postcard 15: guest feature
the liminal space between Christmas and New Year's where we have our first visitor.
We take turns running into the grocery store to buy each other Croatian candy, and wrap presents for the dog. We wear antlers on our walk and record messages to our family by the sea. We make a lasagna that takes six hours and tastes like heaven and we watch Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown on the laptop balanced on our laps as we drink wine in our purple apartment. It doesn’t look like any Christmas Eve I’ve ever experienced, but I think it still feels like Christmas—the spirit of it at least—and that’s what’s important.
After Hazelnut unwraps her presents and we eat pannetone and drink peppermint mochas made from candy canes since it’s the only peppermint to be found here, we load into the car and drive the deserted highways to Slovenia. I roll down the window and squeal at the singular figure rolling a suitcase out of the airport and get my first familiar hug (other than Topher and Hazelnut that is) in months. My sister-from-another-mister, Marian, is here for the whirlwind week between Christmas and New Year’s.
The hope was a Slovenian ski trip but the snow is thin and the runs limited so instead we wander the shores of Lake Bled and eat pasta and French fries, crowding into a hotel room. She brings Topher Hot Cheetos and me the pumpkin shaped cards our friends wrote at Friendsgiving this year, outlining the things they’re thankful for. It’s a tradition I’ve forced them to participate in for several years that they kept on without me (I love you guys!!!) and of course I tear up.
The sun hasn’t yet risen when Hazelnut and I set off into the silent morning. Topher and Marian are still sleeping as we circle the lake, watching the sky turn pink and the fog envelope the church on the island across the water. A loon cries out and we startle a pair of deer. I resolve to spend more time alone, soaking in the awe that I never can tell if those around me quite feel, in 2024.
After coffees and second coffees, we ask a man in a wooden boat if he’ll let Hazelnut aboard. The shore is normally covered in boats, but on the day after Christmas he’s the only one. Luckily, he agrees and he us across the lake to the church. Hazelnut is the gem she always is when faced with a new situation and watches the water glide past. We only have 30 minutes, so Marian and I hustle through the church, admiring an alter made of gold and ring the bell three times. Marian doesn’t quite pull hard enough, so I throw in a little extra gusto for the both of us. Lore has it that a wish made to the ringing of the bells will come true. The peals ring out across the water. Ninety nine steps bring us to the top of the bell tower and we crest the top stair right at noon, the clanging reverberating deep in our bones. The boat man only charges Hazelnut 3/5 of the person rate and we row back to shore.
I sent Marian a list of things we could do on her trip and she’s inexplicably chosen an olive oil tasting and bike tour,, even though she really doesn’t bike. Topher and I are certainly stoked, but as we leave the little town just north of ours on ebikes and the tour guide tells us we’re off on a 33km journey, I’m wondering if I’ve led her astray. We follow the guys out of town and down dirt lanes dotted with rocks and slick with mud, olive trees lining the paths. Topher and our guide pull ahead, talking about mountain biking, and I hang back with Marian hoping she’s not going to murder me later. It’s less of a tour and more of a mountain bike ride and when we stop for a break the guide remarks that I ask a lot of questions about olive oil. I change tactics and ask about wild boars instead and get a funny look so I just give up and enjoy the ride. We stop and explore an old military fort, climbing up a dim staircase to see the views of the sea from the roof. Topher gets stuck in a hole he was advised not to explore, but our guide pulls him up out of it anyways. We pick grass and feed it to a herd of tiny deer that make little squealing noises behind a fence. They’re destined for the plates at the adjoining restaurant, but they’re very cute. Marian is a champ and only falls once over a pile of garbage. By the time we get back to town, all of our butts are sore.
We sink gratefully into chairs in the chilly basement of a small wine and olive oil producer’s house and their daughter, home for the holidays from Zagreb, walks us through a wine tasting. The glasses she pours are big and we’re hopeless with tasting notes, but we drink and taste olive oil (or drink it in Topher’s case—he can’t get enough of the spicy Istrian stuff) and eat homeade cake. We walk away with two bottles as the sun sets and Marian asks for the guide’s number so Topher can make a new friend.
At dinner the maitre’d grasps both Marian and I’s hands and leads us to our table. We eat plates of ravioli and seafood pasta, alongside traditional Istrian potatoes swimming in butter and covered with parmesan and prsut. A trio of musicians play an accordion, violin and guitar—some Christmas songs and others we don’t know but have the table of women to our left clapping their hands in time. I’ve missed having someone to talk to and we linger over our wine, chatting.
The sun is already turning the sky pink though it’s only 2pm when we stroll through the streets of Rovinj, our legs coated in salt from a wade in the sea earlier. We stop for coffees overlooking the water and Hazelnut stalks the street cats and seagulls. The town is pretty quiet, as most of Croatia is this time of year, but we still manage to find a few open shops and cross the cobblestones to peruse them. We sit on the wall of the church on top of the hill and watch as the sun sinks into the sea, staining everything fuchsia, before we pull up a chair at a waterfront bar and drink limoncello spritzes and watch the boats bob. When darkness settles in, lights appear in the marina and we realize there’s several boats decorated with Christmas lights anchored there. This town is obsessed with sardines, strangely, and all the lights are fish shaped.
We sit at a little table under a heater in an alley, blankets draped over our laps, and our waiter asks if we’re Americans. Is it that obvious? We joke. He says he can tell by our accents—better than Brits—and when he returns with our drinks he tells us why he loves America. 25 years ago, when he was 9 years old, it was a dark time for Croatia, he explains. I know he’s referring to the Yugoslav War and Croatia’s bloody struggle for independence. Bill Clinton’s actions saved them, and the lives of a million people, he tells us, and that’s why he loves America. He leaves and we cheers Bill Clinton (something I never saw coming) and I think about how close in time we are to the genocide that happened on the soil of our new home, and in space to the other genocide happening as we eat pizza under the fairy lights on this adventure. There is so much more to the world than the microscopic sliver of it that we see in our every day lives and I think that’s why I find travel so vital. To learn and to open our eyes and to feel empathy. To, hopefully, take action as a result of that newfound awareness. It feels like a woefully small action, but I still write my reps—again—and tell them about the waiter and Bill Clinton and ask them to support a ceasefire in Gaza.
We eat sandwiches smothered in olive oil and Marian leaves her snack sized packets of peanut butter for Hazelnut as she impressively manages to close her carry-on suitcase full of goodies for people back home. We drive through the smog to Zagreb, the bad winter air quality settling over seemingly all of Croatia. The streets are still teeming with people even though Christmas is over and we finally manage to snag a spot in a garage, winding our way through stalls selling mulled wine and sausages on the street to get to our Airbnb. Marian and I explore, stopping for fries and boba and the little Croatian donuts called fritule, on our way to the ice skating rink. She’s a trooper and lets me drag her out on the ice, and we dodge reckless teenagers and flailing children to glide under the lights.
In a moment of weakness we order poke and it’s just as bad as you’d imagine Hawaiian style raw fish in the streets of a landlocked eastern European country might be. We get more fries instead and then try to sleep as the city rages around us through the night. When the music stops at 3am, the garbage trucks start and I don’t know if any of us have slept when the too-early alarm goes off, signaling her flight back to America. It’s hard to say goodbye and as we silently drive back home I’m reminded just how far away we are from everything we know and love.
But then, we’re home and it’s a surprising realization that it does feel like home. We spend the day reading under the covers and go to the grocery store and the next morning on our walk we run into a friend on her run and I’m really quite sure that when we do go back to America, months from now, I’ll feel like I’ve left a bit of my heart here too, despite the humidity and smog.
Excited for all that 2024 has to bring,
Mikaela