split: the playground of tourists, romantic ruins, and roman gods.

our room was surprisingly quiet on the People’s Square, as late night party goers, #theyachtweek bourgeoisie, and tourists rustled through the Brac tiles under the silver moon.  sleep was peaceful. 

the Croatian Sun rose early, and peeped through the corners of the veiled historic glass windows.  ethereal light blanketed our quaint space.  serene backgrounds beckoned our presence in the near distance, so we followed the sweet call.  

built for the Roman Emperor Diocletian around 300 AD, the palace is a fortress in disguise.  designed to enforce and protect. 

beyond the peristyle which houses faux Roman guard lay St Dominus Cathedral, covered in gold and clothed in oil paintings.  it was converted to a Catholic Church in the sixth century, and many Roman altars were renamed. 

during the marrying of those religions some sculptures remained, like this altar of Jupiter now named after St John the Baptist.  

at night, lights place shadow on the ancient architecture, soft live music from the peristyle dancing in the humid air.  onlooking tourists, mouth agape, flash photos and selfies and drip melting ice cream on the white Brac squares.  

the sommelier and I traverse the alleys and breathe in the swaths of dinner aromas.  

restaurants bustle, patios full to the brim with locals and strangers alike.  white wine spills from most carafes, the highly mineralized, salty liquid easily emptied from crystal glasses.  

fresh seafood packs the plates.  

lovers hold hands in the romantic ruins.  

our last jaunt of Croatian culture, the city of Split is a timeless cross mix of various influences: Greek, Roman, and Dalmatian.  

she glitters brightly in the deep blue sea, her azure heart open for all to see. unbounded by walls, Split is the unique, modern daughter of Croatia.  

a gem in the crown of former kings.  

burgundy: ice cream with the negociant.

on monday we awoke with vigor, cracking the domaine fresh eggs into a hot pan, staring in disbelief at the dark orange color of the yolk, the free range, hormone free, european goodness transparent. the smell of fresh baguettes permeated the 2-foot thick walls. the day was ours!

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we left the exposed, pier-beamed ceilings of our Burgundian fortress to brace the bright sun and infinite blue skies that had become our new normal. after all, carousels and cobblestone streets await.

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daintily we sprinkled our texan flair around town, eventually stopping to admire the hospices du beaune.

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a middle-aged relic in her own right, the hospices chanted softly into the back of our ears, reminding us of the holy ground on which we walked. we listened intently to the historical characterization of each room, and earnestly sought out every detail in the canvases which adorned the walls.

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sommkid declared she wanted to travel back in time, assist the nuns, and take care of the sick of the day. the sommelier smiled.

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after our history lesson, we walked the cobblestone streets down the passage ste helene, and into the courtyard across from the infamous ma cuisine.

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aromas of roasted chicken twined in rosemary, sautéed mushrooms, and fried potatoes filled the air. we feasted on pickles and capers and homemade wild game terrine.

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we sipped on champagne and chablis, laughing and telling stories of winemakers and road trips. it was easy to feel apart of it all the basement of Le Serbet, the air so welcoming and friendly.

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sommkid grew restless as the hours wore on, so we gave kisses and hugs to the girls in the office and made our way out to the country to meet with the grand matriarch of negotiants, a pioneer in the field of wine.

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after chasing kitty cats and pining after goats, horses, and cows, sommkid had her fill of healthy chocolate ice cream, and seconds… and thirds. and with her very full belly, she listened to the love story of two wine lovers entangled between England and France, the conversion of old barns, and the vintner parties that ensued there.

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it was the end of the day, and we became tired and weary. the sommelier led us to maison columbiere for charcuterie and trios eoufs, our fill of cremant and a glass of villages du Bourgogne. our bellies burst with flavor as we struggled to stay awake. we would sleep well tonight.

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and tomorrow, Bordeaux.