The Garlic Lady of Split
September 2, 2006 – 10:14 amYou will find her at the market in Split, and you will know her by the radiant glow of rosy good health that can come only from a diet rich in garlic. She visited me in a pungent dream last night, rattling at the air with aromatic plaits of garlic bulbs as she skipped a long, slow circle ’round me and sang, “Ai, ai, ai…ai-OOO-li,” in some antiquated Illyrian scale. Then, in brisk Dalmatian dialect that danced on the salty breeze as lightly as she, the Garlic Lady of Split warned that the road ahead is paved with lies, treachery and ceaseless bureaucracy.
I told her to take the song and dance routine to her agent, for I was well aware of all that she foretold. Elvis of Rijeka outlined the same destiny for me three and a smidgeon fortnights aft.
“Hvala lipa anyway, my dear Queen of the Cloves,” said I. “Your advice is tardy, but your garlic and garlic-oriented goods are still the poodle’s noodles.”
The Garlic Lady of Split adjusted her hair helmet and gave up a miffed harumph as she spun on her heels and vaporized into the ether, disinfecting my slumber with a farewell mist of allicin.
