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.