The long Mile

There, he left the Küstenstrasse and engaged his small Fiat uphill in a series of abruptly winding
turns. Indeed, he wanted absolutely to reach the famous lakes in Plitvice; first, to show his
companion the magnificence of the site, and second, to go trout fishing in these crystal clear
waters.
While his little Fiat was painfully winding up these serpentine turns to the Velebit Pass, he already
regretted his decision, as he was really concerned about his car making it to the top of this terrible
mountain road, and also about what would then happen to him.
On top of it, he could not imagine that – in addition to the shipyard in Kraljevica – he would find
right in front of him something of a different nature that would influence his whole life.
He finally reached, in this deep black night, the pass he was desperately longing for, and turned
into the small street without sign, which he thought could lead to Plitvice.
Henry took a right turn spontaneously at the junction and drove for a good hour through the
deserted village of Otocac, still hoping to reach Plitvice at one point.
In the next village, a pair of teenagers was sitting around a fire on the side of the street, and waving
their hands in a friendly manner to the late visitor. “Ask them if there is a hotel here”, suggested his
girlfriend. He put the brakes and asked hesitantly, “Hotel?”
The answer came instantly:
“Ribarski Hotel”, said one of the teens, with a gesture from the hand showing the direction to go.
Henry, our late driver, was immediately wide awake, as “Riba” means fish in Serbo-Croatian
language.
He then turned around and drove past an unnoticed sign.
Henry was now standing so close as a few metres in front of a dark staircase leading to a two-story
building, in which absolutely no soul seemed to move. The total quietness was only disturbed by
the sound of running water in the distance, making the scene even scarier.
What should he do? “Sound the horn”, replied without hesitation his practical companion after
having assessed the situation.
After a few assertive honk-honk, a window opened on the first floor directly over the entrance,
and somebody asked us in a sleepy voice what was the matter.
“No, this is not a hotel, it is a fishermen’s home”, was the detached answer.