The water is filthy. Marko at the marina says the garbage is coming from Albania. I almost laugh but there is anger in his words, rough and volatile.
The town within the walls is tiny crooked lanes and large structures, all made of stone. It creates an illusion of space in a place where it’s impossible to get lost.
From the pizzeria along the walls I can see the water, and the frantic clean-up operation. I order a pizza called ‘Stari Grad’ – Old Town; it has aubergine on it and is surprisingly good.
It’s getting darker. The fishing boats are pulling out. The garbage is lost in the darkness. Korčula is beautiful again.
Korčula, Croatia, May 2010
I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.