forty five days.
rogoznica, croatia. our little town; the bay. everything is here. everything is preserved in these trees, the sea and stones. our childhood; my childhood. walking around the town, taking photographs, writing. awake at nine every day; half an hour on the terrace. then I descend down to my grandparents’ apartment. grandmother and I have a cup of coffee; a couple of cigarettes. we talk about everything and nothing. I help with little things around the house. laundry; rubbish bins; groceries. during the day I swim, walk up and down the hill, drink coffee with friends and neighbors, take afternoon naps, tan; relax. everything sinks deep in to my memory; old memories surface. I remember my injuries, experiences and games we played. I remember every stone, every pebble, every corner, every meter of the seabed; everything is just as we left it. nothing has changed yet we are older.
then I discovered an old tennis racquet, started playing every evening against the back of the house. walks to the marina and around the old town. visits to the open sea, listening to the waves and feeling salty air on my skin. my hair dry and light. my skin soft and dark. an afternoon in capostesto, photographs. feeling lonely but grateful. exploring streets that I know so well. watching the sunset, passing by the restaurant where many years ago m and I had to keep quiet, I passed by the tennis courts feeling a slight pinch at heart, walking through the playground in the centre where I used to swing as a three year old. but the swings are not there anymore.
old friends came for a visit as well. a couple of beautiful nights with the two of them; incredible seafood, plenty of wine. full moon, sky full of stars. we drove to trogir and on our way back I leaned my head back and watched the night sky through the open cabrio roof. music playing, my hair flying in all directions, warm air, soft scent of pines. a couple of days of thunders, rain and lightning. then the weather changed from summer to autumn over night. I took out warm blankets and sleeping the next morning. daylight lasts only until seven.
summer ends here and begins somewhere else.
part one, part two.
September 22, 2011