postcard 36: adventures in wonderland
Cliff jumping, baby goats and the start of summer.
“Should we take the scenic route?” I ask Topher, and we detour around the garages, take a left and a right and there’s the colleseum, glowing in the late afternoon light.
Topher’s childhood best friend, Blake, and his girlfriend Hannah are visiting us for the week and it’s delightful to see our home through their eyes.
“Are you kidding me!?” Blake exclaims when I point out the first century Roman temple on our way to dinner. We eat calamari and bruschetta and drink spritzes in the square as the sky fades to deep blue, stars popping out one by one.
Summer is well and truly upon us and our sleepy little town has transformed. The pedestrian walk is lined with more restaurants and shops than I thought possible. It’s buzzing with life, even on our late night walk home. We buy lemons and greens, ramps and nectarines from the market and turn it into a decadent spread of gnocchi al limone the next night, Topher guiding our guests through his collection of olive oils sopped up with thick bread.
The morning dawns clear and cloudless and we meet our kayak guide at the beach. He tells us life vests aren’t necessary and gives us a quick intro before shoving us out into the bay in our double kayaks. The water is unbelievably clear and I can see everything beneath us as we paddle out onto the sea. Tiny schools of fish, forests of seagrass and ghost white rocks appear under our paddles. When we arrive at our first stop, the Blue Cave, there’s another tour group inside. We bob on the growing waves and wait for them to emerge before our guide goes in with lights. He tells us to wait two minutes, and then follow.
The entrance to the cave is narrow and I’m truly terrible at paddling. The waves push us into the walls. Topher and I are squealing and threatening to jackknife as we navigate the turns, and then suddenly we’re washed into the cave. A wave of calm descends. Our guide’s lights illuminate the spookily clear water and the ceiling that sparkles like gold in places from the sediment. There’s a small beach and we dock our boats and wander around the cavern, poking at anemones and taking pictures. On the way back out to the sea, the sun turns the water in the channel to the most perfect shade and I understand why it’s called Blue Cave.
The next cove we paddle into has jellyfish floating in the calm waters. I ask our guide if they’re dangerous and he scoops one right out of the water and passes it to Topher. It really does feel like jelly.
Our group hemmed and hawed over cliff jumping, but our guide leads us to a rocky chunk of shoreline where we dock our kayaks and climb the cliffs. He points out the various jumps as we climb. Blake peers over the edge and jumps off the lowest one. It looks impossibly high and there's three higher points. I’m looking over the edge skeptically when I hear a shout and see my water-adverse husband who has yet to even wade past his knees in the Adriatic, hurtling through the air from the highest jump. The sun is hot and the water is the most inviting shade of blue and it’s impossible not to want to get wet. The boys take turns jumping off the highest cliff and Hannah goes off the lowest jump. I stand at the edge for several long minutes, feeling very much like I always did when it was my turn at the high dive at swim lessons. I finally jump. I’m in the water before I know it and it’s cool and clear and so salty we’re easily bouyant.
The guide hands out masks, sans snorkels, and we attempt to swim around and peer at the fish below us without breathing in water. It’s harder than it looks.
The waves rock the boat and start to make me nauseous as we paddle back against the current. My arms are Jell-o and I’m starting to think maybe neither one of us is very good at paddling as we fall farther and farther behind. When we finally make it back to the beach we beeline it for the bar and drink spritzes and eat fries in the sun, my shoulders finally relaxing.
I’m trying to balance visitors and adventures with work this summer like it’s a game of Jenga, so I spend two days logged on while Topher, Blake and Hannah go olive oil tasting and head inland to Plitvice Lakes National Park. Hazelnut pouts every time she gets left with me instead of taken along on an adventure.
The year has flown by and our expat friends from Texas are down to their final week. We text back and forth, trying to find a window to say goodbye, but their schedules and ours never align. I have the strangest feeling as we bump down the dirt road to the goat farm where we’ve booked dinner and, sure enough, we spot their car in the parking lot. We came here last winter with them for the first time, and now we’re both back with visitors to get the full experience.
We follow the giant Maremma shepherds down to the barn where baby goats frolick around. The rain that’s been threatening all day finally starts and we duck inside to experience one of the best dinners of our time in Europe yet. The owner’s daughter, who can’t be older than we are, guides us through the most incredible farm to table meal she’s created. Everything is foraged, grown and raised on property. We scoop up labneh seasoned with za’atar with thick chunks of foccacia. There’s a salad of nettle and flowers and spicy greens, all foraged, topped with rounds of fresh goat cheese. Nasturtium leaf dolmas swimming in oil flecked yogurt, fresh kohlrabi salad on a bed of herby labneh and pork (thank goodness it wasn’t the goat) sausage alongside potatoes and swiss chard. Dessert is an Italian olive oil cake drizzled with mulberry syrup and as the rain starts pouring down outside, she walks us through the aged goat cheeses. The animals—three giant Maremmas, an ancient miniature poodle and a cat who sits on our laps—crowd in to get away from the storm. It’s perfect.
Blake and Hannah’s train to the next leg of their trip leaves from Ljubljana, Slovenia, and we’re treated to our least favorite part of European road trips: Google Maps’ inability to function. The estimated time holds firmly at two hours as we sit in the car through endless traffic. We’re squished into our tiny rental car—five of us plus Hazelnut and two big duffles—and our legs are cramping something fierce. The forecast promised rain and we change our plans three times on the drive as we go from pockets of sun to rain, to an eventual torrential downpour, lightning and thunder shaking the car. When we finally make it to Ljubljana, five hours after we’ve left and three past when we should have arrived, the rain hasn’t let up.
We all realize that our rain jackets aren’t quite as waterproof as marketed and buy umbrellas at the first store we pass. Hazelnut is soaked through in minutes and she tries to huddle under the umbrella. We post up on a patio protected by giant sun shades and try to dry off under the heaters alongside a dozen little birds. After just enough time has been killed that it could conceivably be dinner time, we crowd into our favorite Indian restaurant and warm up with masala and vindaloo and hot chai. Hazelnut looks so sad when we get back to the car without her friends and we’re both feeling a little blue on the drive back, a feeling that’s only magnified the next day when we pop by and say a true goodbye to our expat friends. Istria suddenly feels lonelier than it did last week and it reminds us that our time here isn’t infinite either.
Our summer schedule is packed with visitors and trips and adventures and I know we can’t stay sad for long.
-Mikaela