tales of wander

As I mentioned in my first post, one of the original intentions of this trip was to meet my friends Jill and Don while they were in Split and the trip just sort of grew from there, adding Jared and more weeks and cities to the mix. As I also mentioned, I’ve traveled briefly with these friends before, though not all together. To give a tiny bit of background, Jill is my oldest friend and my memory of her stretches back to grade school. I’ve known Jared since middle school and Don (Jill’s husband) since high school. Since we all grew up in the same area and went to some of the same schools, this means that Jill and Don also happen to know Jared (though he moved our sophomore year and I’m the one who’s kept in touch with him as an adult). As someone who has never been to a reunion before, this trip is likely the closest thing to a high school reunion as I will ever experience.

Having said all that, you will not be surprised that since arriving in Split, the typical sightseeing routine has taken a backseat to this reunion. Sure, we’ve seen some of the wonderful things for which Split is known, such as Diocletian’s Palace, which is a palace built for the Roman emperor Diocletian in the third century and is now a UNESCO World Heritage site (I know you’re tired of hearing that by now). We’ve strolled the Riva, which is the promenade that forms a border between the old town and the Adriatic Sea. We’ve wandered the old town, sampled local wines and sweet delicacies, eaten delicious food, and had many conversations over copious amounts of coffee. Naturally, those conversations included some reminiscing. 

One of the things that Jill and I often reminisce about when we’re together is the way we used to entertain each other when we were kids. When we were young, we made up stories about anything—the people who lived in homes that we’d stroll past, random strangers who’d walk by, or even the car seat that was stained in red paint and abandoned in the field between our houses. This past week Jill, Jared, and I went to a museum that featured the works of a famous Croatian artist (Don, unfortunately, had to miss this little outing). At one point, as Jill and I strolled through the gallery looking at the paintings, we started talking about the art. At first, we noted the artist’s evolution as a painter, looking at when he completed each work and remarking upon the differences in subject matter and technique. Then, our conversation took on a life of its own. We began speculating about the author’s life using his work as ‘evidence’—what he might’ve been thinking, what he may have experienced as a child, what may have motivated his art. We built a narrative around it, each of us elaborating on the other, until it culminated into a satisfactory conclusion that explained how the art made us feel. Then, we looked at each other and realized what we were doing: we were telling each other stories, just as we’d always done. We filled in the gaps of what we didn’t know about the artist and in doing so, gave both the artist and his work more fullness and dimension. At the same time, we created a portal to our childhood and transformed an otherwise typical visit to an art gallery into something extraordinary. It was a memorable moment—an intersection between past and present.

I feel incredibly fortunate to have people like this in my life—that is, people who form pieces of my history and with whom I can experience moments like these. People who’ve known me at my best and my worst (and further, who continue to choose to be in my life, despite this knowledge). On Thanksgiving day, I reflected a lot on this. I also thought about where I was at the same time last year: in the Amazon jungle, barely picking at my food after my first night of ceremony. That ‘trip’ was the one in which I experienced the foreboding sense that a period of upheaval was coming in my life. Had I known then what form that upheaval would take—that is, a tumultuous year followed by the gentle landing of being in this moment: in Croatia, doing what I love, surrounded by people I love, and eating a traditional meal of peka (a dish of meat and vegetables baked for hours over hot coals)—I might have been comforted. Right now, I’m just feeling full of gratitude.