Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2002/05/29/third_world_report_the_adriatic_coast.php
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
To relieve myself and to allow myself a moment to relax (to a greater degree than my already laid-back lifestyle in Zagreb permits), I did what any right-thinking Croatian would do. I went to the coast.
More precisely, I went to Hvar Town on Hvar Island, an absolute gem of startling beauty located in the Adriatic, roughly two hours by ferry from Split. The original motivation of my venture south was for what was ambitiously described as a Fulbright 'retreat.' The idea of a retreat originated when the Split-based Fulbrighter and myself were enjoying the charms of Hvar during the New Year's holiday. We decided that surely it would of great utility for the Croatian Fulbright community convene to discuss the vicissitudes of our work, to share experiences, and to exchange hints and suggestions. Also, the U.S. Embassy would pick up the tab. Additionally, I wished to check on some property I was thinking of renting during the summer.
Our arrival to the island had some initial hiccups. We failed to get tickets in time for the 'fast' ferry direct to Hvar Town and instead had to take the aptly-named 'slow' ferry that lands in Stari Grad, on the other side of the island. Upon arrival we failed to get on the proper bus and ended up in the middle of Stari Grad, a good twenty kilometers from our ultimate destination. But, the sun was shining and our collective attitude improved immensely after a few beers. After calling and asking around we found a bus driver willing to haul us—three Croatia-based Fulbrighters and a fellow Dartmouth alum Fulbrighting in Albania—to Hvar Town.
Accommodations in Hvar had been secured ahead of time in a quiet set of apartments facing the water—a twenty minute walk from the center square of the town. The owners were a wonderful couple with beautiful children and a small boat which we were welcome to use. We dropped off our bags, arranged to have them cook a meal for us the next night, and marched into the center of the town to commence our retreat over wine and beer.
Hvar Town has many of the features commonly found in Dalmatian towns. It was occupied by the Venetians, evidenced by a small fort on the hill above the town. There is a small cathedral full of the usual Venetian architectural features facing a square of sun-bleached stone. A small building with a large arch built within one of its walls is located in front of the water. The building, called the arsenal, was originally used to repair ships, and later housed one of the first theaters in Europe. Walking in the center of the town, one gets the impression that nothing is younger than a hundred years-old.
Dinner the first evening was a low-key affair in one of the restaurants on the main square. Dining on a large platter of fish, a economics professor from Delaware, currently teaching in Split on a Fulbright professorial grant, told tales of the gross fiduciary mismanagement of the city and country. It was a typical Croatian moment for me: good food, interesting company, and tales of woe and stupidity.
The next day I set out with my Albanian-based colleague to work on my tan in a café, but the weather interfered. After a quick visit to the fort, we patronized pizza shop for a late lunch and to swap gossip. A shared pizza merged into a few bottles of wine, and eventually another Fulbright professor and her husband joined us. Quite honestly, the details of the conversation are hazy to due copious wine consumption, but I think we talked about American colleges, graduate school life, and computer security. Not realizing how late it had become, we rushed back to the house for the arranged dinner with out hosts.
At dinner back in the apartment, I met Vlado, the most interesting man in Hvar. Vlado and his wife owned the house in which we were lodging and had helped to cook the meal we were eating. Huge plates of fresh fish, potatoes and bottles of local wine—bottled a few kilometers away by his cousin—emerged from kitchen. As we ate, we couldn't help but to notice a wall with what looked to be a set of ancient Roman ceramics.
'Where did you get those?' someone asked Vlado.
'Oh, the amphorae?' he responded. 'I picked them up while diving in front of the house. They were on a ship heading to Diocletian's palace [in Split].'
'What?' I asked, and he repeated his story. He took a smaller amphora from its hook on the wall and handed it to me. Although I had spent several years studying classics and classical archaeology at Dartmouth, this was my first time actually holding any artifact larger than a potsherd.
Vlado had a fairly typical island childhood. He grew up in Hvar and learned to handle a boat, fish, and scuba dive from his father. It was never clear what job his father, or Vlado for that matter, had. But, it hasn't been clear to me whether anyone in Croatia actually works.
Vlado started his diving career by skin diving. 'I would, how do you say, hypo-ventilate,' he said, demonstrating this condition. 'Then go under, I don't know, 15 meters. It is not safe to hypo-ventilate, but I was careful. I go down and catch fish with speargun.'
Soon, he graduated to air tanks: 'My father put depth gauge on my wrist and said, 'Don't go below forty meters.' He then pushed me into the water.'
Stories continued to flow as he showed a few of us a photo album of his great catches, huge Adriatic fish weighing twenty kilograms, eels, and Roman ruins. Vlado continued on for about half an hour, regaling those fortunate to be seated near him with tales of diving and fishing throughout the Croatian coast, and across the Adriatic. Everything he knew about diving he had learned from the fierce Darwinian school of hard-knocks. I asked if he used a dive table, but he didn't seem to understand. The economics professor, an experienced diver, asked Vlado about a dive computer. Vlado was not familiar with this device either. It wasn't clear to us whether he had formally calculated the amount of time he could spend at a certain depth, but he just that he knew not to linger. A dangerous procedure, but one that seems to have worked for him so far.
We were to leave the next morning on the nine o'clock 'fast' ferry for Split. The professors managed to get up in time, but some of us had wine-induced conversations late into the evening and were in no mood for a boat trip. We sat in sun-drenched cafes contemplating the details on the Venetian-era buildings. In the afternoon, before catching our ferry, we sat on the rocks and dipped our feet into the chilly waters of the Adriatic.
The boat ride back to Split seemed to have the effect of a decompression chamber, slowly adding anxiety, tension, and frustration as the shoreline approached. Those of us who had to return to Zagreb ate dinner on a shorefront restaurant and then drank coffee in a cafe, situated in a former chamber of Diocletian's palace, before catching the overnight bus to the capital.