So we never made our way to Germany to visit the place Oma grew up in. I had hoped to but this trip has a mind of its own and here we are now in Klek Croatia a stones throw from the Bosnian Coast. This is Hallie's land. In the back of my mind coming to the Dalmation coast was a way to connect to her and now that I am here I see her everywhere. In the ethnographic museum in Ljubljana the folk costumes are just like the dolls of her youth.  In her dancing days whirling and sashed, long skirt flowing and hair braided and bundled she was a Slav. And as she aged she adopted the head shawl worn by the old ladies here. The Croats are self effacing with a witty dark sense of humor that masks the kindest type of soul. Just like Hallie.

 When we arrived in Croatia 3 days ago we had the first rainy weather of the whole trip. The Yugo (a wind from Africa that is said to drive people crazy) was blowing mixing the clouds fog and rain. A melancholy mantilla cloaking the mythological landscapes of wind swept hills and azure sea. A place and mood perfectly fitted to the fantasy and romance literature Hallie loved so much.

 Today we are off to Dubrovnik where my sister spent the happiest time of her life. I know this by the way she described eating a plate of oysters on a terraced restaurant overlooking the Adriatic and the tumble of  pan-tiled roofs below. It is also to the best of my knowledge the only full scene she ever painted, the roofs and alleys of the old city. I miss you sis and will toast you memory today in the city you loved.

Touched

Small kindnesses from strangers take on special importance when you're on the road. These acts also support one of my trip hypotheses, that the vast majority of people in the world are kind and decent. Here are a few examples of how strangers have touched me on this trip so far.

The Prostitute. If you have been following this blog you know that our apartment building in Genoa was also the working place of several prostitutes. We quickly got used to them, and they to us, sharing quick nods of hello as we came and went. One day Beth and I were out walking and we had a small argument (yes all is not perfect- we do argue occasionally).  I walked on ahead towards the apartment with Beth somewhere in my wake.  Obliviously I zipped right past the tiny alley of our apartment.  Our prostitute had noticed however and I suspect she also noticed the tension. Although she spoke no English she took the effort to explain to Beth that I has missed the turn and was down the street a way where Beth found and retrieved me.

The toll booth incident. Toll booths on large foreign highways can be intimidating. Each country has devised a different style. There are often multiple lanes with multiple signs offering multiple options and, in Italy, none are in English.  You really don't have enough time to pull out a dictionary with 10,000 local motorists behind you. Well we picked the wrong lane. We picked the lane that took credit cards but not American ones. "Carts di credito rifiutata" kept appearing no matter which card I used and which way I stuck it in. I saw there was a help button which I pushed about 80 times but finally realized no humans worked here, it was a robotic toll station of the future. I looked sheepishly around and motioned to the guy stuck behind me that he should back up cause I was going to be here a while. He tried to help but his English  compared to my Italian  and he drove through the toll in another lane. A few minutes later the toll gate miraculously opened and allowed us through. There parked on the side of the road was the man who was stuck behind us. He waved and I could tell by his smile that he was our rescuer.

The vegetable lady. Shopping at the local Slovenian farmers market I was buying vegetables for dinner from a plump older farm woman who spoke no English. She was straight from a Brugler painting, weathered hands, flowered apron and the prerequisite kerchief on her head.  She was amused rather than annoyed by the tiny amount of vegetables I was buying.  My last purchase was a single carrot which struck her as especially funny and after I paid she slipped another carrot into my bag with a warm grandmotherly smile.

The Arab.  Crossing from Portsmouth to  Santander we ended up on a second rate ferry which was filled with Arabs. These were Arab families, middle and lower middle class, travelers who kept well to themselves and did not interact with the few scattered  European  travelers.  They had their own mosque and their own entertainment. Many did not have berths and instead camped in the hallways of the ship. Although I did make eye contact a few times it usually ended with them dropping their eyes to the floor and passing by. It's easy to have bad thoughts about groups of foreign people who seem dismissive of all but their own people. It is also easy to imagine that in this world Islamic people are so focused upon that they feel sensitive  and somewhat awkward when among other people of the world.  In any case I was trying to withhold judgement as I explored the ship. Quite frankly I found the whole thing fascinating. As I was returning into the ship from an outer deck I came upon an Arab couple blocking the door. I saw the man was taking pictures of his wife against the ocean and setting sun. I waited for him to finish which took some time. Suddenly he noticed me and saw he was blocking my progress. He gave me  an apologetic look. I smiled and non verbally let him know that I did not mind at all. A look of total warmth and appreciation spread into his eyes and as I squeezed past him through the door he touched my head gently with two fingers in a gesture of thanks.