Portrait of the Artist

(Photo cred: Will Van Beckum)



A red tambourine around his left boot. Black capri pants reveal his hairy legs. Hands furiously plucking and strumming an acoustic guitar. Brown velvet beret and embroidered leather jacket. Perfectly landscaped facial hair and a red kazoo protruding from his mouth.

A partially confused, but mostly perturbed look that says, “Are you really going to take this picture without dropping any Kunas in my guitar case?”

Keep the Candle Lit...

(Photo cred: Will Van Beckum)

The people of Croatia still keep the War of Independence in their pockets, behind their handkerchiefs. Their hearts aren’t raw with pain, time has indeed softened the anguish, but the memory still haunts. Even if they're in the market, bottling olive oil, or staring into the sea, it never leaves them.



It happened over ten years ago, babies have been born and the exterior damage has been repaired. Someone still puts seven arrangements of fresh flowers in the memorial cove every week. The memorial cove guards the memory of those fallen by displaying their pictures in neat rows, hanging above a granite coffin in a pristine limestone sanctuary. A marble statute of Jesus perpetually stares at them with mercy.




Candles in St. Lawrence’s Cathedral are still lit for them. Yes, tourists stop by the church for twenty minutes and think they’ve seen it all. They callously dump a Kuna into a tin box and light these candles. Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes for a selfish reason. But mostly for vapid reasons: “Um, I guess this is for my grandma who died a few years ago.” But the fact remains – the candles that tilt towards the heavens and whose wax drippings look like angel wings are for them.

Fevers and Bottled Water: Late Afternoon Alone in Praha

(Photo cred: Will Van Beckum)

I look back at the Charles Bridge in astonishment. I can’t believe I made it in my condition.

You can’t gently perambulate the Charles Bridge; it’s impossible. A sea of people who don’t care about you, or the 75 statues adoring the bridge will push you and step on your feet, just to get to one of the many souvenir stands overpopulating the bridge. You want to turn back, bury yourself in a hole and never see another person or caricature sketch stand again. But Mala Strana and the Prague Castle await you, so you forge ahead.


The heavy breath of fever billows down my neck, under my shirt, and fogs my wristwatch.

Water. Water. Water.

Across the street from a cozy park, a tiny, run-of-the-mill souvenir/general store boasts of its wide array of beverage brands.

The 8 –by-8 foot store is crammed past its capacity with assorted junk. Not a single space on any of the walls are left bare.

I blindly grab an Evian and take three cumbersome steps to the cashier and begin fishing out change from my purse, in preparation to pay.

“55 Crowns,” He announces, stroking the stubble on his prominent jaw.

I stare at the pile of assorted coins in my sweaty palm, internally asking them if they’d add up to enough. I soon find out that they don’t. I plunge my hand back into the depths of my bag, but before I can finish this fruitless endeavor, the stubbly jaw opens, “There’s a cheaper brand. Only 35 Crowns.” He points to the glass refrigerator.
I manage to let out a cowardly, embarrassed smile and a, “Oh. Thanks.”

I can’t tell if he’s being churlish or not. There’s no one else in the store, so it’s not like I’m really wasting his time.

I open the refrigerator door and point, “This one?” He shakes his head.

“This one?” I pick another bottle up and hold it in the air for his inspection.

“Bonaqua,” He says as he practically escorts me to the right bottle.

I exit the store and find solace in a plain park, a triangle of green, littered with fallen leaves who forgot their place, overlooking cobble stone streets.
The park is an isosceles triangle amid aging white walls with billboards of Alfons Mucha exhibit to the right and a slew of unmemorable souvenir shops like Pivince Certovka, where I got my bottle of Bonaqua to the left. Behind me, at the base of the triangle is a sleazy hotel.



There’s nothing particularly “Prague” about this park. This is neither the garden to a Gothic church, nor the courtyard of an Art Nouveau hotel, nor the backyard of a Neo-Classical restaurant.




The only romantic thing about this park is that one ash tree is extending its arm, letting its leaves dangle and obscure my view, like it secretly wanted to be born a willow tree.

A coiled, iron dragon carefully holds up the flanks of wood, which serve as my seat. From this bench I have the perfect view of a leaf adhered to a garbage can by only a thread of a spider’s web, dancing in the wind.

I felt decent in park, almost felt completely healthy, but when I stood up, my body was completely enervated.

I guess 15 minutes in nature can’t cure you (if you can even call that park nature).
Not ready to brave the Charles Bridge again, just yet, I pick a direction to wander in.

Past some burgher houses and a slew of terraced cafes I now see that there are far better parks than the one I just came from – parks with man made ponds and slinky walkways for lovers to get lost in. If you catch a glimpse from the right park, it looks like the whimsical skyline of Praha is floating above the Čertovka.




A “coffee museum” catches my eye. I try to find the gift shop so I can buy my mom a decorative mug, but no avail. All I find is a fountain of two mechanized men peeing.

Towering Anticipation

(Photo cred: Will Van Beckum)

Climbing endless wedges of brie-shaped stairs into oblivion leaves one breathless and confused. Where am I going again?

Atop the last smooth stone step you may think you’ve reached the destination, but no, there are still more stairs. These aren’t spiral stairs like the previous thousand steps were. These are made of frail iron and reminiscent of bunk bed ladders.



