Growing Up in Split: The Scent of Rain and Angels Without Wings
There is a specific kind of magic in the Dalmatian rain that you cannot find anywhere else in the world.
Whenever I close my eyes and think of my childhood, I don't see clear pictures. I smell things first. I smell the wet, white limestone of the Riva. I smell the salt that the southern wind, the Jugo, carries through the narrow stone alleys of the palace. And most of all, I smell that heavy, dusty scent of rain hitting the hot pavement of Split after a long, dry summer.
For me, growing up in Split wasn't just about living in a city; it was about learning the language of stone and the silence of those who lived before us. It was a place where history wasn't something you read in books, but something you touched every time you leaned against a wall to tie your shoelaces.
The City of White Stone and Salty Soul
I remember walking to school, my shoes clicking against the smooth, slippery stones that have been polished by millions of footsteps over centuries. In Split, you feel small, but in a good way. You realize you are just one layer in a very deep geological history. The palace of Emperor Diocletian wasn't a monument to me; it was my playground. We played hide and seek in corners where Roman guards once stood, oblivious to the grandeur, only caring about the cool shade the ancient granite provided.
People there are like the stone—hard on the outside, shaped by the winds and the sea, but warm when the sun hits them. I learned my first lessons in resilience there. I learned that you can be weathered by life, but you can still remain standing, just like the walls that have survived empires. The temperament of the people is dictated by the winds; when the Bura blows, everything is clear and sharp, but when the Jugo takes over, a heavy melancholy settles over the streets, and everyone moves a little slower, sharing a collective, unspoken sigh.
My Angels Without Wings
They say everyone has a guardian angel, but in the streets of my youth, those angels didn't have wings. They were the neighbors who shouted from the balconies to make sure you had eaten. They were the old women at the "Pazar" market, with their sun-beaten faces and hands that smelled of sage and rosemary, selling bunches of lavender wrapped in lace.
These were the "silent warriors" of my life. I remember my mother, a woman of incredible strength, who navigated life with the grace of a lioness. She and the women of her generation taught me that courage isn't always a loud roar. Sometimes, it’s just the act of waking up, smelling the coffee and the sea air, and deciding to face the day with your head held high, no matter how many suitcases you might have to pack one day.
The Bittersweet Taste of Departure
Growing up in such a place gives you a strange kind of confidence. You feel anchored by the stone, yet the open horizon of the Adriatic Sea constantly whispers about what lies beyond. I remember the day I realized I would have to leave. I looked at the bell tower of St. Duje and felt a pang of guilt, as if I were deserting a friend.
I have traveled far since then. I traded the Adriatic blue for the Canadian white of the Northwest Territories and eventually for the elegant, rolling greens of the French countryside. I have stood in diamond mines where the pressure of the earth creates literal treasures, but I never found anything as precious as the feeling of "fjaka"—that sublime Dalmatian state of mind where time stands still and your only job is to exist.
A Piece of Home I Carry
Even now, living in Romorantin-Lanthenay, surrounded by different rivers and different scents, I am still that girl from the stone palace. Every time a storm gathers over the French forests, I find myself sniffing the air, looking for the scent of salt and wet limestone.
The scent of that rain is my compass. It reminds me that no matter how deep I dig in the mines of life, or how far I fly, my roots are wrapped around that white Dalmatian stone. I am a geologist not just by profession, but by birth. I was born from the rock, and the rock taught me how to survive the pressure of the world.Thank you for reading.
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About the Creator
Magma Star
Geologist and poet, author of 5 poetry collections.
🌍 Read my stories in 3 languages (EN/FR/HR) on my blog: MagmaStar.com
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By Fiaz Ahmed a day ago in Humans
Comments (1)
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