paris walkabout... the last step

We leave the constancy of summer in Croatia for autumn in Paris, our last destination on this four-month odyssey. As we emerge from the labyrinthine underworld of the metro on to 'Pont Neuf', the oldest bridge in Paris, the sun shines on the Seine.
 

We drag the bags over cobblestones to our historic hotel on the 'Isle de la Cite', in the middle of the river. 'Hotel Henri 4' looks the same as it did when we stayed here sixteen years ago. We ascend the same spiral staircase to our room on the fourth floor overlooking the Place Dauphine. The trees are smaller, their bluish leaves rusting at the edges; apparently the stately old trees became diseased and had to be replaced.
 

But the town houses surrounding the triangular place are just as elegant with their wrought iron balconies and there are several new cafes with canvas awnings where people lunch at sunny tables. Before unpacking we hurry over to 'La Rose de France' to grab the last table.

An American couple at the next table has rented an apartment here for a month. ''My wife has been here at least thirty times,'' says the husband with sad brown eyes beneath dark bushy eyebrows. The wife is blonde and animated and looks younger than her age. ''I love Paris,'' she says. ''I walk every morning.'' She talks a lot and glares at her husband when he tries to say anything. ''We both can't talk at once,'' she snarls.

She goes to meet a friend for afternoon tea, but the husband stays to chat over a coffee.

''We would kill each other if we stayed together all day,'' he says with disarming honesty. ''My wife shops all day. I visit musees. There is a cinema that shows old American movies.''

After he leaves I say to Dave, ''They hate each other. We are not that bad are we?'' He doesn't need to answer. We are in Paris, the city of love.

Hand in hand we wander the streets of the Isle, awed by the grand buildings and monuments, the grim gargoyles of Notre Dame. On impulse we buy tickets for a classical music concert at Sainte Chapelle, which has an impossibly high vaulted ceiling and walls of intricate stained glass. I feel as if I am sitting inside a kaleidoscope or a gigantic jewellery box with the familiar sounds of Vivaldi's Four Seasons filling the space.
 

Winter 1983. Our first visit to Paris. The trees were bare but festooned with Christmas lights along the Champs Elysees. The air was cold but clear and bright. Inside the cafes and restaurants, crowded with people, it was warm and light. We stayed in an attic room in a seedy hotel which smelt of curry and turned into a brothel at night, but we were young and in love and everything was wonderful.

It was early spring when we returned to Paris for Dave's 50^th birthday. Not as young but still hungry for life. We thrilled at Rodin's sculptures and the 'Monets' in the Musee D'Orsay and the cafes on the Left Bank. I searched out cafes where Sartre and Beauvoir. and their intellectual friends philosophised over coffee and cigarettes and had passionate love affairs. What a romantic I was.

How innocent. How naive. 
  

I wonder what autumn in Paris will bring, as Vivaldi's exquisite evocation of the seasons ends bringing the audience to its feet.

We celebrate with a supper of crepes and French champagne; we have been up since 3am in Dubrovnik so haul ourselves up the four flights of stairs and collapse into bed, shutting the windows to silence the night.

After a couple of hours I wake. A faint unpleasant smell which I detected earlier is now nauseating. It smells like a latrine or cat piss. I cover my face with the sheet but can't sleep all night.

I lean out of the window over the railing and inhale the night air. Ambulance sirens sound continuously.

When I approach the matronly woman at reception the following morning, she flushes red with anger and says they have never had such a complaint, they are fully booked, they cannot change our room, they will keep the money for nine nights if we go to another hotel. ''Madame,'' she says, ''I think you just want to leave this hotel. Take it up with the manager.'' This is when I burst into tears and run up four flights of stairs. For the first time on our travels, I wish I was wealthy and staying in a luxury hotel. Then I remember the homeless man sleeping rough on the stone bench of Pont Neuf and I am grateful for a comfortable bed and hot water and white towels.
 