If you’ve made it past these steps, you’ve made it to the destination. But hovering 200 feet above Trogir at the top of the wobbly bell tower of St. Lawrence’s Cathedral doesn’t give you the opportunity to cease your wheezing.

If I puked up a postcard, this panoramic view of Trogir would come out – the glistening sea and the red-roofed houses sprinkled atop the rocky hills.

Don’t look down; you might lose your nerve. Then, you may try to sprint down the stairs if you get scared. But if that happens, then when it hits you’ll be unprepared and clinging to the railing of a feeble step longing to escape just like you.


Sh, get ready – it’s almost 2 o’clock.

A rusted bell hangs above head, seemingly poised to release a tune so powerful that even the outskirts of town can hear it loud and clear. There are two other weathered bells in the arsenal, ready to strike on cue.



Do I really want to subject myself to this? Hands press into ears protectively, teeth clench in uneasy anticipation.



3.

2.

1…



Silence.

Bells ring from a distant tower.

Guess the bells in this tower don’t work anymore. What a waste of time.

Stop waiting for something monumental to happen. Get off the floor. You can take your hands down from your ears now. Stand up and enjoy the view of a surreal, gaping chunk of history.

Music Boxes and Clean Clothing

(Photo cred: Will Van Beckum)

Yet another souvenir shop nestled within Trogir’s UNESCO protected stonewalls flaunts their musical boxes in a display outside and tempts you with a free try. You wind the tiny metal crank and out comes a semi-recognizable tune. These boxes may amuse for a minute or two:

“Oh look, this one plays Hey Jude!”




“Wait, this one plays Happy Birthday, I’m gonna get that for my sister.”

But soon, the smart ones realize that even the clothing sprawled out on a line hanging in between two three-story stone buildings expresses more about Croatia than these generic musical boxes.



The brightly colored clothing dangling overhead evokes a sense of a more innocent time – nobody’s paranoid that some evildoer will walk by and snag their clothing; nobody’s hiding anything, not even from the tourists, if they’re willing to look carefully.

Night Swimming: Trogir, Croatia

(Photos courtesy of Will Van Beckum)

At night, the giggles and playful shrieks of children past still echo inside the abandoned waterslide. The sound flows through the maze of tubes, and bounces onto the shoreline, deceiving the occasional passerby into thinking lost boys have found a home here.

The slide, standing alone in its puncture-proof material, obscenely shatters the mystique of the otherwise raw, natural scene . A dull shade of office blue, carelessly painted by people who hate their jobs, just can’t compete with the azure water of the Adriatic Sea and the distant lights, which use the water’s surface as a stage to dance upon with effervescence. The sea perpetually laps up against this man made structure and mocks its lack of grace.

The lonely slide clumsily conceals a small beach, further guarded by heaps of varying stones and shells, instead of sand. Substituting for the lack of palm trees is a forest just steps behind the beach, throwing you off-track, making you forget where you are. The water’s frigid and causes your hand to retract on impulse. But if you’re patient enough, and show your benevolence, then the beach welcomes you and even shoos those pesky sea urchins away for your visit. Some visitors are oblivious and don’t care to learn the beach’s true disposition.

Even from a few feet away it’s tricky to see in the dark, but it appears as though three figures sit with their backs to the woods and heads facing each other, ignoring the beach. A few strides closer and it’s apparent that they’re chugging red liquid out of a one-liter water bottle, with the label ripped off and only adhesive marks left behind.



“Na zdrowie!” A Polish teen with thick-rimmed square glasses exclaims to no one in particular before he takes his turn pillaging the bottle of its contents. When he’s done, he shoves the previously full bottle, which is now drained to a little less than half full, into his friend’s callous hands.

They continue to go on, drinking and speaking to each other in Polish, but throwing in some English phrases like, “I’m so bored,” periodically.

They don’t swim. Swim in the water that’s only a few feet away. The water that puts on a cold front, but longs to be swam in and will gladly envelope its passenger in what feels like a silky second skin. Ancient Greeks and Romans once touched these waters, but they'll never know.

They’d rather finish drinking, then smoke up in the abandoned waterslide.

Sun & Surf (but no sand)

We thought we had booked a hotel in Monaco, but we actually booked one in Beaulieu-sur-Mer (I place I will NEVER be able to pronounce properly).

Beaulieu-sur-Mer turned out to be right in between Nice and Monaco, so it wasn't that big of a mistake.

There's not much I can say about this trip without sounding painfully cliche. Yes the water's beautiful. So beautiful that it doesn't even look real. I won't even bother trying to be poetic about it, but I will say this: it's much nicer to look at than the waste infested, rat ridden East River, back in NYC.

Although the two are indeed quite similar, after experiencing both Nice and Monaco, I prefer Monaco a lot more.

Nice seemed a bit grungey to me and didn't ooze as much class as Monaco did.

After a 24 hour train ride, I still think this trip was worth it. In a way I'm glad I experienced the French Riviera during the off-season. I think the nightlife would've been more buzzing during the on-season, but that's the only downside of visiting in early October that I can spot.

I'd love to settle down for a while...but we're off to Croatia Thursday morning. Immediately after Croatia I head to Vienna, then Prauge. I won't be back at Kasteel Well until October 19th!

Do videnja, Servus, and Na shledanou!