Fyaka, Intermezzo and the Sweetness of Doing Nothing in Makarska
Stories from a weekend trip to Croatia
In a little four day space between summer and autumn, in the midst of job projects, long to do lists, appointments and need-to-be-home-for events, we sneak away to Croatia.
We’ve had a September weekend trip in mind all summer, my fiancé and I, but for a while, it looked like it might not happen, uncertain plans getting in the way.
Then, finally, there it is. Our trip. Four days after the release of Sally Rooney’s new novel. Perfect, I think, go to the bookstore and reserve a copy.
September is unusually warm in Stockholm this year. Nights are chilly, but in daytime the summer lingers. On release day, I anxiously await the message that my book is ready for pickup, an online order with fast delivery prepared if my bookstore doesn’t come through.
But they do. I get my copy of Intermezzo, and I’m ready to head off.
Take off
Our plane leaves bleary-eyed early. I have some 50 pages left of Franny & Zooey, and intend to finish it on the way there. But I accidentally leave my copy in a plastic airport chair, not realising until my seat belt is buckled and I’m watching the tired moves of security demonstrations.
I can’t believe it. I’ve never forgotten a book anywhere before. I’ve misplaced plenty of things on commutes - hats, mittens, a tote bag with a lunchbox. Never a book.
Still in disbelief, we take off, and I pick up my copy of Intermezzo. It has a strong new book smell, was probably printed recently. My eyes fall on the seat ahead of me.
Literature Only, it says.
I nod. After all, this was the book I intended to read on this trip. And so, I open the first page and start reading.
To Makarska
Makarska is a small coastal town an hour south of Split. The whole area is named after this town - the Makarska Riviera. It’s a tourist spot, definitely, and it’s easy to understand why.
We arrive around lunch time, check in to our hotel and I realise I’ve made another book related mistake. My book, Intermezzo, won’t fit in my handbag, and I don’t want to carry around my backpack everywhere. This, of course, is why I accidentally left Franny & Zooey - it didn’t fit in my bag, so I had put it down on the seat beside me.
With a sense of separation anxiety, I leave my book in the hotel room as we head out. We eat a Greek salad in one of the leisurely restaurants along the central street by the marina. Watch tourists and locals walk past, people jump on and off boats. Discuss the difference in what’s stylish here in south of Europe (fitted, feminine, colourful, expensive and with an attitude) compared to Scandinavia (oversized, androgynous, black, minimal and the understated cool).
Behind us, mountains stretch high towards the sky. They’re not far off on the horizon, but rather a backdrop to the town. Makarska is wedged in between sea and mountain, only a little strip of land.
We settle in, walk around, explore. Then, we go for a coffee.
Discovering Fyaka
One of the places I saved on Google Maps before the trip was a sweet little coffee shop called Fyaka. We find it along the oldest street, just a short few minutes from our hotel.
It’s even lovelier than I had hoped - the coffee is excellent, the seats line the walls of the street outside, the cookies taste wonderfully.
A cat joins in one of the café seats. She’s hanging out, chilling, not minding the people around her. Her black and white fur reminds me of one of my own cats, Pysen, and we joke that she’s a distant Croatian cousin. The barista tells us that she lives with the woman running the art gallery next door.
Drinking our coffee opposite the entrance, we ponder the name of the coffee shop. Fyaka. (Does it maybe share etymology with the Swedish word fika?)
A quick google tell us it’s a local word.
Fyaka means the sweetness of doing nothing. A sublime state in which you aspire for nothing.
That decides it - I love this place. And I notice something hanging outside the door. I look closer. Is it really? Yes it is.
A tote bag, perfectly sized for a book and a water bottle and a camera, with the word Fyaka.
Of course I need it.
Doing nothing
The days in Makarska pass slowly. The weather is warm and windy, the sea at times wild, other times still and sparkling.
One day, when the wind is a little calmer, I drink a coffee at Fyaka and then head to the beach. It’s filled with small stones, caressed and worn smooth by the waves. I eat ice cream and first read one of Elena Ferrante’s essays on writing and reading in her book In the Margins, then turn to Intermezzo again. It really is a marvellous book.
I swim, let myself drift a little in the waves, dive and swim back to the shore.
Our last evening, we have drinks by the beach, looking out over the sea as the sun sets in shades of orange, pink and purple. We chuckle at the fact that back home, they’ve had the first frost.
Intermezzo is a chess tactic, but it’s also a brief interlude or diversion. Our trip is just that. A diversion from everyday life, from to-do lists and responsibilities and challenges.
Bringing fyaka back home
Coming back to Sweden is a sudden whiplash of reality. I get a phone call from my mum our last day, telling us our cat Pysen has an ache in one of his legs. We get home at midnight. Pysen is not himself, looking sad and scared, and I instantly absorb them as my own feelings.
By morning my fiancé is down with either food poisoning or the stomach flu. I spend a day anxiously awaiting a vet appointment, managing a work project launch from home, and checking in with both my fiancé and cat. I’m suddenly in survival mode, or rather, keeping my loved ones alive mode.
I’m tense from worry I’ll get whatever my fiancé has and miss the vet appointment. But finally, finally, the appointment arrives, I’m not sick, and me and Pysen head there.
The vet is kind and calm. He gently stretches Pysen’s paws and of course, now he makes no sign of pain. Then he is carried away for an x-ray and when the vet comes back, he tells me Pysen has pretty bad arthritis in his hips. He is twelve year old, after all.
His kidney values are checked (all good) and we get a prescription of an anti inflammatory medication.
Over the next few days, things slowly improve. My fiancé perks up and starts eating normal food again, and Pysen shows signs of feeling better.
I breathe out a small sigh of relief. But stress lingers in my body for a week. The weather has turned distinctly autumnal. It starts raining and doesn’t stop. Makarska and its blissful carefree sunshine feels very far away.
One day, packing my backpack for work, I notice something in the bottom of it. I pull out a canvas bag, the perfect size for a book and a water bottle and a camera. It’s wrinkled, but there it is - Fyaka.
I remember to slow down. I remember the cosiness of autumn. One Sunday, I bake cinnamon buns and Pysen cat is back to his old self, sleeps in my lap, patrols the garden, just a little stiffness lingering. I light candles and continue reading Intermezzo, marvelling again at how good it is, and I think yes, there is certainly sweetness in doing nothing.
Just the kind of sweetness we need in our busy, messy lives.
I loved reading this post with all its ups and downs. There really is sweetness in doing nothing and I'm excited to have now learned the word for it. Thanks for sharing Fyaka with me!
What a lovely read. Glad that Pysen is better 😽