replaced by the following soire. No inspection of the cork, no sniffing of the glass. Merely, the pouring of Plavac or Zinfindel into glasses of various previously intended usage. And, always, the onrush of words in various Croatian dialects, curse words delicately entwined into conversations so that emphasis of importance can be easily discerned, even through the haze of another wine bottle's opening.
I always ask my mom to take pictures. Not of monuments or statues, simply of folks and their houses and their open tables of food and drink. She rarely complies, correctly saying she "can't take pictures of continuning memories, only foggy snapshots of moments out of ocntext. So, why bother? Just come. Next year, maybe?"
To which I agree as we wave her off on her very excellent of adventures. "Next Year?"
Možda. Možda.
This past weekend, we journeyed up I-295 in Jersey to see my mother off for her annual trip back to the old country. She usually leaves in mid-summer and then returns in late September so as to maximize her stay on the Adriatic Coast. She stays with the slew of relatives that all own beach houses and continually display proof that life seems much more enjoyable over there in a country still affected by the 1990's Balkan War than in this country which is constantly told to be aware of terror. While we'll be cringing behind our rose bushes searching for people intending us ill will, she'll be floating in the slightly salty waters off the coastal towns of Baska Voda, Makaraska, and Crikvenica. I am openly jealous and deliriously hopeful that our retirement down the road allows us just a bit of this easy pleasure. Days of sipping liquids on the rocks as mists of seawater brush our faces. Nights of laughter, roasting,imbibing of local cheap wine, and forgetting each night's festivities as they're replaced by the following soire. No inspection of the cork, no sniffing of the glass. Merely, the pouring of Plavac or Zinfindel into glasses of various previously intended usage. And, always, the onrush of words in various Croatian dialects, curse words delicately entwined into conversations so that emphasis of importance can be easily discerned, even through the haze of another wine bottle's opening.
I always ask my mom to take pictures. Not of monuments or statues, simply of folks and their houses and their open tables of food and drink. She rarely complies, correctly saying she "can't take pictures of continuning memories, only foggy snapshots of moments out of ocntext. So, why bother? Just come. Next year, maybe?"
To which I agree as we wave her off on her very excellent of adventures. "Next Year?"
Možda. Možda.
Labels: Croatia
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<< Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
Just watch out for the honey-tongued Dalmatian "pirates" trolling on the Adriatic waters, waiting to unburden their charms on unsuspecting damsels in non-distress.
But then, your husband will be more than capable in handling these charming gigoloes and their smooth-talking ways.
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But then, your husband will be more than capable in handling these charming gigoloes and their smooth-talking ways.
<< Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands