postcard 52: fritto misto
Long walks for fried fish.
The sailboats squeak in the harbor, in time with the gentle roll of the waves and the cobblestone streets are bathed in an orange glow. I know the many merits of LED lights, but I can’t help loving that most places in Europe have stuck to the old-school halogen bulbs, all vibe and no visibility.
It’s Hazelnut’s gotcha day—she’s been part of our family for two years now and we’re celebrating with fritto misto. We can get a plate of fried calamari in most restaurants in our town but there’s something quintessential about it served in a paper cone like they do on the Italian coast. This window in our favorite little town, Rovinj, appears to be the only place to get it on this side of the border.
We sit on stools outside the window in a narrow alley and feed our spoiled puppy bites of fried squid and cheese fries. It’s lovely and I ask when they close for the season—the last day of September, unfortunately. Hazelnut surprises a cat sleeping in a spinny desk chair and he narrowly misses swiping her nose. She rides that high all the way home.
Sandwiches get wrapped in plastic film and tucked in our backpack along with a bottle of wine, and we hike out to one of our favorite spots. We haven’t been since the spring—too many summer tourists—but now everything is turning local once again. The water is impossibly blue, the clearest we’ve seen yet, and we post up on the rocks where Hazelnut can chase lizards to her heart’s content while we watch as the sailboats drift lazily by. There’s a cool breeze blowing and the water is definitely not warm, but I’m aware of how fleeting these moments are so I strap Hazelnut into her lifejacket and we brave the rolling waves to swim out. The water is icy and takes my breath away as she tries to climb me, spooked by the rolling water. We paddle without drowning for a few minutes and head back to shore. The air feels warm now and the afternoon slips away.
A storm moves in overnight and the temperature drops into the crispest fall day on Sunday. We drive up the coast to a huge botanical park along the water where we walk underneath ginko trees, their leaves turning into little yellow fans as they flutter to the ground. Over cappuccinos at the park cafe, French music playing softly in the background, we decide it's too nice not to walk into town for lunch. It’s a long path: two miles as the crow flies and we’re hugging the shore so I know we walk more, but it’s glorious out. Rugged coast gives way to polished marinas, big yachts and ritzy resorts, before we spill back into old town Rovinj. Hazelnut knows exactly where we’re going and sits patiently at the fritto misto counter until the to-go bag appears and then she bounces with joy. We head for a bench along the water and she jumps up and sits on it shamelessly before we even get there. I wonder if she knows what a lucky dog she is as we watch the boats bob and the seagulls circle and eat the last paper-cone calamari of the season.
One morning, the clear sea is full of jellyfish, their translucent bodies mesmerizing us on our morning walk. Another, we buy pretty orange mushrooms at the market and I learn that they’re chanterelles, a species revered by chefs that only grow wild—I’m charmed. The beautiful, golden light can’t last forever and when the rain comes we walk around town in our rain coats, holding the umbrella over Hazelnut so she doesn’t mildew.
-Mikaela