Scientific Exploration

I'll start with an apology. I have a series of ridiculous snapshots I would like to pepper throughout this post, but you'll have to live with mostly words until I can find a location that will support a downloading action. That place is not here. 

I kind of hate that I know what a "downloading action" is...but I also kind of love that "downloading action", according to Chris, is not a real computer term.

Via bus and “ferry”, a word in Croatia that actually describes a massive cruise ship with a booth filled salon where one can lounge about and pretend to be Zelda Fitzgerald on vacation with her boozy husband, we have landed in Hvar Town, Croatia, at Camp Kira. Camping in Europe is just like staying at a resort, except it’s $30 a night instead of $200 (which is nice).  The campsites have real showers with actual hot water, private beaches/lounges/what-have-you, silly mini golf courses, and grocery stores. Right now, as I write this, I am attempting to avoid listening to a man having a very serious, highly uncomfortable business conversation (without a shirt on) about broken contracts (poor Dave) and “more than adequate” time via Skype…at a campsite. It’s all slightly unreal. (And the conversation with Dave needs to stop. He doesn’t want to work for you. He’s not signing the contract. Let it go.)

What is extremely appealing to me, though, is the group of kittens lurking under a tree just above our campsite. I startled one last night on my way to the showers and it leaped away in that maddeningly cute kitty way, streaking off with all four kitty legs hyper-extended. In pursuit, I stepped on a cactus, which was unpleasant, and was unable to snatch up my new (forced) best friend. In the morning, though, I found that a band of evidently sneaky kittens had chewed through our food bag and eaten all of the salami and cheese. Consequently, I have decided that a Croatian Kitten Salami Stakeout will be in order.

Chris disagrees.

Hvar Town itself is unexpectedly lovely. The buildings are all white stucco and sun-bleached roofs; everything smells like the Adriatic and spaghetti. Unfortunately, Chris and I look particularly dirty in comparison to the multitudes of extremely wealthy American travelers, and we are probably an unwelcome sight against the background of pebbly beaches and the rigid lines of elegantly named sailboats. Somewhere in Hvar Town Palace, a woman named Rita is Photoshopping BiggieSmalls (i.e. us) out of her sunset seascapes and wondering how the homeless populations have migrated from the mainland.

Outside of a Gregorian monastery over 500 years old (complete with dead monks cemented in crypts in the floor), Chris picked us up some snorkel gear… because we weren’t weird enough. We are now the proud owners of two sets of masks and air-blower-things that I use mostly to inadvertently suck in copious amounts of sea water. We have delighted in slapping around the little inlet beach by our campsite. We are joined mostly by twelve-year-old boys with matching gear and have logged crabs, shrimp, snails, and little schools of fish in our scientific explorations. A particularly pleasant duo is a blonde and brunette set of brothers that have been paddling around the sea in an inflatable raft. Huck Finn and That Nice Guy Jim have a sense of spirit with which Chris strongly identifies and I sense that it’s only a matter of time before I am also the proud owner of an inflatable raft.

I don’t know where it will go in my pack yet. Perhaps by the snorkels…

As Wyomingnites, we had forgotten the sea’s rather disturbing ability to utterly exhaust you in a matter of minutes. We have been finding ourselves peering blearily at one another in the hot sun, wondering which one of us will be the first to suggest that perhaps we should stop reading for hours at a time and actually move ourselves from a prostrate position in order to continue our scientific exploration of the camp inlet (i.e. snuffle around with masks on like doofuses). Thus far, both of us have proven to have acquired sloth-like dispositions that are not conducive to concentrated marine biology research.  Though we may not have contributed anything substantial to the field of science today, we have produced measurable gains in the field of literature appreciation. I have been reading Finding Everett Ruess since finally finding the book at a BLM station in the Lake Powell area on the Arizona/Utah border (remember when Chris and I were trekking Antelope Canyon?). For anyone out there with an interest in anything, I highly recommend absorbing yourself in this little gem and also going to http://www.npr.org/search/index.php?searchinput=everett+ruess for the public radio take on an adventure mystery spanning over 70 years now. We’re talking a teenage John Muir/Edward Abbey/Henry David Thoreau/Jonas Brother traipsing across the American Southwest alone, befriending/belittling Navajos, riding burros, imposing himself on Ansel Adams, having Dorothea Lange take pictures of him for fun, and writing some of the most ridiculous, melodramatic, awe-inspiring, powerfully human nature musings that are out there (everettruess.com). It’s awesome…so awesome, in fact, that Chris (a man that pretends to be illiterate when the feeling strikes him) has been stealing the book from me throughout the course of this trip and falling equally in love with the timeless, strange little hero.

We’re naming our first child after him, regardless of gender.

Of course, there is a problem with sharing books – you really can’t. I read fast. Chris does the opposite. It’s a problem. Thankfully, I found Suite Francaise in London, and am now trapped in France during the German occupation. Love problems ensue. It’s a bit like a sweeping Russian war novel, except a bit more readable and with less alcohol. Invigorating, but likely only because I’m presently in Europe (wanting more Everett Ruess and desert lore).

Also, Chris is working on a lovely series featuring Hvar Town. Here's a taste of that splendor.

I’ll close with a conversation I was subjected to on the bus from Plitvice to Split, where the ferry was waiting for us to dirty up the place.

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Yeah, well, my sister’s friend was eaten by a shark.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Oh. My. GOD. That’s, like, my worst fear EVER. Was he alone?

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: He was diving with his mate, but then the shark came and ate him.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Oh. My. GOD. That’s, like, the scariest thing EVER. Did it eat all of him?

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Well, it only ate half of him.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl. Oh. My. GOD. Did he die?

Lauren: No, no, there’s just half of a shark victim going about his daily business in Australia right now.

Chris: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Uh, yeah, he died. He got eaten.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Oh. My. GOD. That’s, like, the super saddest thing EVER. What did they do with the other half?

Lauren: Oh. My. GOD. You must be kidding me.

Chris: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Well, uh, they buried the other half. Because he got eaten.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad. So, did you guys party in Zagreb?

Lauren: (pretends to die)

Chris: Yeah, ok. You’re right. (also pretends to die)