“Bura” is on the lips of everyone in line at the grocery store. The night before, I’d shooed Topher and Hazelnut out of the house after she bounced around during meeting after meeting. They’d loaded up to go to the coast but a movement caught my eye out the window as I was editing. A dark, ominous looking cloud had formed on the horizon.
Within five minutes the bura hit, the wild wind that comes down from the mountains and skates along the coast, a sure sign that summer is truly over.
I dashed outside to lay the chairs on their sides and rescue the plants, the wind whipping through the trees and sending a hurricane of leaves fluttering to the ground. The rain came in steady droves and the sky went black. Finally, I heard the key in the door. They hadn’t even made it out of the car by the time the storm hit.
It’s still 80° and humid, but I can almost convince myself that the gloomy skies warrant a sweatshirt—inside in the AC, which is good because this cold kicks my butt. I’m deep in the throes of magazine season at work, and I know this particularly stressful period is why I’m now hacking up a lung. I burrow in bed with true crime books when I’m not on the clock and Topher makes me cheesy rice and Cedevita, the Croatian answer for Tang. I learn that one of my publications, the Yosemite Journal, plus a feature story on Colorado's wolf reintroduction I assigned, have been chosen as finalists for the Folio journalism awards alongside Travel + Leisure. It almost makes up for the stress-induced cold.
Topher walks downtown and finally comes back with his Croatian ID card, nearly a year from when we moved here. We celebrate with a walk along the sea, the bura having chased most of the tourists inside. It’s cool enough that Hazelnut does zoomies and we sit on the rocks for a long time overlooking the gentle waves.
There’s traffic heading out of Croatia (all the Germans finally going home?) so Waze takes us on an alternate route to Slovenia. We get off the highway and wind through tiny towns that just keep getting tinier. The road threatens to turn to dirt and we stop on range land to let a herd of scruffy sheep with uncropped tails cross in front of us. Razor wire looms in the distance and I’m frantically checking the map to see what we just drove into and then I spot the Slovenia sign. We’ve stumbled upon a relic of pre-EU Europe, the razor wire following the border through the scrubby hills. The post is totally abandoned. We wind our way through villages perched impossibly on hills, built into cliffs and finally we merge back into the highway. We miss a turn and cross into Italy, then back into Slovenia in the same metro area. I can’t imagine how complicated life must have been before the EU opened borders.
A couple hours later, we’re following the beautiful, aquamarine colored Soca River, looking for a port-a-potty. Nobody has to pee, today, but we’re in search of a spot we found earlier this summer and it’s the only landmark we can remember. Topher slows as we pass one, but the river is still far below. Not that one. The next one looks right and we scramble down the bank to find a spot to set up for the afternoon.
The far side of the river looks nicer, so we take off our shoes and follow Hazelnut as she bounds across the shockingly clear water. It’s absolutely freezing, straight mountain snowmelt, and I have to move painfully slowly to keep from slipping on the ghost white rocks lining the bed. Finally, I make it across and we set up our chairs on the rocky bank. We’re halfway through assembling sandwiches when Topher’s chair leg sinks into the soft ground and he topples over. This process repeats itself several times and he has a constellation of bruises on his back. We opt to eat our lunch standing up and perch precariously in the chairs the rest of the afternoon, keeping our weight centered.
Hazelnut finds the one patch of sand on shore and zooms back and forth, back and forth, digging and rolling and just generally being a feral creature. She stumbles through a muskrat den at some point, and adds that fun layer to her already offensive scent profile. The woods are thick behind us and she crashes through the underbrush, covered in bugs and debris, before splashing into the cold water. It’s a game that occupies her all afternoon and I’m not complaining. I love watching her be a dog and the sparkling surface of the river is mesmerizing. We stay until the last rays of light fade behind the peaks and cross back to the opposite shore, drying our feet off and poking around a hanging bridge before we get back in the car.


Drinks turn into dinner at a roadside restaurant with candles flickering on the patio. We eat €10 bowls of pasta and don’t get home until midnight, foxes and raccoons appearing out of the dark woods as we drive the mountain routes slowly, but it’s a perfect day.
This weekend somehow marks six years of being married. We drive out to a restaurant we haven’t been back to since our first week in Croatia and eat ravioli swimming in sage butter and a sage, peach panna cotta. The sky opens up and we sit tucked in the back of a cozy patio, watching the deluge and drinking glasses of bubbly. We’ve come so far in the last six years, the last 13 we’ve been together, but some things never change, I think as I catch his foot under the table.
-Mikaela
Happy Anniversary, my dear niece and nephew!