This is the story of how I came to visit communist Yugoslavia twice in the summer of '65, and why I was drawn back the second time.
The tale begins in Paris, around the end of July. I had been working day and night, with hardly any sleep and only pills to keep me awake, for over a week. At the time I was studio manager for the famed photographer Richard Avedon, who was covering the Fall Couture Collections for Harper's Bazaar magazine. That year we were using a brand-new studio and darkroom setup utilizing untested, state-of-the-art equipment and a European crew of one Frenchman, one German, one Israeli, and two Swedes. Getting everything to work was a nightmare, but after the first week the problems had been fixed and all was well.
All was well except me, that is. My job was really finished at this point, so I sat down to relax. Then Avedon came in, saw me, and suggested that I looked terrible and should go to bed right away. He would send a doctor over to see me.
I was in a fog as I wandered down Rue Jean-Goujon past Place François-1er to my hotel. Soon the doctor arrived, examined me, and said that I was suffering from the dreaded disease of très fatigué, meaning very tired. He gave me prescriptions for about half a dozen different antibiotics, told me to stay in bed for a few days, and arranged with the hotel for special meals. The office sent me a pile of reading material.
After a few days I felt a little better, and in the early evening went out for a walk down along the Seine. Returning, I stopped at a restaurant to break my diet with a juicy steak and a bottle of red wine. Back in my room, I was surprised to receive a call from two lady friends from Germany. They were in Paris for the night, and could I meet them?
We met at a café on the Champs Élysées (that rhymes!). Linda and Freda were both Americans, employed as high school teachers by the U.S. Air Force in Germany. They were going next to Stuttgart where Freda was picking up her new Mercedes. From there they were taking a two-week drive to wherever the spirit moved them. Would I come along? Of course!
Having matters to take care of back at the office, I remained in Paris for two more days. Then I took an overnight train to Stuttgart, joined them, and off we went eastward on the autobahn, bypassing Munich and stopping for the night at Berchtesgaden. Since they worked for the military, we stayed cheaply at the U.S. Army's General Walker Hotel, built in the 1930s as a guest house for Hitler's S.S.
The next morning we toured the salt mines and visited the Eagle's Nest, Adolf's little mountaintop retreat that is now a restaurant. Then we headed south into Austria, having decided to visit Yugoslavia. The only decent route was over the Grossglockner Pass, where the twisty, winding, narrow, 29-mile-long road climbs as high as 8,370 feet, with straight drops in the thousands of feet. To make matters worse, it was fogged in and snowy, even in August. My friends insisted that I drive this harrowing road. We were taken in convoys of several cars at a time, one way traffic, led by a police car. It was a great relief when the road finally descended into the gorgeous little village of Heiligenblut, at the foot of Austria's highest mountain. There we relaxed on an outdoor terrace with a few beers, and visited the famous 15th-century church. In its chapel is displayed a small glass vial that supposedly contains the blood of Jesus, taken from the cross. This may not be an accurate story, but it sure brings in the tourists.
The night was spent at a small inn, after which we headed south into Italy. The only stop we made there was in Trieste, an ancient seaport that until World War I was a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Although it's in Italy, it's practically surrounded by Slovenia — a new nation that rose out of the ashes of Yugoslavia in the 1990s. After a visit to the Fortress of San Giusto, we drove a short distance to the border.
Although Yugoslavia was a communist country, it was not aligned with the Soviet Union and was much more open to Western visitors. There were hardly any border formalties, other than changing dollars for dinars. Since it was now late afternoon, we stopped at the first motel along the coastal road and got a room. This was a modern place, perched atop a cliff overlooking the blue Adriatic. Our first move was to visit the café/restaurant by the seaside patio and order a few drinks.
After a while, and several drinks later, our waiter showed us a framed photograph of the very table we were sitting at. In it two men are seen occupying our seats. These I recognized immediately — Josip Broz Tito, the dictator of Yugoslavia, and Gamal Abdel Nasser, the president of Egypt. Well, if those seats were good enough for them, they were good enough for us. So we stayed on for dinner, during which I discovered a delightful dish called cevapcici (sorry, I don't have the necessary Croatian accent marks that make this pronounceable). We also discovered just how cheap everything was in this nation caught between East and West. Europe on $5 a day, anyone?
In the morning we headed south on the coastal road into what is now Croatia, stopping at the ancient Roman port of Pula. Like Trieste, this has a strong Austro-Hungarian feel about it, including the Grand Victorian type of hotel we stayed at. Near it was the 1st-century Roman Amphitheater, which is the fourth-largest anywhere and which remains in use today (photo, above).
After dinner — I had raznjici — we drove south to the casino at (I believe) Opatija, where foreigners could gamble away their Western currencies. Except that we opted for the floor show instead. Although intended as a showcase of Socialist talent, we could hardly contain our mirth at the bell ringers from Bulgaria, the off-key folk singer from Romania, and the inept Czech magician — among other "cultural entertainments."