We leave the windows wide open and go out walking. Within half an hour it is raining and we are unprepared. It rains incessantly all day; we are soaked to the skin, stopping for an hour or so in cafes to dry off a little. It isn't until it rains that you realise how little shelter there is in Paris. People sit at cafes under canvas awnings heavy with water [one opposite our place splits over night] but the water drips on passing pedestrians.

View of the receding storm from the Jardin des Tuileries

We find Victor Hugo's house and musee, which Aung San Suu Kyi visited earlier in the year and wrote that she was moved by Victor's words: 'we are not travellers in life, we are wanderers'. The words resonate with me too, particularly on this damp cold day, as we aimlessly drift like drowned rats. We may have maps and plans, but in the end there is no destination. Only the arrival and departure.

Not travellers. Wanderers.
 

Heading through autumn... with a police escort

Back at the hotel, our carpet has been shampooed so we decide to stay. The smell is less acrid, but Paris remains cold and damp. I love Paris in the springtime but decidedly NOT in the fall.

Later that night, Dave is ill with a gastric attack, groaning on the bathroom floor, too weak to move. I cover him with a blanket and go to a pharmacy for anti nausea medication; he spends the next day in bed.
 

Lunching alone in another cafe on our square, I speak with two young American girls about our trip. One with long dark hair and a soft southern drawl asks where I am travelling from. ''Australia,'' I say.

''Oh, we met so many Australians in Berlin. Are you on, what do you call it, 'walkabout'?''

''Well, I guess you could say that. But it is an expression we use to describe the itinerant lifestyle of some traditional indigenous Australians.'' I smile. I like the idea.

Wanderers. On walkabout. In Paris. That's us.
 

All week we walk about Paris. It is much busier and noisier and less 'chic' than we recall it. There are red double decker tourist buses and river cruisers and long queues everywhere. We queue for an hour to catch the lift up the Eiffel Tower where the panoramas don't disappoint; we visit Sacre Cour and wander the streets of Montmarte.
 

Our decent through one of the legs of the 'Tour Eiffel'

 

Another highlight is a jazz concert at famous Jazz-Club on the Right Bank, where the trombonist, Sebastien Llado, plays McCartney's haunting 'Blackbird' on a conch shell.
 

There are still cosy restaurants on the Left Bank serving excellent traditional French cuisine, but now the waiters will speak in English. Little galleries sell 'primitive' art, photography and jewellery to the well-heeled. I glance down at Old Dog's trusty brown leather lace-ups, his only footwear for four months. Definitely not in the well heeled category.

He can't understand why I have acquired four new pairs of shoes. One is thongs. They don't count, I tell him.
 

Palais Royal - Musee du Louvre

When we are too tired to walk I read 'The Paris Wife', the fictionalised account of Ernest Hemingway's first marriage in the early 1920's when Paris was the place to be for artists, writers and intellectuals. And what a wild old time they had here in the Jazz Age.
 

When the sun reappears for the weekend, the Seine turns from grey to green and young people picnic on the 'quais'. We walk in the parks of Paris, watching the Parisiennes at play. This is where I see Paris, the city of love. Young couples, gay or straight, cuddle on benches or lie on the grass. Handsome young French papas look lovingly at their children, hold their hands and lift them on to their shoulders. [I remember the song, ''Oh my papa, to me you are so wonderful,'' and think of my own father who spent so much time with us as children.] Grandmothers laugh as their little cherubs chase the pigeons. Young women and old men walk their dogs.
 

 
Children sail boats on the lakes, ride ponies, jump on trampolines and throw balls. Adults jog, roller-blade, play petanque, paint the autumnal trees, play chess, stroll, sit, read or sleep in the sun in the many green metal chairs which are provided, eat or drink at the cafes, admire the flowers and statues or sculptures or queue for ice-creams.
 

We see an exhibition about the 18^th century explorer/ botanist, de Bouganville at the Luxembourg Jardins. There are examples of the exotic plants which he [and other explorers like James Cook] brought back from far away places.
 

Oh no... not again!

