postcard 47: if I had a nickel for every accordion festival we've been to

I'd only have 10¢, but still weird it's happened twice.

I sit down to write and find myself rolling my eyes as I get ready to describe the weather—how mundane! But really, there’s nothing mundane about the patterns of Mother Nature.

At some point in the last two weeks, it feels like summer has finally arrived. Not whatever heinous Armageddon we lived through these last couple of months, but the kind of summers I’m used to where the sun is hot but not oppressive, the breeze blows cool on your cheeks and the humidity is under 50%. The shift has turned the sea back into a thing of wonder. The water feels cool when we wade in and it’s so still and clear I can watch the schools of fish swim under my feet. It feels like swimming through big bolts of silk, the gentle roll of the waves caressing our bodies.

Hazelnut and I climb a half submerged rock formation and the water deceives me when I lower myself back in. The bottom looks so much closer than it is and I scrape my leg along the barnacle covered stone. Fat, crimson droplets run down my ankle, it looks like I’ve been attacked by Wolverine. We make a quick and hasty exit from the beach, passing the same groups who occupy this chunk of shoreline every day (I’m convinced they’ve moved in for the summer with their elaborate loungers) but I can’t stay away. The water is too enticing. We’re back again two days later, my leg plastered in waterproof bandages.

I swim way out and call to Hazelnut. I don’t realize Topher’s taken off her life jacket but she leaps into the water anyways. I swim furiously to intercept her but she’s finally doing it, she’s swimming bravely without any assistance. We make our way back to shore together and dry off on the rocks, watching a needle fish flit about in the shallows. I could stay out here forever, but the ghost white skin showing for the first time this summer, care of a new swimsuit, is threatening to go bright pink. We buy bread from the bakery on the way home and make clean-out-the-fridge sandwiches. Mortadella and bresola, fresh mozzarella and pesto, pickles, greens, tomatoes, spicy peppers and a generous pour of Istrian olive oil.

The air is thick with the cloying scent of rotting figs smashed under tires in the parking lots and on the street. The trees are heavy with them. One day, we drive east in search of a cafe we saw on our first weekend here. It’s closed but we wander until we find pizza instead. Another evening, I find an accordion festival on the local events calendar. We head north and we drive an impressive distance from the highway, winding through tiny towns that are indiscernible save for the signs that show we’re entering and exiting them. A house here, a church there. Finally we see a teenager with a walkie talkie and we’re directed to someone’s field where we park next to a pumpkin patch. It’s obvious from the moment we walk up that this is not a tourist event. We are the only foreigners here. There’s hay bales serving as seats and they're full of parents and grandparents, everyone has their phones out filming the little kids with their even littler accordions. We buy €3 beers from a tent where they're also grilling cevapi and sit down to listen. Someone has stuck whirly gigs in the field in various places.

It’s most definitely some sort of school recital and we cannot understand a word of what’s going on but the kids are impressive, whipping out fast and complicated sounding melodies. Even in Croatian, I can pick out the tune of “Happy Birthday” and then they’re cutting cake and a trio of teenage girls runs around passing slices out. It's possibly the most random thing we’ve experienced in our almost year of living here, but we can’t stop laughing when we get back in the car. Luckily, we’ve made dinner reservations in a nearby town and we only have an hour to kill. We park halfway up the steep hill and walk to the tippy top, where a castle perches. The sun is setting over the vineyards and olive groves. In the distance, the sea is a silver shimmer.

Our table perches on the edge of the hill, overlooking the valley below. One by one the local cats come out, plaintively mewing at the other diners. Hazelnut lays diplomatically under the table and doesn’t make a peep. The lights in the surrounding villages blink on here and there as the day fades away and we eat homemade pasta with paper-thin slices of truffle on top, and Istrian beef with fried polenta. It’s magical, we all agree as we wander back down the hill.

-Mikaela