He Said She Said: Photography Passion

"I just had a passion to photograph. Shoot, shoot, shoot. You had the satisfaction of shooting the picture. You develop it, you have it in your hands, and it gives you another psychic reward. Then you see it published — that’s another reward. Then you get the check. That’s the final reward!" - Ron Galella

Flashback: Summer at the Villa Orsula

Villa Orsula, Dubrovnik, Croatia

I can best describe Croatians as being a rusty variety of European. 

They are tawny of hair and skin, and tend to look monochromatic because the colour of tan skin is exactly the same shade as rusty hair.

In Dubrovnik, we stay at the 1939 Villa Orsula. The room, which H and I are sharing, feels claustrophobic. But it is tenderly pretty, with rambling roses on the right of the verandah, and a stunning view of the Adriatic Sea framed by cypress trees.

The bathroom has a bidet.

The medieval town of Dubrovnik, which we can see from the window, is said to be 15 minutes’ walk from the villa seems farther in the summer heat. In fact, it proved a tedious hike, but we forget everything once we get within the walled city, which is abuzz with interesting people, rich history, and beautiful squares all connected by vast glossy-smooth marble streets and dotted with mysterious dark cafes that make H smoke non-stop, in the manner of Maggie Cheung.

We go on a tour in a taxi, which is USD 70.

Breakfast at the Villa Orsula is quite the thing to do and the guests are out in full force, bright and early, eating under grape vines hanging with grapes. Stern ancient men serve yogurt and honey silently. H is thrilled by the view of the violently blue cove and sickle moon of white pebble, where later I collect vari-coloured stones in my Pleats Please pouch, watched by an old lady in a bikini, who sits there every day with her mutt until the last light fades.

The luggage boy wears tennis shorts, and is as cute as a porn actor.

The blonde towel boy is a trouble-maker who causes the lady at the front desk to lose her cool neatness and I’m sure she goes off work each day with a headache.

Blonde towel boy has a friend, a young teen, who throws mussels at the girls on the beach, causing them to shriek.

The boat man from the Villa Orsula is a white-haired mariner with white deck-shoes, who tirelessly ferries us in his boat to and from the little island of Lokrum every day.

Zurich 1995

Zurich is a bourgeois city full of well-groomed people, enjoying well-groomed lives with well-groomed pleasures within walking distance. 

In other words, it’s civilized.

People here are unhurried and helpful, and at the main station Halpenhoff, they give us directions, tell us exactly where to get off and get on the buses.

At the Croatian Consulate, a gruff officer at the door told us it would take one month, then one hour, then later, just 20 minutes to process our travel visas. 

Nearby, fit young people cycle by the lake in the cool crisp air, looking at swans and pairs of duck swimming cooly by.

On many streets stand more colourful cow statues than there are people.

There are many rich glamourous shops full of designer goodies, and the cafes swivel with heads sipping morning coffee. We have coffee at a quiet side street café, with two smartly dressed old ladies.

Heather and I both buy white orthopedic slippers I see on sale in a pharmacy – the only things we can afford. I go next door and buy the latest Vogue Italia. Then we bought a bag of fat blueberries from a greengrocer with a splendid display of fruit – served by a snotty Filipina. We ate the berries on the run, our mouths blue with juice.

Heather said: “Zurich airport is like Changi.”

I said: “In fact, Zurich airport looks like Marina Square.”