It gets me thinking again about why we travel [or wander or go walkabout]. Looking through my posts I see that the reasons are as multifarious as are human beings. Some are motivated by curiosity, the desire to explore, to discover, to make maps, to measure and to categorise. Some seek beauty or pleasure. Some are escaping boredom or grief or persecution or war or economic hardship. Some want to connect with nature; some to learn a language or study another culture and its history. Some to better know this planet and its people. Some are in search of new cuisine, better weather or new clothes.

We travel to connect or reconnect with people. To stimulate our creative expression.
 

Looking through my blog posts, I see that I wander for many of these reasons, but the most important is expressed most eloquently in the words of Caryl Phillips in his essays, 'Necessary Journeys' [2004] and 'Blood' [1997]:

''I want to travel around Europe and write...about what I see, about who I talk to, and about what I'm thinking.''

and

''Writing helps to build a bridge across the space between one's own private world and the external world in which we all have to continue to live.''

I get it!

And so does the Old Dog.
 

 

THE END

dos and don'ts for dubrovnik

Do arrive by slow ferry [four and a half hours from Korcula] and sit out on the deck to appreciate the views of the limestone spine of mountains which extend all the way along the Dalmation coast.

Don't get bitten on your bare arm by one of those oversized European wasps. The pain is intense and spreads over most of your arm. However the barman on the ferry will rip up a nice white cotton cloth to wrap ice-cubes to press against the inflamed area.

Do stay in an apartment on the water front in Babin Kuk where a lovely blonde Croatian woman in a long sleeveless black dress greets you with a drink and home-made apple strudel, before leading you to your room with your own terrace overlooking the harbour. Watch the cruise ships arriving every day.

Don't go into the old city of Dubrovnik when there is a cruise ship which looks like a multi-story apartment building or, even worse, when there are two of them berthed in the harbour.

Do take the cable car which affords thrilling views over the walled city of Dubrovnik and the surrounding sea and islands.

Don't take the cable car if you are afraid of heights or being in a swinging glass capsule with a steep ascent and a long way to fall.

Do walk the city walls late in the day when the oblique light is most flattering to the white marble, terracotta tiles and blue sea. You will actually be able to walk at your own pace because the large groups will have returned to their cruise ships. This will give you many opportunities to stop to take photos or just to ponder the resilience of this city which has been rebuilt after earthquakes and shelling.

Don't walk the city walls when it is very hot and humid and you have a bad back.

Do see Dubrovnik at night. The grand buildings are even more magnificent when illuminated. Go to a classical concert or listen to live jazz at the bar with the upright piano next to the Dubrovnik cathedral.

Don't buy more than one glass of wine or a meal unless you are prepared to pay outrageous prices. Dubrovnik is the most expensive place in Croatia.

Do swim off the rocks or at one of the little pebble beaches like Copacobana in Babin Kuk or Lapad. Or take one of the many cruises to one of the nearby islands where the water is cleaner and even clearer.

Don't go to the beach on a warm Sunday when all the locals fill every space with sun lounges and umbrellas. Loud pop songs blast over the beach and the waitresses at the beach front cafes are surly because they would rather be swimming or sunbathing than serving.

Do eat fresh fish [or seafood if you like it] at one of the harbour front or roof top restaurants outside the old city, where the prices and quality are good, and the ambience is romantic enough.

Don't eat much of the soft white Croatian bread and tempting ice-creams unless you want to end up looking like me.

Do try the local wines.

Don't try the local beer because it is so refreshing on a hot day that you will end up looking like me.

Do take a day tour to Montenegro in a minibus with Adriatic tours.

Don't forget… the three Cs of Croatia – Croatian Island, Cruise liner and City of Dubrovnik 'Old Town'.

kicking back on korcula

After Split, the plan is to get a catamaran to Hvar, stay a couple of nights, then to catch the car ferry to Dubrovnik, via Korcula. But the catamaran is booked out, despite being told the previous day that there is no need to buy tickets in advance, so we end up on the darkly wooded island of Korcula for six nights.

