THE CROATIAN RIVIERA
by Toni Mirosevich
In Vela Luka, all the sailboats are for hire. No one is sunbathing, but not
for lack of sun. Here, too, the grass is singing. Bathhouses that line the
shore are empty showers, but forget the association. No one is being taken
away. In town you will get the best room, there isn't any shortage. Not like
in Nice where Madame charged a pretty penny for a chambre near the beach. The
croissant the next morning was stale, the coffee cold. In Vela Luka, the
hotel manager will recognize your family name and tell the police so they
know you're not a spy. Why aren't the people smiling? You have come to wish
them well. In the restaurant there is always a table; the octopus comes in
vinegar to remind you life is not always sweet. The waiter will ask, "Big
fish or small?" then bring a platter with an orange carp and an eel. He will
cook it how you like it and any tip will do. He looks like a man you grew up
with, so you say, "I know a descendant when I see one, I know your twin." If
you can forget what happened in Mostar, you could have an American holiday,
but for the Bosnian man you met in Split who can't go home and you, too, who
must leave for this is not home. When you ask about the war, it would be wise
to change the subject, wouldn't it? "The Serbs are different from us," is
what the man said. If you can forget that once, growing up, everyone you knew
was a Slav, there were no divisions, you could rest, recoup. Look, the beach
is empty, the water bluer than the Cote d'Azur. Except there, at the edge, a
little muddy, the new dirt running down to the sea.
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