Back in Pula we visited a local flea market and crafts show, where I picked up the ugliest decanter that mankind has ever created. It is still with me, over 40 years later, occupying a place of honor above my bookshelf. It appears to be a tree thingy grown around an empty bottle of sljivovica (plum brandy, pronounced something like "slivovitz." To me it tastes like gasoline). Anyway, that's it on the left.
Later that day we traveled farther south, staying for a few days at a modern motel/restaurant overlooking the sea that was near Rijeka. It was while resting here that I made my final decision to leave the Avedon studio and start my own. We also decided not to go any farther south as the ladies had to be back in Germany in about a week.
Heading north, we stopped at the Postojna Caves, which extend some 14 miles (21 km) under Slovenia and through which the River Pivka flows. A little train took us part of the way in, and then it was on foot through the subterranean "Palace of Marvels." I seem to remember the guide telling us that these caverns were used as a hideout for Tito's Partisans (the undergound resistance) during the Nazi occupation, but I have no reference for that. Sounds logical.
Driving north towards Ljubljana (the present capital of Slovenia), I was stopped by the police for a minor traffic violation. The officer tried various languages on me, including German, which I pretended not to understand. Thankfully he did not know English, so he just gave up and went away. We stayed the night at a modern hotel in Ljubljana, then headed up to the Austrian border.
The crossing near Maribor was a breeze, almost as though it wasn't there. Our next stop was at Graz, where we toured the town and spent the night. I returned here in the late 70s for Great Trips, and again in 1989 for Fodor's Guides. Always liked this place.
Two of my grandparents came from the Burgenland, a region along the Hungarian border between Yugoslavia and Vienna, as did Linda's family. So we of course had to visit, and even spend the night at an inn near the castle at Güssing. Mine came from a tiny farming village called Königsdorf, where people live above their animals in combined barns and houses. I checked the local cemetery to see if I could find any ancestors, but it seemed like everyone there had the same last name. Am I ever glad that my grandparents had the sense to leave!
After this it was a straight shot to Vienna, one of my favorite places on Earth. I had spent nearly a week here in 1962, and have been back several times since — usually on business. We were only able to stay for a day or so, but managed to get in a performance of Der Graf von Luxemburg, an operetta, at the historic Theater an der Wien. Beethoven lived upstairs in this theater from 1803-04. We also dined on (what else?) Wiener Schnitzel that evening.
Both Linda and Freda were due back in Germany the next day, so we sped down the autobahn to Munich, where they dropped me off. I was also due back in New York, but since I had finally decided to go out on my own, there was no reason to head back to a job.
I was so impressed with Yugoslavia, especially its low-cost aspects, that I decided to go back. This time it was to Dubrovnik, that colorful old seaport (photo, top of page) that was too far south for us to drive to. A direct flight was booked on JAT, and they promised to make hotel reservations for me. But the plane, an old DC-6, was hours late in arriving at Munich and went to Zagreb instead. Once in the air, I asked the stewardess for a beer, which she got from the cockpit, already half consumed. So much for JAT! Luckily, I was able to get a connecting flight from there to Dubrovnik on a Caravelle jet, which landed late at night. The airline office was closed by then, so I didn't know where I was supposed to stay. A friendly cab driver helped, and took me to an old, Grand Victorian type hotel (I think it was called the Imperial) overlooking the town and sea.
In total, I spent a full week in Dubrovnik exploring the town and taking boat excursions to nearby islands. The Old Town part dates from at least the 7th century, and was long a powerful city-state. Its 14th-century walls are completely intact and can be circumnavigated on foot, a treat that offers wonderful views of the ancient streets (photo, left).
The first excursion that I took was on a small, open boat to the nearby island of Lokrum, now a nature preserve. Its abbey was founded in 1023. Richard the Lionhearted, shipwrecked on his way home from the Crusades, supposedly stayed here in 1192. There is also a small lake, and a fortress built by the French in 1806.
A longer trip was onboard a large coastal steamer (photo, above) operated by Jadrolinija. This took me, in about three hours, to the island of Korcula. Some of its treasures date from Biblical times, there is a distinctly medieval Mediterranean atmosphere about the town, and much of its land is covered in vineyards producing the unique Grk wine. Inserting two "e"s into this name reminds you that in ancient times Korcula was a Greek trading post.
On the return sailing I met a group of East German students, who were on vacation in this communist land. Remember, this was 1965, and the Vietnam War was raging. We discussed this at length, but then got a bit tipsy over a bottle of Slivovitz and parted as friends.
Well, it had to come to an end. I flew from Dubrovnik's mountainside airport to Paris for a connection back to New York, again on JAT. This time all went well, except at the end. As we descended into Paris, I looked out the window and commented to my seat mate that I thought we were supposed to land at Orly Airport, but this was Le Bourget. Just before touching down, the plane suddenly went back up, circled the city, and then landed at Orly. Again, so much for JAT.
Back in NYC, I announced my decision, gave them a month's notice, and embarked on a new adventure in life (clicky here).
Interested in photography? Check out my "Assisting Avedon" blog.
SO, just what Little Adventure am I up to now in 2013? Why, just the most challenging one of them all! CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT.
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