Clicking in Croatia: The joy of photography on a family vacation - Toronto Star

Photography teaches us to have an idea of what we’re looking for but also stay open to what we find.

A bird’s-eye beach view from Split, the second-largest city in Croatia.

“I want to remember what it felt like, not just what it looked like,” my teenage daughter says, lifting her digital SLR to frame the streets of Split, Croatia. The camera of my 20s has found a new following in Gen Z, and I’m living vicariously through her lens.

It’s the fifth day of our family’s European cruise, and we’ve slipped ashore early, before the crowds. Sunlight breaks through the clouds, revealing a sapphire sky, as locals begin their day along the hushed streets.

People tell you how quickly children grow up, but somehow it still catches you by surprise. Within a few weeks of this trip, my daughter will start high school, making new friends and beginning to imagine a future of her own.

Sara Duck with her teenage daughter at the Lvxor cafe in Peristil Square.

On my phone, which replaced my camera long ago, are photographs of her as a four-year-old starting her very first day of school: her brave little wave goodbye, my effort to hold back tears. This is the bittersweet pull of parenthood, wanting to keep our children little a while longer, while being excited for all they have ahead.

Walking with her in Split, I’m grateful to have a morning with nowhere to rush. Exploring together feels like a small gift.

By the water’s edge in Split, photographed by the writer’s daughter.

As we wander the old town, our conversation turns to high school, her anticipation mixed with a few nerves. “Do you think I’ll be able to share my photos from this trip in art class?” she asks.

“I think the teacher would love that,” I say, remembering my own high-school darkroom. I’d loved its quiet concentration, the careful timing and the anticipation as an image slowly appeared on paper. I hope she has the chance to develop her own photographs.

I’d been thinking about how much would change when she started school. Her question gives us something to look forward to sharing.

Left: Photographed by the daughter in Split’s historic centre. Right: The city’s popular Riva promenade.

Plenty catches her eye within the white limestone walls of Diocletian’s Palace. Built for the Roman emperor’s retirement at the turn of the fourth century, the sprawling complex is now the heart of Split’s UNESCO-listed historic centre. Homes, shops and cafés occupy its ancient buildings, so our walk feels like discovering a neighbourhood while exploring history.

At the Lvxor café in Peristil Square, we settle onto cushions along the stone steps for cappuccino and freshly squeezed lemonade. The courtyard where Diocletian once appeared before his subjects is now somewhere to linger over a drink. Nearby sits a black granite sphinx brought from Egypt, a connection reflected in the café’s name, a nod to Luxor. “Imagine living here and walking past all this beauty every day,” says my daughter.

Eventually, neighbourhood cats draw us into narrow alleyways beneath lines of laundry and Juliet balconies. I tell her that some of my favourite photographs have come from noticing something unexpected, a reason to keep looking even after you’ve found the obvious shot.

A local feline lounges above flowers, a moment photographed by the writer’s daughter.

At Pazar, the open-air market, we sample walnuts and dried figs, browse lavender from nearby Hvar island and choose souvenirs. The locals are warm and eager to chat with us in English, indulging our best attempts at a Croatian hello.

One man proudly poses for a photograph, showing off his donkey tattoo. He explains that the tovar is a beloved Dalmatian symbol. For centuries, these sturdy animals carried heavy loads across the region’s rocky terrain, becoming emblems of hard work and endurance. Our chance conversation reminds me that some of my daughter’s education will happen beyond the classroom, through the people she’ll meet and places she’ll go.

A market vendor in Split. The locals were warm and eager to chat.

After hours of meandering, we pick up a savoury burek pastry from a bakery and meet my husband and son by the water. At Beach Jezinac, locals slip into the crystal-clear Adriatic via metal ladders, as sunlight ripples across the turquoise water.

We take turns jumping from a high rock edge, coming up laughing before climbing out to do it again. Before long, others join in, handing us their phones to photograph and film their jumps. Between turns, we cheer each other on, as if we’re at a high-school football game.

The writer’s son leaping into the water.

With salt water in our hair, we amble along the Riva promenade, stopping for drinks before returning to our ship. We pore over my daughter’s photographs, choosing favourites to print and frame. “I thought I’d like the pictures of the old buildings best,” she says, “but my favourites are the ones I didn’t plan.”

Perhaps that’s what photography best teaches us: to have an idea of what we’re looking for but also to stay open to what we find.

I’d started the morning wishing I could keep my daughter little a while longer, wondering where I’d fit as her world grew wider. Yet here she is, discovering an art I’d once loved and drawing me back to it. There are still places to explore together. Next time I’ll bring my camera, too.

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