SATURDAY, MAY 11
Before our long travel day began, we had a nice walk around a lake and through woods in Buchan Country Park, just a few miles from Crawley. It started to rain, and Chloe and I darted toward the trees for cover. We know too well what it feels like to sit in wet clothes while traveling. Patrick, who joined us for the walk, laughed as he sauntered over to the tree. “I’m okay. I’m not made of sugar,” he said. Chloe and I both imagined ourselves dissolving from sugar to puddles on the wet ground.
We repacked our bags at the airport — to make three bags. The generous and kind Norwegian Air check-in person let us take the third bag (usually at a cost of 70 pounds) for free.
The plane landed in Croatia after 10:00pm.
After a dash to the Airport Shuttle going to Split and waiting on the parked bus for 15 minutes, I asked the driver when we would leave.
“Today,” he said, laughing. I remembered my years of traveling through Eastern Europe and all the snide remarks and intentional delays. I’m pretty sure he overcharged us for the ride, too, but when I questioned, he ignored me and forced my hand. Twenty minutes later the bus left the airport.
The night was balmy and warm when we got out in front of the bus station. Small shops lined the awning-covered, narrow sidewalk, a few lights still on inside the convenience stores, groups of men hanging out drinking beer. Dragging our bags for the next ten minutes to the St. Francis Church fountain, we walked along the waterfront and down a broad, bricked pedestrian walkway past typical European-style outdoor restaurants that were full of people, most facing out toward the parade of pedestrians and the ocean. It was nearly midnight.
A taxi took us to the airbnb where the poor owner had been waiting for a couple hours. He was very kind, nonetheless. We hadn’t eaten and the only food available at that hour was pizza. A long story, but in the end, we waited two hours.
We had arrived in Croatia. New smells- the sea, cigarettes, wet plants, soft air, glimpses of a Roman past, ghosts of history at our door.
