Split: Where the Adriatic brushes an emperor’s palace

Jul 21
4 min read

Updated: Aug 7

You can’t rush Split.

You can try, squeeze it in between other cities, speed-walk its Riva with a coffee to go, but you’ll feel it. That gentle resistance. That invisible hand slowing you down.

Because Split doesn’t run on urgency, it runs on fjaka (fee-ahka)

It was the first word locals taught me after I arrived. Not “hello” or “cheers”, but fjaka. They smiled as they said it, like a secret they were gently letting me in on. It’s hard to translate, they said, but you’ll feel it.

Fjaka can be described as is the sweetness of doing nothing, on purpose.

It’s not apathy, it’s not boredom, it’s a kind of active stillness. A deep exhale from the bones. That warm, weightless state where you're not chasing or fixing or striving, you’re just here.

Resting. Receiving. Letting the sun land on your skin and time melt a little around the edges.

And in Split, you don’t have to look for it.

It finds you.

You feel it between the sea breeze and the stone. In the way the afternoon light rests on Roman walls that have seen more than they tell.

In the cafés where time forgets to pass. In the slow swirl of olive oil over bread, the kind that makes you wonder why you ever rushed a meal. In the gelato at every corner, cold and sweet while you stroll the limestone streets.

The sea is always just down the road. The ferries come and go like clockwork. And the Adriatic breeze carries equal parts sunscreen, espresso, and fish.

It’s a city that moves at two speeds: slow, and slower, but always on time. And once you adjust, something shifts. You stop needing to do everything.

You start paying attention instead. Not all at once. Just one soft moment at a time.

Because Split remembers something most of us forget:

How to let a day unfold, not be conquered.

Welcome to Split. You don’t need a plan. Just a chair in the shade, a breeze off the water, and the willingness to pause.

A Place That Carries Its History

Split is complicated.

Not just in its past, Roman, Venetian, Austro-Hungarian, Yugoslav, but in the way that history isn’t packaged. It’s textured.

The scars of war aren’t all polished over. The tension between tourism and tradition still hums beneath the surface.

And yet, there’s a sense of self here.

You feel it in the way locals keep to their rhythm. The same cafe at the same hour. The quiet loyalty to where their fish comes from.

The unspoken knowledge that the sea is what anchors this place.

Klis: The Wind Above the City

High above Split, carved into the cliffs, stands Klis Fortress.

A spine of stone. A sentinel. A survivor.

It has held back armies and empires. Now it holds silence.

From its ramparts, you can see everything: The red-tiled roofs of Split, the shimmer of sea, the curve of the coastline that once mapped entire trade routes.

Stand there long enough and the wind tells you stories.

Of battle. Of resilience. Of the long, slow endurance that shaped this land.

And then it whispers: time to eat.

Because Croatia doesn’t separate nourishment from history. They sit at the same table.

Fire, Patience, and Octopus

You don’t stumble across peka by accident. You order it hours in advance, sometimes a day. It’s not for the hungry, it’s for the patient.

And if you’re lucky enough to find octopus peka done right, you’ll understand why this dish has lasted centuries.

The octopus is slow-cooked under a heavy iron dome, covered in hot embers, surrounded by potatoes, garlic, tomato, olive oil, and herbs.

It simmers, it softens, becomes something that no other method could coax out.

The meat turns tender, the sauce caramelises into the vegetables, and the whole thing comes out tasting like the sea had a conversation with fire.

This is food made by waiting, and that in itself feels radical.

Because Split is a port city. It’s seen speed, commerce, empire, tourism. But this, this peka, refuses to rush.

It’s not a throwback, it’s a through-line. A way of remembering that good things, flavour, family, recovery, don’t arrive by force.

The Markets: Anchored in Appetite, Alive with Routine

Split doesn’t wake up early. The streets are quiet, the piazzas are empty. The alleyways are yours to walk in silence.

But the morning market behind the palace hums with the kind of energy that doesn’t need a marketing plan.

You’ll find figs so ripe they almost collapse in your hands. Peaches that perfume the air.

Heirloom tomatoes still warm from the morning sun. And fish, gleaming, silver, on ice, sold by men who’ve been up since before it was light.

The market isn’t fancy. It’s functional, in the best way.

It’s where the locals shop, argue, flirt, exchange gossip, and negotiate over bunches of parsley like it matters (because it does).

You walk through it slowly at first. Then again, with purpose.

You’ll leave with more than you meant to: a bag of sun-warmed vegetables, a bottle of olive oil from someone’s cousin, a bag of candied orange peel you opened halfway through buying them.

And if you pass through again in the late morning, it’s quieter. The serious business is done. The older women are already home with lunch half-prepared.

And the air smells like basil, stone, and salt from the ferry terminal nearby.

This isn’t just shopping. It’s orientation. A way of knowing where you are, and what’s in season.

Split Doesn’t Perform for You

Even in peak season, the city keeps its spine.

Locals sip coffee like time’s on their side. Teenagers linger along the Riva. And down small alleys, you’ll find simple grills going, sardines sizzling, the sound of a knife on board in some open kitchen.

This isn’t postcard perfection, it’s persistence. A city that’s adapted through wars, borders, and generations, and still manages to hold onto itself.