Pregnancy
On one of my days in Rovinj I saw a pregnant Cro-woman – one of the gorgeous stick creatures I described in my Zagreb fashion blog. When I first saw her I thought she had stuck a rock melon up her T-shirt. Maybe this was a Cro custom to keep their melons warm. Who am I to know whether or not warm rockie is a national dish?
I ask, “Are you having a baby?” (dangerous question I know – but on holiday I live on the edge).
“Yes” she said, tapping the melon.
“How long do you have to go?”
“Oh, it was due 4 days ago”.
On behalf of all sensibly sized 9 month pregnant women, I wanted to give her sweet face a little tap (or thump for those of you who put on 20 pounds and never got back into your size 12s).
“You must be having a very small baby”.
“Nishta, nishta. My first baby was more than 9 pounds”.
I was puzzled. I turned her around to look for a Quasimodo bump…..maybe Cro-women carry their babies like bum-bags. No …… there was only a little pert bottom that just filled out her tiny white skirt.
“Good luck”, I said. “I hope it comes soon.”
“Oh it will”, she said gaily.
And I bet she’s right – it will pop out with a polite plop. It will immediately start sucking on a lamb chop, cooked by its Baba on an open grill in the delivery suite. And she will put on an even tinier white skirt and get on with her business as if the melon had never been there. Stretch-marks? I don’t think there is even a word in the Cro language for that.
Bike Riders
I blame the Tour de France! So many men who should be on the couch watching the riding are actually wobbling all over the roads of Croatia. They are so uncoordinated they couldn’t be trusted standing on the side of the road watching the bloody bikes. They try to ride along in a crazed congo line – one that has no beginning or end. As I turn every corner, there is another rotund bottom capped with a florid face puffing like one of Thomas the Tanks chums. These Gordons need trainer-wheels and a support vehicle every one hundred metres. This 44-foot Winnebago can be kitted out with intravenous Gaterade, Nurafen and 44-gallon drums of Sorbolene for the nappy rash.
The sound of lycra bike shorts chafing chubby legs is a constant background noise as I drive: sort of like static on a TV. Men over 55 take special note: lycra is a stretchy material, but even that fabric has its limits, after which those poor nylons fabricated in a third world sweat shop, are screaming in anguish. They need to be peeled off and burnt on a pyre – maybe the one that is still incinerating Lance Armstrong’s drug paraphernalia.
Then there is the example of the old bloke in Rovinj who managed to prize the bike seat out of his bum-crack long enough to have a coffee in the plaza. Thank god I was sitting down, as it was I almost lapsed into delirium. This chap had soooooo much hanging down his left inner thigh it beggared belief! I’m probably wrong – but it looked like his ENTIRE intestinal tract had dropped out and lodged inside his shorts.
With that, I will leave you ……. until next time
