postcard 22: spring is coming

scallops and sunshine

Here and there, hints of spring are arriving. The man next door starts up his old tiller and it coughs to life, belching clouds of burning two stroke engine oil as it chews through the red soil. The first delicate daisies pop up overnight and the city is abuzz with activity. Everywhere there is the sound of construction and the smell of paint. The rust is being sanded off, the tiles are being laid, the glass is being replaced. There’s an air of excitement about and I feel like I’ve been let backstage the week before the show opens. Tourist season is just around the corner.

We drive up the coast and wander through a century-old park, stately trees shading the manicured paths. There’s a beach, with real sand, and Hazelnut is infatuated. She does the tiniest zooms, back and forth and back and forth on the little strip of beach. A little black crab scuttles by, waving his pinchers in the air. We’re covered in sand and seawater, but we walk along the resorts and into our favorite coastal town, Rovinj, to order scoops of gelato. We eat them on a bench overlooking the marina, the boats bobbing in the water.

It’s so warm I can take off the sweatshirt that’s become my uniform and feel the sun on my arms for the first time in what feels like months. We linger on our morning walks, watching the cormorants fish and the waves lap against the shore. Having grown up in Colorado, I’m holding my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop. Spring can’t be that easy, can it? But I think it might be here to stay. At least, peeking out between foggy mornings and evenings.

Though we’ve lived next to the ocean for nearly five months now, we’ve yet to attempt to cook with the bounty of seafood that gets hauled out of the water each day. In part because my Croatian is still pretty much non-existent, but mostly because all the fish here still have heads and big, angry looking eyes. I decide that Valentine's Day is the perfect opportunity to finally give the fish market a shot. Scallops seem like a safe starting point. No eyes, no bones, bonus points for Little Mermaid shells. It’s quiet midday and we order half a dozen from one of the vendors. She packs them, shells and all, in a plastic bag and we carry it back along the promenade. A little black street cat with a mess of white whiskers plaintively mews at us as we pass, begging us to share. We sear them in butter and serve them atop rosé pasta. Between meetings we duck out and watch the sunset at the beach. It’s quietly and lovely and perfect.

-Mikaela