Inwardly, quietly, I jump up and down when our group walks out of the Milenij Hotel into the bright sunshine. We are beginning our initial walking tour of Opatija, a literal coastal paradise more gorgeous than any brochure photo could ever be. To enter into the spirit of this historic resort that sparkles along the Adriatic Sea, we will walk through a verdant park that weaves through the sumptuous 19th-century villas built so that the top aristocrats of the Austro-Hungarian Empire could come and play.
The word “verdant” is chosen carefully, as Opatija boasts a special microclimate whose name I don’t know. In effect, the moisture from the sea is trapped on “this” side of the mountains lining the coast. Consequently, within this narrow strip of coastal Istria, an intoxicating variety of flora sprouts up, most prominent of which is Opatija’s signature blossom, the camelia. Sturdy palm and ginkgo trees intermix with horse chestnuts, proudly looking down on bushes of bay leaves; passion flowers drape across balconies. Oleasters glance up at the soft, long-needled pines, all framed against the brilliant blue of the sea and cloudless sky.
But the verdure is not what makes my heart jump up. It is the history of this place that captures my heart. Since the early 19th century, a cavalcade of European and American glitterati have journeyed to this part of the Istrian peninsula to restore their souls and bodies. The fragrant air, filled with the healing properties of ocean salt, the long stone-pebble beaches and patches of olive trees, all combine to beckon those seeking healing, relaxation, or inspiration. Names as varied as Albert Einstein, Anton Chekhov, Gustav Mahler, and modern figures like Kirk Douglas have all made Opatija a favorite place.
Especially touching is the story of the innovative dancer Isadora Duncan (1877-1927) who receives much of the credit for creating modern dance. Emulating the flow of tunics on Classical Greek statuary, Duncan clad herself not in tutus and pointe shoes, but in gauzy shifts (often minimal in nature) that could emphasize her free movements. Her feet were bare, her hair freed from the dancer’s bun, and her choreography astonished all who saw it.
Tragedies struck her life, though, such as the drowning of two of her young children when a nanny accidentally drove a car off into the Seine. It had its share of controversies, too, particularly when she married the much younger revolutionary Russian poet Sergei Esenin (1895-1925), with whom she could not even converse when they courted (she, having no Russian and he, no English). Their passion-based marriage ended quickly. For that matter, each of their lives ended in a disastrous way, the details of which I will let you find out on your own. In both cases, it’s really too sad to write.
But that sadness was not on our minds when my group stopped to admire the smallish, expressive statue of Duncan placed in front of the villa where she and Esenin spent their holiday time together here in Opatija. Far back from her figure, a bust with the handsome, if aloof, face of Esenin stares straight ahead, one of those juxtapositions that cannot be fully without meaning. In my lecture here, I shared some of the existing photos of Duncan dancing, as well as a brief silent clip (moving picture) made of her dancing in what seems to be this very garden before a gathering of cream-of-the-crop aristocratic gentlemen in top hats. No matter what they really thought about this American lady who moved like a whisp blown in off the sea, they applauded her enthusiastically.
Tomorrow morning, we head further south along the Adriatic; this lush microclimate will be left behind. Replacing it will be grayer-green vegetation and the stark, stony peaks of the Dinaric Alps whose trail we follow all the way to Dubrovnik. These mountains will force a drier climate along the same sparkling azure sea.
Late in the afternoon, we will head across the bridge to Trogir, a medieval town set on a small island, and ringed today with marinas and simple cafes. The next day, we board a ferry for the dramatic ride across the Adriatic to the Island of Hvar. But that offers more grandeur than I can begin to take on here. So, I will cease writing this essay, wrap up a bit against the cool breeze now blowing as the sun sets, and take one last walk out to bid Madama Isadora farewell. I am glad she dances in this garden, keying a short nod from those who know her history and peals of delight from the small children who run up to her, trying to emulate her pose. She courted the former during her lifetime, but surely would smile with inward pleasure at the latter. For they, in their innocence, exhibit the very freedom of limb she displayed while giving birth to a new choreography that broadened and deepened the world of classical dance.