101 Dalmatians

When I was a kid, they told me that a sign of maturity was the ability to listen to the William Tell overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger. With the onset of old age (if not maturity), I've realized that that's a load of dingo's kidneys; or as any literary critic will tell you, blah blah intertextuality blah death of the author blah blah blah means never having to say you're sorry about making connections.

Still, I've been in Split, on the Dalmatian coast of Croatia, for three days, and I keep on thinking about those spotted dogs. Which is pretty clearly a sign of my immaturity, because Split has a lot else going for it.

Number one, the palace of Diocletian, which now makes up the core of the old town. Probably the emperor would break down in tears at the sight of people hanging their laundry in his monumental triclinium (that's "living room" for you folks playing along at home). But what are you gonna do? It's cool.

Number two, the streets are paved with marble. That's also cool.

Number three, Dalmatian prsut, aka Dalmatian ham. Oh man, this stuff is good: like prosciutto, only smokier, softer and somehow more earthy. Worth the trip in and of itself.

Number three and a half (don't know if it rates a four) are all the cats roaming around. Lots of cats. Mostly healthy cats... though I can't help but think that a few spotted dogs might help thin their ranks a little.

See, there I go with the immaturity again. Ah well. Probably enough then, until I get back to Rome in a couple of days. Pictures will follow, from Croatia and Sicily...