My dream is to 'kick back' on a Dalmatian island for a few days before our week in busy Dubrovnik.

The locals 'kicking back' in Korcula.

We book a traditional guest house in the middle of 'Old Korcula Town', arriving after dark and unable to find anyone who knows of the place. Standing in the middle of the bustling, lamplit main square outside the cathedral, after an hour of fruitless searching, we are approached by a jolly faced man with a moustache. ''Can I help you?'' he asks. Dave is wary. ''No thanks.'' He has the lap top out and is looking for the address.

''I think you want me,'' the man laughs. ''Come down this street. I am down here. Let me take your bag.''

As I start to follow him, Dave mutters, ''No. Don't go with him. You don't know who he is.''

I am all for going with this friendly chap. ''We are looking for Vitaic guest house,'' I say. 

''Yes, yes. That is me. Number 8.'' He leads us down steep stone steps in a dark walkway.

To our relief the sign on the green door says it is the place and he is the owner. ''Thank you for finding us.'' I say.

'Traditional' guest house is a euphemism for a bit drab with brown carpets and an old fashioned wardrobe, but it soon becomes our 'home.'

It is such a great location, very quiet, with friendly and kind family owners, good air-conditioning, a fridge and Wi-Fi. Believe me these things matter after several months travelling.

If I lean out of our window I can see the glittering Adriatic at the bottom of the steps. We watch the sunset every night from our favourite restaurant six steps down from our front door.

I know that I have enjoyed nearly every place we have stayed on this trip of a lifetime, but I have to say that Korcula is the romantic island of my dreams. Apparently there are smaller, more serene islands such as Mljet, but Korcula is just right for me.

The 'Old Town' which juts out on a thumb of a peninsular is small and perfectly formed, the views are indescribable, the weather is sublime, and the water is like translucent hand painted silk. I feel my heart swell with happiness at the sheer beauty of the place.But I can't convey this feeling, this place, this fleeting moment in words or even in Dave's pictures.You can't feel the sun on my back, or the breeze tickling my skin, Nor can you smell the salty sea or taste the soft salty cheese in my salad. You can't see the colour and shape of every pebble beneath the water or the speed boat cutting a white streak through a sapphire sea or hear the vociferous local women chattering on the bench as their gaggle of grandchildren splash and dive from the concrete wharf into the sea.
For me you can't beat "being there." Virtual reality just doesn't compete with the real thing.

 Even the souvenir shops and occasional tour groups don't detract from Korcula's charm. Since it was part of the dominion of Venice for several centuries the Italian influence is strong, not only in art and architecture but in something less tangible. Perhaps an easy going relaxed ambience? Good food and wine? 

Korcula Town claims Marco Polo as a native son, although there is no convincing evidence of where he was born. He is another traveller whose exploits became legendary partly because of the power of words. When captured and imprisoned by the Genoese he dictated the stories of his adventures, later published as 'The Travels of Marco Polo',  to his cell mate. 
Just as many travellers write to record what they find elsewhere, many writers travel to find themselves. Some, like Emily Dickenson, don't go anywhere. They contain worlds within their heads. Others need to leave to find their stories. Like Janet Frame, the New Zealand author, some of us need to go to the island to find the is-land. 

Such is the quality of the fruit in this area for the wine of Korcula, it will be recommended to us at restaurants in Dubrovnik

We walk through vineyards and spend a day at a nearby sandy beach reading, swimming, and lolling on sun lounges under a sun umbrella; Old Dog remains fully clothed and supine as he monopolises the small circle of shade and watches the scantily clad sun lovers. A day at the beach is not his idea of fun!
 

A dave at the beach.

We explore the tiny streets of Korcula which radiate down from the central square like the spokes of a wheel, sit for hours over coffee or wine or fish or fresh Dalmation salads watching boats glide on the smooth sea. Two Englishmen share fishing tips.One of Korcula's many cats sprawls indolently across the pavement until the waiter nudges her onto a step out of the way of the tourists looking for lunch.The menu is in Croation, English,German, Italian and French [in that order], suggesting the tourist demographic

As I swim in the harbour around moored boats, the stone walls of the village are amber in the early evening light. Another cat sits on a coil of ropes watching me with disdain, and the ruffled surface of the sea shimmers, while fish tickle my legs in the darkening water below. 

