In Trieste we met Manuela and Manuela made magic on paper and drew her country, Croatia, on a map to enjoy it. And we start all three, Victor, Leandro and me, With Manuela's map in his hand and with his eyes open to the new Europe we were.
And when passing through Slovenia we stopped to take a wine in the small barrach of Maria who gave smiles and sold vinegar with such grace that we paid him for the smiles. And we cross the border and arrive in Rovinj, Croatia, where the sea is made of stone and where its streets are so narrow and pending that the wind does not climb until it reaches its central tower that watches everything. Rovinj is simply fascinating. Then we went down to the city of Sibenik and slept in a place that rented three quarters for the price of media and where we spent an unforgettable night of conversation and laugh with Neda and her partner of the name impronciable name. Two middle -aged women with whom we talk about politics, religion, food and past, a lot of past, of their once better times before war when men lived without fear of dawn.
Better times before war when men lived without fear of dawn
And we went to trogir, Because we went where Manuela told us, And there it turns out that she was right again and her napkin made sense. His towers and bells seemed roots of a rock tree. We also visit and sleep near Dubrovnik, The perfect medieval city in which beauty is to contemplate its hundred stones with clothes hanging from the windows like the moss hangs on a wall. Everything is so beautiful that it even ceases to be.
But Dubrovnik was much more than that, It was the house of the giant Nicolás. Nicolás was an immense Croatian 55 years, of white beard, married to a Bosnia who had been a sniper during the war, who drank and sang with his friends in the bar of a bar. Nicolás invited us rounds and gave us hugs and kisses while singing another song or asked for another round. Nicolás was so big that Leandro had to get on a stool to give him a hug when he said goodbye and he still did not cover him. Nicolas was so great and his drunkenness that when I hugged me I thought a piece of sky had fallen. Nicolás gave us one of those formidable days of trips that only occur in the taverns.
Then, When Croatia already stayed behind we passed through Montenegro. And there we did not understand anything because we did not understand that we would never have heard of such beauty. It turns out that the adiatric is sneaks into a piece of land at the height of the city of Herceg Novi and forms a salty lagoon to which small villages grow around. And there are islands with monasteries and monasteries without islands. And there is green water and there is blue water. And there is a long road that raffles the waters that one would like it to have no end. And there is a country to return as soon as you can see if it did not cheat us.
There are islands with monasteries and monasteries without islands
And we end with Montenegro with those Balkans of his mythical war, although we still had thousands of kilometers of his mountain range ahead. And before, that good I wanted to leave it for the end, We had crossed Bosnia and asleep in her. And there, After visiting the Medjugorje sanctuary we reached a bridge and then everything happened like this, In the first person of the present of the verb yesterday:
Silence hides on the Mostar bridge while between its stones the water breaks in secrets and the night lengthens as if there were never a day. In the bridge of Mostar the looks go crazy and in the old taverns the smoke of the chimneys does not let the cold escape. In the bridge of Mistar Misery is a whistle that has no lips or melody. In the bridge of Mostar the throat he junks and the soul weighs until confusing the crying. In the Mostar bridge there is a learned dignity that rises above the dead that watch their way. On the bridge of Mostar the roosters are wax and sing on their backs at noon fed up to return without returning. On the Mostar bridge, smiles are given and came next to a bonfire where you burn your feet. On the Mostar Bridge the shadows walk so fast at dawn that no one sees them. At the Mostar Bridge the maps are glass and the towers are centipedes. On the Mostar Bridge prayers and bells are heard and when the sun goes down the drunken dance the wind without knowing where to lose. On the Mostar Bridge it smells of generous food, to clay pot, to fish meat. In the Mostar bridge resists death in walls where the holes bleed cement and drool. On the bridge of Mostar, men expect anxious, trembling with fear, That a woman passes. On the bridge of Mostar the steps are made of leather and from their marble railings they fly bodies when the sun is turned upside down. On the bridge of Mostar one believes in the shortest infinite, In the eternal beginning, in which time could not grow. War and love stories are heard on the Mostar bridge, lies that are truths and truths that cease to be. On the Mostar bridge, a part of what was not mine was left, What I could not understand in twenty -four hours, What I don't know if I want to know. There, Among its waters and stones. In Mostar Bridge.
