“Now is the time to understand more, so that we may fear less.”
― Marie Curie
I’ve been sketching in a café on the island of Iž for maybe fifteen minutes when Stan appears in the doorway.
He wears blue jeans, a round fishing hat over his white hair, and a faded sweatshirt from The Gap – which I will later learn he bought in New York City in 1981 for $11. Standing over me, he says something in indistinguishable Croatian.
“I’m sorry but I don’t know,” I say.
“Of course you don’t know,” he replies – and in perfect English, I might add. “I said I’m trying to figure out who the hell you are.”
The mere fact that he’s the first person I’ve met all day whom I share a language with would normally have brought me to tears – but to hear this 70-something-year-old man swear with such candor has me laughing out loud instead.
As he eases himself into a seat at my table, he asks, “May I buy you a drink?” which is always a welcome question, no matter the age of the man who’s asking.
Stan orders me white wine mixed with mineral water and while I sketch the scene across from us – a group of men playing cards before that evening’s football match comes on – he tells me about his life.
I learn that his father died when Stan was 14, but his dream would later be realized – that his son would become a naval captain. Stan was in charge of a ship in the Croatian navy by the time he was 26 – “That happened too early,” he says, “I was too young” – although he later retired and began working for a private company in Zagreb, one that had him traveling to places like London, Madrid, New York, and Chicago.
He then lived in Zadar for a while and would come to visit his mother on the island every weekend, slipping her a little cash so she could buy any extra things she needed.
“These small things are, at the end of the day, what make you happy,” Stan says.
And it’s at this moment that my eyes do indeed fill with tears. I’m overwhelmed by everything I will never understand about Stan’s story – what it means to lose a parent so soon in your life, what it means to survive when your country is at war, what it means to hear enemy tanks encircling your city at night – and by the simple yet poignant wisdom he now shares with me.
As I pull out my paint box and colored pencils, Stan points to the scene I’ve been sketching and asks, “Isn’t it easier just to take a photo with your mobile?”
“Of course,” I answer – but would we still have met?
What a great moment and meeting. And of course—if you hadn’t been drawing, he probably wouldn’t have struck up a conversation with you. Sketching is the ultimate icebreaker (and language barrier buster!), and such a great way to meet wonderful people!
Yes! I absolutely think the fact that I was sketching had something to do with why he approached me. And I couldn’t agree more about art busting the ever-present language barrier – if this trip through the Balkans has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t need a common language to share a love for art 🙂
What a great story and a lovely shared moment. You probably would not have met had you not been sketching. Perhaps you would have taken a photograph and moved on a lot quicker than you did in this occasion. Your encounter reminds me a bit about a chance encounter in Kosovo. We had met a young pharmacist who asked to show us around and I’m thankful we took him on the offer. Getting to view a glimpse of his life there, and discuss his time growing up and the war. Thank you for sharing all your lovely stories from the Balkans.
Thanks so much, Anwar! And thank you as well for sharing about your own encounter in Kosovo – that must have meant a lot to see part of the region through the eyes of a local. I’m glad you took him up on his offer!
PS – You’re making me regret even more that I won’t be making it to Kosovo on this trip 🙂
What an amazing encounter. It is so wonderful that you’ve met so many people through sketching – too often I am caught up in very isolating things when I am out, either reading or writing or on a computer. Sometimes we forget to just look up, to just smile at the person across from us.
I wonder how many moments I’ve missed out on…
I am right there with you, Brenna! So often I’m holed up in a cafe on my laptop, working on something or another, so I’m grateful that my sketchbook forces me (in a good way!) to open up and observe what’s going on around me. And yes, sometimes a smile is all it takes for an encounter to unfold 🙂
What a lovely meeting! Makes me want to go out and talk to some new people!
Thanks, Erin! So glad you enjoyed this post – hope all is well in Canada 🙂
Your art and your posts are magic.
Thank you, Amanda! By the way, I just went and blog-stalked you, and absolutely *love* both the name of your site and where it came from…as you probably already know, I’m a big fan of names borrowed from epic quotes and poems 🙂 Thanks for saying hello here!
What a beautiful story. I love chance encounters with people when travelling. Or when we’re not travelling for that matter but I find such encounters rare in London. I shall endeavor to try harder!
You asked him a great question at the end of the article. Timely:)