Creative Non-Fiction Short Stories. :) Travel, Oldsters, Love, and Compassion.
The sunset was a dusty purple and blue–like eye shadow colors that women only wore in magazines. I had been collecting the sunsets in amazement at their variety, and to remind myself that three months on the coast of Croatia would go swiftly.
I took my apartment in the off-season to avoid the pressure of too many tan people in swimming suits. Other than my post on the third story, the apartments were vacant. My landlady, Edita, regularly loaded me up with sacks of lemons from her heavy tree in the front yard. Lemon juice became my favorite condiment in gratitude for the ceaseless yellow gifts.
The whole town thought/knew/had been told that I was there to write a book. I may or may not have been party to the rumor. So when sitting on the balcony with my notebook, neighbors peered up, pedestrians stole glances, and the details I collected went into notebooks I would ship home and ignore for years.
Ana, the neighbor to my left, wore long black dresses and blew me kisses as she hung her laundry out to dry. We acknowledged each other several times a day, and I often called down the five clean Croatian phrases that I had been taught.
Their postman had a white handlebar mustache and rode yellow moped. He wore a mailbag over his chest and kept a basket on the handlebars, brimming with packages. He took the steep hill by the apartment very, very slowly, careful to nod at my landlord, who was often out front working on his project. He had been building a boat in the yard since I first arrived.
Rain or shine, he worked when he could and entertained visitors who stopped by every ten minutes for coffee, cigarettes, and to lean on the boat frame. After nearly every break, when he set back to work, he glanced up at my post on the balcony and waved his handsaw. We waited for the day that both our efforts would take shape. His took to the water in the late spring; mine remain under construction.