Hvar Out of My Element on the Dalmatian Coast

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Besides, I already took my holiday this week on another island called Vis. Smaller than Hvar, there is nothing going on in Vis, other than sleeping, reading eating, and of course, repeating. Those whopper boats dock en-route through the Adriatic, and the tourists are mainly couples with young kids, or retirees. The island is gorgeous, of course, with glittering water and row upon row of ripening vineyards. The Romans produced wine on Vis, and while you may have never heard of Croatian wine, it does indeed exist, along with olives and lavender famous in this region. Croatians mix water with their wine, which, no offense, doesn’t hurt their vintage. Fresh off the ferry, we met 13-year-old Luka, precocious and way too smart for his own good. He spends his summers with his grandparents, who rent out three rooms of their house, as do many of the locals in high season. They rely on Luka for his English (and his Spanish, for that matter), and before long he is machine-gunning us with questions. He challenges us with his knowledge of capitals, and recalls a few South Africans from last season. We watch the final game of the Wimbledon men’s final, and then go play tennis, a treat for me, even in my sandals. Luka’s godfather, Dinko, has just opened up a restaurant in front of grandpa’s, and his lovely teenage daughters deliver our food while we corrupt Luka with Texas Hold’em in the patio. Dinko has sailed around the world for 25 years, and Luka wants to visit 50 countries before he is thirty. He also wants to be a doctor, and I have no doubt he will accomplish both these goals. So I holiday on Vis, renting a scooter to zoot around the island and explore its waters. I would have slept more, but the adjacent church bells rang loudly four times an hour, every hour of the day. Some ding-dong programmed them automatically, and 12 gongs at 4am does not a peaceful sleep make. Without movement, the days stagnate and blend into each other, like the folds of bedsheets. This is an island where time is slow, and yet, after a just a few days, my beard is sprouting gray as if I had stayed here for years. To liven things up, I take a catamaran back to Split and catch another ferry to Hvar, a much bigger, more popular island on this busy coast. And while everything is perfectly wonderful, Phillipe and I begin discussing Albania in earnest. Albania is poor. Albania has no tourist infrastructure. Albania is only for “experienced travelers.” Albania has generational blood feuds, mountains where women are allowed to become men, laws of hospitality that require hosts to avenge the murders of their guests. Albania? I must be losing my mind, fervently wishing to trade this island paradise for a country with few ATM’s and fewer tourists. But surely, this must be Gonzo, and at least my murderer won’t get out on bail.

Perhaps I am feeling the effects of round the world travel. If this were my three-week vacation, like the majority of travelers on Hvar, everything would be brighter and bolder. It is, after all, gorgeous. But on a trip of this nature, I compare Hvar to other gorgeous places, and look forward to the next gorgeous places (where perhaps I won’t be so out of my element). Turkey? India? Malaysia? I expect to meet locals and travelers like myself, slogging through the world with a backpack because this affords the only opportunity to slog through it at all. And so all I see here is a place of beauty that entertains for a day or two and then fizzles ≠ the thrill-seeking adventure replaced by over-priced tourist excursions. I would like come back to this part of the world, with a family, and (preferably a large) boat. We’ll sail through the islands, docking to eat the freshly caught fish and stock up on plump, green olives. We’ll watch schools of silver fish dance beneath the bow, and then jump into the warm sea to swim amongst them. I can see that trip as clear as this Adriatic, but that trip is not this trip. And so, with a pit-stop in Dubrovnik, it is onwards to Albania.

Hvar
Croatia

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