Time to get ready to see the famous sword dance which has been performed only in Korcula, for 400 years. Entering the outdoor theatre we are advised that it is too dangerous to sit in the front row. We love the drama of the performance; the red knights fighting the black knights [over a young woman]; the proud faces of the male dancers; their strength ,skill and grace; the sparks flying as they clash swords; the brash accompaniment of the local brass band.
As the applause dies, one of the older dancers with laughing blue eyes announces that he has been dancing the Moreska for 63 years and has just cracked his 2,000th performance. It requires strength, agility and an impeccable sense of timing. Impressive for a man of his age.
 

We marvel at the stone masonry and carving skills for which the Korculans were renowned and pray in the cathedral and the three tiny chapels for our sons.

After three days of such joy, 'kicking back' became 'crook back'. I bent over and my back 'went out',

I spent three days in bed, drugged to the eyeballs, and screaming when I tried to stand. I am sure the owners thought that Dave and I were having all kinds of sexual adventures in our room.

They smiled knowingly when he went out for food and drink. 
 

Stone carving skills for which 
the Korculans were renowned

When I was incapacitated, I read Caryl Phillip's book of essays, 'Colour Me English' with his sharp observations about racism, class and the tyranny of difference.

I realise that one of the benefits of travelling to other places is to recognise that despite our superficial differences we share a common humanity, a wonderful diversity which we can embrace rather than fear.

As Caryl says, to seek essentialism in others [or perhaps even ourselves] is to follow a dangerous path indeed. This is what my journey is teaching me.

Our view of the mainland, from the ferry, as we departed our new-found 'idyllic haven'

split: the emperor and the princess

I can't believe that we are staying in the Roman emperor's private quarters in his magnificent palace in Split, built in ten years by thousands of slaves. His centurions in red plumed helmets stroll through the paved streets.

''Ever vigilant! Looking, always looking, 

for our enemies … and our red plumes.''

The emperor, Diocletian, built this massive white palace in the 4^th century as his retirement home. It had to be big, not only because an emperor had to impress, as was fitting for a demi-god, but also because he wanted to build the large octagonal stone mausoleum in which he was buried, bang in the centre of it, as well as the temples to Jupiter and other Roman deities, one of which survives today. And it had to house all of his soldiers and their entourages and I guess everyone else essential to servicing an emperor’s every need.

There were bed chambers, rooms of state, massage and bathing rooms built over natural sulphur springs, dining rooms and their adjacent 'vomiting' rooms. Bulimia was de rigour with wealthy Romans.

left: 4^th Century mosaic and 21^st Century addiction artefacts.

right: 4^th Century architectural engraving.

The palace was ornately carved and splendidly decorated with mosaics and Roman statues, red marble pillars and sphinxes from Egypt.

One of only two remaining Sphinxes brought from Egypt in the 4th Century.

After the Christians took over, they built the cathedral on top of Diocletian's mausoleum, destroyed the pagan statues and built private houses inside the palace walls. For centuries the entire city of Split was contained within these walls. Now of course it has spread into outlying suburbs.

Split Cathedral, built in the centre of the 'Old Town'.

Fortuitously, given I have my heart set on staying within the palace, Malena finds us at the tourist office looking for a room and insists that she has the perfect place for us. She does. I describe it as 'minimalist', or perhaps 'chaste'. Dave prefers 'austere'. The location is perfect. We love the view of the roof tops and the cathedral spire from our window.. We even love the pealing of the bells for mass.

View from our 3^rd floor attic room.

Dave thinks that I am such a 'princess' at times that a palace is an appropriate place for me. I can detect a pea under any mattress. I hate being pushed. I dislike queues. And can't sleep unless it is dark and quiet. Yes I would try the patience of any prince, let alone an Old Dog.

