Penelopian troubles

I didn’t expect to go to a cemetery. It’s rarely an item on the tourist’s agenda, because I was definitely a tourist and not a traveler. In a land plagued by beach connoisseurs and suntan devotees the off-season is more than anything that time of the year when the locals get to be just them and not postcard filler. The churches become sacred, the sand untreaded and walking through the streets is safe again, no crazy tourist asking for directions to get to the fort standing right next to them. So no matter what good intentions I might have had of being a good traveler and accommodate to the newfound culture I stood out and interrupted ordinary life with as much gracefulness as the next Hawaiian shirt wearing, sunscreen streaked tourist, struggling to pronounce his hotel’s name.
Thus it was frequent to be stared at to then suddenly be ignored as soon as I saw them and tried to acknowledge them. The lady at the tourist information booth made it all very clear when I inquired her about taking a boat ride, renting a kayak, a canoe or even a bike. No, no, no, no, she kept on answering with what in other situation may have been a very lucrative poker face. “So what can I do?”, this time I had her cornered, there was no way she could answer that with a monosyllabic answer. “Lady, is the off-season” was the sentence and I surrendered to my destiny.
She was unhelpful to say the least, but indeed, it was the off-season. Walking around seemed to be the only option, so walked I did. And I stumbled upon unending rows of coffeeshops flooded with Croatians, fancy stores selling traditional European goods (read also boots, tights and jackets) and the occasional Catholic church reminding me that this is Croatia, not Serbia or Bosnia and Herzegovina, a distinguishing feature for which all of them paid dearly. However, I didn’t need to think about that anymore, Croatia is the land of the crystalline sea where even the tiniest sea urchin can be seen from 10 or 15 feet away because the water is so so clear.
From the cliff where I stood the sea and its shy waves were all that I could possibly think about. Even the earth seemed to share my fascination, launching forward into the vastness of the Adriatic with rocks who thundered through the water as the cliff not only made its way down but also into the sea. I breathed in the saltiness around and wondered whether the fisherman that was slowly making its way into my canvas image shared my fascination with those sparkling blues. Maybe he also expected to see a mermaid pop up at any moment and start singing its deathly charms.
It wouldn’t be too out of place, supposedly Mljet, an island an hour away from Dubrovnik where I now delighted myself was were the famous Odysseus spent seven years with Circe. Homer said he was bewitched, just like the seamen are coerced into deathly whirlpools. So these islands, these lands, are known for it bewitching powers that drive men (and women, I guess) into pointless crusades, men forgot their good nature and will to hold on to some sacredness that after all never was really there. But maybe, like for the fisherman in the distance, they only facilitate a means of life and we are just too glad to bestow them with larger than status; one that would explain to our Penelopes our passional escapades.
Like the tourist I was, I stopped at that park to catch the sunset, what better Canon moment (not all of us have Kodak do we?) than a sunset, cliffs and a quaint Balkan fisherman? But the sun never came, or went away in style for that matter. After all my walking and hunting him down along the coastline it decided to cover behind clouds. Lazy bustard, just a little more effort and he could have had outshined them, but is the off-season and Croatia feels quite laidback, there’s no reason while the sun should be any different.
Hence, for the second time I resigned and rerouted my expectations, back to my bed; but along the way an angel stopped me. It wings stretched further more than I could have expected and its whiteness was the most shocking thing. Yet unlike folk beliefs of androgyny it was clearly male. I’m not sure whether it was limestone or marble but it definitely looked expensive and well cared for, and since there was no entrance fee to get closed to this sculpture I walked towards it. Just then it niche of a place revealed itself for what it was, a cemetery: flowers, white tombs and even the slender sober pines characteristic of northern countries all where there. Yet, it was particularly colorful, not one single tomb lacked flowers, and the butterflies uninhibitedly flying around spoke more of a garden than Dracula’s quarters. Maybe that what is paradise after all: a flowery death place.
I looked around for looks of disapproval, but for the first time no one seemed to mind me. Soon Croatian, Italian, German and even French started to appear. Somewhere in time a French surgeon was deeply loved. He died almost a century ago and so did a lot of them, especially the ones not in Croatian. I wondered how they could have lots of fresh flowers being dead for so long? They ought to have particularly dedicated grandchildren to still carry on putting fresh flowers so efficiently. Or maybe it was just near a particular holiday and I, as the tourist I was, was completely oblivious; either way, cemeteries have always intrigued me and that one was particularly beautiful. Small, but that made it more personal and approachable, the tombs were extremely closed, almost overlapping, but yet it didn’t feel overcrowded, just (as perverse as it may sound) like one big united family.
Like for example the two persons who died at 1986. They must have been family since their tombs were together and had the same last name, probably a mother and son since she was born in 1939 and he in 1970. It must have been quite a bad moment, both of them dead at the same year; it must have been an accident. Maybe a car crash at Christmas when everybody is too giddy and entertained drinking to remember being sensible. And then, I remembered the war. I wasn’t sure when it had began or when Dubrovnik was shelled, but I knew it was near the early nineties and 1986 is not so far away from that. It was also my birthday year, but next to a war who cares?
I started paying more attention to dates and I did found a lot close to the nineties, but there were also the really old ones in foreign languages so that didn’t make a lot of sense. I saw a lady arranging a big group of flowers bouquets and thought of asking her about the nineties tombs, but that would have been particularly insensible so I just left. As I walked towards the exit I saw a man picking out the dead flowers from the tomb and throwing them away. He must be quite dedicated to come just when some of the flowers are withering away. But then I saw another man doing the same, and yet another one, and the previous woman started bringing new flowers for them to replace. That’s when I realized t6hat this must be a place for the reach and all that dedication I had imagined through the colorfulness and freshness of each tombs was more capitalist related than a Penelopian commitment. But if this was a rich people’ resting place they would have probably being able to run away in the war. I was perplexed, but the one thing I new and still hold to is that no matter how entrancing the color-bound murmur of the sea may be, it can’t erase some very human traces on this little convulsed piece of earth.