The Old House
Each year was the same as the one before: my siblings and I would come home from our last days of school, pack our suitcases, and days later we were on our way to Croatia. We each gave our dad a long hug, soaking the sleeves of his shirt in tears, and he would say, “I’ll see you kids in September.” My mom would kiss him goodbye, and soon enough our tears dried up as the plane rose into the sky.
My grandparents live on an island called Vir, and we spent most of the summer here. My grandpa picked us up every year in the old, silver Toyota, and after a couple of hours of driving, we were crossing the bridge that connected Vir to the mainland. I stared out the window, watching as we drove through mountains that turned into a twinkling turquoise sea.
I unpacked my pink Disney princess suitcase, the same one I used every summer, and filled up my shelf in the closet I shared with my siblings. My grandma made us french fries and chicken cutlets, because we were such picky eaters. No matter what time we arrived on Vir, our first instinct was always to put on bathing suits, grab a ball and the dusty towels that were left in the shed from last summer, and walk down to the beach. This was our routine every day, every summer. Me and Juliana were the mermaids, and Niko was the evil pirate trying to catch us. We swam to the buoys, and Niko splashed us until Juliana cried that he got water in her eyes. We searched for shells on the seafloor. We never needed goggles, the water was so clean that you could see every fish and rock down on the seafloor. Niko and I liked to jump off the wall meant for docking big ships, and Juliana watched us from the shore. That wall seemed a hundred feet tall when we were kids.
My mom hung out with the local moms, and we had plenty of kids around to hang out with. We always had ice cream before dinner, and went to our favorite ice cream shop where the same lady worked every year. We never knew her name, but she recognized us every year, just like everyone else did on the island. “The Americans are here,” they would all say. We stayed at the beach until the sun set, walked back home, and threw our towels and bathing suits over the clothesline that hung over the edge of my grandpa’s garden.
Some mornings, I would wake up early and go buy the bread for lunch and dinner. I walked down the long, rocky driveway to the small grocery store across the street. I used the leftover coins on the bouncy-ball and gumball machines outside the store. My grandma cooked while my grandpa sat outside drinking his bevanda. We played cards sometimes, but most of the time he just sat there and watched for tourists trying to park on his property.
The front yard was always my favorite. My grandpa had positioned the long branches of the grapevine tree in the garden to create a canopy over the front of the house, and underneath the shade of the vines was a rusty table and squeaky rocking chairs where we ate every day. The bright green leaves of the red tomatoes and perfectly round watermelons added color to the garden. Bushes that grew strange berries stretched alongside the unpaved driveway. My siblings and I would pick the berries and collect them in plastic sand buckets. We never ate them because we thought they were poisonous, but we did enjoy watching the bucket fill up with the tiny purple spheres. The backyard was full of trees, and a rock wall that separated our yard from the neighbors. I used to sneak around the wall and explore the land beyond our home. I always came back with scratches all over my legs from the rose bushes. But I was a kid, and the world was so different there, so beautiful, that I didn’t even feel the thorns digging into my thighs. I picked flowers and brought them back to my grandma.
…
We went to Croatia every summer of my entire life. By the time I started my junior year of high school, life got too busy, with a job and a social life, to spend two months in Croatia. “You either go the full summer or not at all,” my parents told me. So for one summer, I decided not to go, and sent my family off to Croatia just like my dad always did. When I went back this summer, I did not realize how much had changed since we were kids.
This time, my mom and sister picked me up in the same silver Toyota that we’ve had since I was a toddler. My mom says my grandpa hasn’t been driving as much anymore, especially at night. We start the three hour drive down to Vir, and I stare out the window, at the same beautiful Croatia that I took for granted. The water is just as blue as it always was, and the bridge shows off the same mountains that connect to the sea. I see the faded “Welcome to Vir” sign and a brand new gas station to the left of it, the first and most likely the only one they will build on the entire island.
As we drive up the driveway, the feeling is so familiar and comforting, yet so different. The long bushes we picked berries off of are gone. The new house my grandpa built last year stands in front of the old one. The old house is withered down, and the paint is peeling away. That’s where Niko, Juliana, and I stay now. Dry, brown grass replaces the magnificent trees that used to tower over me in the backyard. My mom says my grandpa didn’t like the pine needles “making a mess” back there. I walk up to the house and it feels more familiar up close. The same grapevine canopy shades the porch. My grandma is setting the table, and my grandpa is drinking his bevanda and smoking a cigar. We still have lunch outside under the grapevines. My grandpa tells me the tomatoes went bad this year, and I look out at the garden that was once full of green life, only to find dry dirt and a few plants still standing.
I go upstairs and unpack my clothes from a black suitcase. I ask Julie and Niko if they want to go to the beach after lunch, to reinstate our childhood tradition. We grab the same dusty towels that were never replaced with new ones. We are too old now to play mermaids and pirates, but we swim out to the buoys and admire the crystal clear sea. We dry off and get ice cream from the same place and the same lady. I text some of my Croatian-American friends from Astoria to tell them I’m back in our homeland. We are finally old enough to go out to the clubs and bars, although the laws here never really mattered. I was buying drinks for me and my friends by thirteen.
I go out every night, and don’t come home until the buses start running again the next morning. This is nightlife in Croatia once you’re old enough, although I miss taking walks with my grandpa at night to buy ice cream and corn from the street stands. I miss those bouncy-balls from the grocery store too. Memories of my childhood that I hold dear to my heart are changing and disappearing, like the pine trees and wild berries, but this place still feels like home.
One of my last days, I went out to lunch and grocery shopping with my grandma. On the ride home, she tells me my grandpa was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. He’s starting to show symptoms. She asks me not to tell Niko and Julie yet, because she doesn’t want to worry them. I see her looking over at me, but my sunglasses hide the tears that are forming in my eyes. My strong, valiant grandfather. The thought of him growing older and weaker never crossed my mind until now. “Just another way for him to drive me crazy,” she says. We both laugh, and drive back to our little island paradise. My grandpa is on the porch, and my grandma puts down her bags right away to run into the kitchen to make his bevanada. “Thank you Stara,” he says. He calls her his old lady, and she calls him her old man. It has always been this way. I sit down with my grandpa and look around at the house that has changed so much. I remember tripping and scraping up my knees on the rocks, hiding in the rose bushes, swimming at the beach until the sun was gone, and the rest of the childhood memories I had let slip away from me when I got older. So much has changed here, I realize, but I appreciate and love it even more than I ever have. I turn to my grandparents to ask if they want to play cards, but I stop myself. They look so peaceful and in love, holding hands under the table as they watch the tourists walk down the street.
