remain no more than what they are in fact. They begin only when we experience them, vanish when others follow. So they truly have no significance. They are made of that primal substance that touches our senses but is too light, too evanescent, to teach us anything.
When I returned to the waterfront, the day was well under way. The pubs were open, the cars were maneuvering on the narrow boulevard, guys in overalls were skillfully hoisting buckets on scaffolds, garbagemen were removing furniture that had been put out but looked perfectly fine, women in high heels were stepping around what was left of puddles, and stewed onions filled the air. A man in a sweater, old boots, and track pants went to the water's edge and cast his spinning rod. After the fifth or sixth cast, he reeled in a fish. He struck it against a stone slab and disappeared with his stunned prize down a small street. Children with backpacks walked to school, and pairs of elderly ladies took their strolls in mincing steps. At the port marina, fishermen in wool caps worked on their boats. One of them threw fish guts on the shore. A black cat immediately appeared. A moment later, a dog ran up, but the cat sent it packing. Under the arcades of the open market facing the port stood young men with tired faces, traditionally waiting for the day to bring an opportunity or surprise.
All this in blinding sun along the land's very edge. The interior of the town was dark, humid, labyrinthine. The houses grew one out of the other, leaned on one another, parted to a width of outstretched arms, and the dirty little cobblestone streets took paths in a way that bordered on the perverse. A hair separated neighbor from neighbor. Sometimes a door opened directly on the street, and you could see a neat row of boots, clothes on hangers, a mirror a person had quickly consulted before leaving. Wandering through the center of town, even when there was no one around, was like wandering through an invisible crowd. Voices on the other side of walls, conversations, tables placed under lit lamps, the smell of food, the sound of water in bathrooms, arguments, gestures, the entire intimacy of life in reach of your eyes, ears, nose. The town was one big house, a thousand rooms connected by cold, dark corridorsâor a comfortable prison where each inmate could engage in his favorite activity. Piran: a monastery for the laity.
Such cities were possible, I thought, only by the sea or in the desert. In a locked landscape, the inhabitants might go mad. Here, only a few dozen steps were needed to take you off the human termitarium, this creation half architectural, half geological, to where limitless sea and air began, bounded only by the indistinct line of the horizon.
At eight in the morning I sipped coffee and watched the white ferry leave Pula for Venice. The waitress wiped the raindrops off my table. From a pub wafted
Buena Vista Social Club.
A little dog ran inside, lifted its leg to the leg of a chair, pissed, calmly departed. It was dim within, all wood, like an old ship, but I preferred to sit outside and see the air brighten. The delivery vans busy around the marina. The masts of yachts moving like uncertain needles on dials. A couple of old women chatting in Italian. More and more cats. They warmed themselves on the boulders along the beach. A quiet, unreal place, this, resembling no other, bringing to mind nothing but the abstract idea of harmony. Eight in the morning, sun, coffee, a white ferry, and Cuban music: an eclectic dream come to life.
Except I was here to see the country in which the last Balkan war began. It lasted ten days and claimed sixty-six lives. It's possible that the Yugoslav army departed in such haste because the Serbs felt that they were in a truly foreign land. Having no graves here, no memories, they confronted their deprivation. The invading of small, peripheral peoples is by necessity a provincial matter. You acquire territory that in some way reminds you
When I returned to the waterfront, the day was well under way. The pubs were open, the cars were maneuvering on the narrow boulevard, guys in overalls were skillfully hoisting buckets on scaffolds, garbagemen were removing furniture that had been put out but looked perfectly fine, women in high heels were stepping around what was left of puddles, and stewed onions filled the air. A man in a sweater, old boots, and track pants went to the water's edge and cast his spinning rod. After the fifth or sixth cast, he reeled in a fish. He struck it against a stone slab and disappeared with his stunned prize down a small street. Children with backpacks walked to school, and pairs of elderly ladies took their strolls in mincing steps. At the port marina, fishermen in wool caps worked on their boats. One of them threw fish guts on the shore. A black cat immediately appeared. A moment later, a dog ran up, but the cat sent it packing. Under the arcades of the open market facing the port stood young men with tired faces, traditionally waiting for the day to bring an opportunity or surprise.
All this in blinding sun along the land's very edge. The interior of the town was dark, humid, labyrinthine. The houses grew one out of the other, leaned on one another, parted to a width of outstretched arms, and the dirty little cobblestone streets took paths in a way that bordered on the perverse. A hair separated neighbor from neighbor. Sometimes a door opened directly on the street, and you could see a neat row of boots, clothes on hangers, a mirror a person had quickly consulted before leaving. Wandering through the center of town, even when there was no one around, was like wandering through an invisible crowd. Voices on the other side of walls, conversations, tables placed under lit lamps, the smell of food, the sound of water in bathrooms, arguments, gestures, the entire intimacy of life in reach of your eyes, ears, nose. The town was one big house, a thousand rooms connected by cold, dark corridorsâor a comfortable prison where each inmate could engage in his favorite activity. Piran: a monastery for the laity.
Such cities were possible, I thought, only by the sea or in the desert. In a locked landscape, the inhabitants might go mad. Here, only a few dozen steps were needed to take you off the human termitarium, this creation half architectural, half geological, to where limitless sea and air began, bounded only by the indistinct line of the horizon.
At eight in the morning I sipped coffee and watched the white ferry leave Pula for Venice. The waitress wiped the raindrops off my table. From a pub wafted
Buena Vista Social Club.
A little dog ran inside, lifted its leg to the leg of a chair, pissed, calmly departed. It was dim within, all wood, like an old ship, but I preferred to sit outside and see the air brighten. The delivery vans busy around the marina. The masts of yachts moving like uncertain needles on dials. A couple of old women chatting in Italian. More and more cats. They warmed themselves on the boulders along the beach. A quiet, unreal place, this, resembling no other, bringing to mind nothing but the abstract idea of harmony. Eight in the morning, sun, coffee, a white ferry, and Cuban music: an eclectic dream come to life.
Except I was here to see the country in which the last Balkan war began. It lasted ten days and claimed sixty-six lives. It's possible that the Yugoslav army departed in such haste because the Serbs felt that they were in a truly foreign land. Having no graves here, no memories, they confronted their deprivation. The invading of small, peripheral peoples is by necessity a provincial matter. You acquire territory that in some way reminds you
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