Summer, July/August ’17 —
In Dubrovnik, we dream. We build a hundred different futures with our hands, our words, and tuck them into the wall that surrounds the Old Town. In this one, we live at the top of a narrow staircase. An apartment with a skylight that brings the morning sun in; that wakes me up into a flood of white light. In the summertime, we buy Callipos from the vendors along the city wall. It melts in our hands. Everyday we climb stairs and after a while it doesn’t feel like hard work. At night, we eat seafood by the port; feel the breeze flow between our legs; crack mussels open with our hands; peel prawns delicately; dip bread into the sauce at the bottom of the pot. At times, we forget about the food and nurture conversation instead. We sit at the table for hours and laugh. And get to know. And already know. And again. On a friendship that is both new and old. It is a long meal. After, we pay the bill, leave a tip, and follow the sounds to a crevice under the cathedral where a group of young men sing traditional Croatian songs. We stay and listen, leaning against the wooden gate, until they are finished. The crowd erupts and everyone scatters, including us. We walk and think aloud about whether we should get gelato. We walk and peer into every gelato shop we pass by. We walk and it starts raining and we don’t rush to go home.
ANTHEA YANG 