Tears started to well up in my eyes. “What do you mean he can’t stay?” It was the end of May and we were sitting in the foreigners’ office at the police station trying to finish up the last of our official paperwork. The lady didn’t answer my question; she just pointed at Jay again and said, “He can’t stay,” and then muttered a hodgepodge of Croatian to Maja.

We spent last weekend on the island of Hvar, and we arrived without booking accommodations. We stepped off the ferry to the now accustomed barrage of little old ladies saying: “Do you need room?” “Apartment! Very close, very close. Come with me.” “Accommodation? Accommodation?” We hesitated just long enough that they knew we might be interested, and we were surrounded within seconds.