Mad Scientess Jane Expat
Visitors who know the recent history of Croatia and the Balkans scan the hilltop views for signs of the destruction wreaked by the bombing. An unbroken wave of undulating terracotta tiles reveals nothing. Only a few overgrown ruined patches in the old city remain, and there is no sense of time associated with them. This rubble could be hundreds of years old, or decades, or months. The visitors turn to the monuments and museums for signs, but the blurred still projections cannot be connected with the bright, vibrant world outside, with its pristine white stone pavements lapped by blue waves and trod by fashionable feet. So the visitors turn to the people, looking for the tragedy in them. The people look back, inscrutable. Only the alert wariness toward outsiders who don't speak their language shows on their faces.
Soon the visitors are distracted by the food, the plentiful pivo and the pleasures of the beach. They forget to look for the evidence, locked in the people's minds, and they leave as much of an impression as his shadow on their walls.