PASTA IN CROATIA
Croatia’s Istrian Peninsula was a first foray into delicious, random travels. When my friend, Jill and I traveled through in 2004, we were overwhelmed by the region's generous, friendly inhabitants. Our impromptu stay in a small village on the Adriatic convinced us that few places in the world rival Istria’s temperate climate, warm hospitality or remarkable natural beauty.
What do we remember the most?
Eating pasta in the 700-year-old mountain town of Motovun, the subtle flavors of local wine and truffles unfurling on our tongues as we sat beneath the trees. No cars were allowed in the town. Our walks took us up and down winding streets, past sun-bleached walls and wrought iron fences. The old castle had a wide, stone courtyard and a panoramic view extending for miles. When we looked down, the wide swath of valley below made us swoon.
In Buje, the wind off the sea made noises at night. The massive shutters of our villa rattled and groaned, as if ghosts were rising up from the centuries-old cistern in the courtyard. Romas ruinas, Sylvano, the villa’s owner had said, pointing emphatically to large stones that littered the area. He was a wiry, angular man whom, on our first night there, ambled over with a liter of wine pressed from his vineyard. He met his wife, Sylvana during the Bosnian war while they were crammed in a basement along with others. She was a Croat, he a Serb. During our stay, Sylvana looked after us like a mother.
Life is quiet now, she said one evening as she busily fried zucchini and pork chops, tossed fresh greens. We are blessed with our olive campos and vineyard. God has been good. She moved like a hummingbird in the small, cozy kitchen as her daughter eyed us from the table where she doodled English words on a napkin. After supper, we conversed in butchered Italian late into the night.
Another medieval hill town, Grozjnan was strange and familiar, old and new all at once. It lured us with its reputation as an artist’s community. We spent a lazy morning wandering its cobblestones streets. It was not hard to get lost in its weathered patina—the pinkish hue of the walls and meandering vines. Ducking our heads, we entered art studios housed in ancient, sagging-roof cottages. We roved shops with exquisitely blown glass and stood watching the lavender man, absorbed in the soft clinking of his delicate bottles as he set them out, one at a time. Hints of music swam in the air, far off then near, and we made our way towards the warm, subtle din of the coffee shop. The barista beamed like an old friend as she handed us steaming mochas, a design of delicate leaves etched in the foam.
We could have stayed so much longer ...