Chapter 12: Beach Bums

I just got Rachel’s phone synced to my cloud, so I have access to her photos as well as mine. The good news is that now you’ll actually be seeing some pictures of me. The bad news is that, in many of those photos, I likely will not have a shirt on.

We left our cottage outside of Zagreb, and moved on to the Croatian coast. A six-hour train ride and a 35-minute Uber took us to Dugi Rat, a charming little beachside town, notwithstanding sounding like the villain from a Saturday morning kids’ cartoon.

After trudging up the stairs to our apartment, our full bladders were not appreciative that scrolling through our AirBnb’s online instructions did not yield the code to the lockbox affixed next to the outside door. (YES MAYA I checked my SPAM FOLDER like TEN TIMES and you DID NOT email it to me.) Our host did not respond to texts or phone calls.

Two tired Americans with 150 lbs. of luggage and a panting dog assuredly generated a bit of interest from the neighboring Croatians playing cards and drinking wine on their outdoor tables, and after about a half-hour we could see a few hushed phone calls being made. Finally, the woman living below us silently came up and keyed in the correct code for us, and we were in.

The apartment was clean and well-furnished, perched on a hill with a balcony and an amazing view of the Adriatic.

Walking 200 yards down the steep, narrow, twisty road back to the coastline took us to a pebbled beach with cold, crystal-clear water.

The craggy mountains standing watch over the water reminded us of Lake Como in Italy.

The weather during our stay was glorious. Slightly chilly in the mornings drinking (instant, bleh) coffee on the balcony, then warming up to 80 during the day, just enough to allow us to slowly ease into the calm salty water and wait for our shivering bodies to adjust.

On the first evening, we walked a few blocks to a small local grill set up on the ground floor under the owner’s apartment. He brought us an assortment of fish and local meats, cooked to perfection on a large outdoor wood and charcoal grill.

Although, I’m not sure Rachel expected to be served the fish whole.

The owner didn’t speak much English, but we asked him about the season and he gave us a chef’s kiss and told us that September is the best time to be on the Croatian coast. I can’t say we disagree.

We settled into a rhythm of working in the mornings and then sitting on the beach for a bit in the late afternoon. Out of deference to our tender white feet, we quickly learned to wear sandals on the rocky beach. It became a perverse entertainment to watch sunburned tourists grimace when they gingerly left the safety of their towels to pick their way through the small shifting pebbles down into the chilly water.

A few beach-side bars offered a respite from the sun…

…a view of it setting.

We weren’t too far from Split, the second largest city in Croatia with a history of variously being under Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Venetian, Austrian, French, Italian, German, and Yugoslavian rule.

While laying on the beach in the sun, Rachel and I would occasionally make comments to each other about how we should take the bus into Split to visit Diocletian’s Palace, or take a boat tour to the famous Blue Lagoon. Inevitably these talks would peter out as we contemplated adding additional logistics to our already logistic-saturated lives, and we’d eventually lean back and pull our hats over our eyes. Some of us would even snore.

Then we’d bite the bullet and jump back in the water.

We didn’t go anywhere for six. full. days. It was lovely.