The tension between us builds as the temperature and humidity rises in Split. A liner arrives and disgorges its 'humants' into the town centre.

Another princess - 'Crown Princess' a Grand class cruise ship, with 3,080 passengers, viewed from 'Marmontova Ulica'.

The belly dancing concert outside the cathedral jars with the surroundings. 
A black cat gives me the evil eye at a restaurant.

Simple, but illuminating. The lamp geographically differentiates one adjoining restaurant from another

After a guided walk around the city in the morning, I stupidly decide to catch a bus out to the vigorously promoted new shopping centre in an outer suburb. It will be cooler for Dave and I need new clothes. I have put on weight and decide not to fight it, just to wear black. There is no way I can resist the cheese filled breads or cherry strudels or cheap pizzas of Croatia.

After living out of a tiny suitcase for over three months, I hate all of my clothes. Unlike my mother who packs colour co-ordinated clothes, drawing on her skills of selecting harmonious colours for her quilts or gardens or flower arrangements, I have the oddest assortment of garments; the white T-shirt [now grey], the flamboyant pink floral top which seemed so RIGHT in Seville and the flouncy orange skirt , bought after seeing the gypsy performance in Granada, and the baggy ten euro shorts from the market in Collioure, the navy and white striped sailors top from Zadar and my only sleeveless dress, an impulse buy in a supermarket on our last day in France. Unfortunately I didn't try it on but a very old Frenchman next to me said it was “très jolie” and the checkout girl thought it was the right size. Unfortunately it is that clingy material. When I saw a photo of me in it I almost cut it up, [the dress]. The truth is you cannot squeeze an overweight caterpillar shaped body into a tight stretchy brown and cream spotty dress and expect a butterfly to emerge.

This gets me thinking that wherever I am I want to take on the personality of that place. There is something mercurial, even unstable about it. “You are so adaptable,” my best friend Sarah said to me at high school. I thought it was a compliment. Now I wonder if I am deeply flawed. Do I lack a centre, a core? Like Peer Gynt, will I peel off layer after layer of the onion to find at the centre....nothing? I was Carmen in Spain, Occitan Carol in France. Here I am Karina Kolovic, in widow's black, sitting by the sea spinning stories.

Enough of this! Back to the story. We go to the shopping Centre, which is sterile, expensive, with global brands: indistinct from any such place in the world. Annie Lennox sings;

I travel the world and the seven seas

Everybody's looking for something

Some of them want to use you

Some of them want to get used by you

Some of them want to abuse you

Some of them want to be abused

Sweet dreams are made of this...

I leave in a black mood but without a black wardrobe.

As we wait for a bus, the heat is stifling and dark clouds gather on the horizon, a storm brewing. We snarl at each other. By the time we reach the Old Town, the storm has erupted into thunder and lightening. We stop on a balcony cafe for a drink and watch the storm over the sea.

'By the time we reach the Old Town, the storm has erupted...'

We are storming too. Finally we realise that being together for so long in confined spaces and spending so much time together is creating too much static.

Split Harbour.



We start doing separate things during the day, and soon all is calm.

On my own I explore the quiet alleyways, the vine covered courtyards, the tiny Saint Martin's church, the smallest in the world, built inside the city walls, the stalls selling lavender from Hvar, the blue harbour busy with boats and decide that Split is another place which has captured my heart and mind.

In the corridor behind the orange-bricked-up windows exists the 'smallest active church' in the world.

Dave and I stroll along the esplanade, where once the sapphire sea lapped the gleaming white arches of the palace walls.

We wander around to the local beach all gold and bronze in the late afternoon light and watch the locals play chess and cards,

swim and play 'picigin', sunbathe, play instruments and sing, drink beer and have massages.

At the restaurant boasting the 'Croatian chef of the year' we eat tuna and swordfish with 'mangold' and I drink schnapps with the restaurateur. Tomorrow the princess leaves the palace and perhaps the emperor has no clothes. I now have a Split personality.