postcard 55: golden days
The one where we go to a prosciutto festival.
Hazelnut is crushed to learn that she is not allowed inside the massive tent at the prosciutto festival. 40 producers, 7 countries represented, unlimited samples, and she has to wait in the car.
This is not at all like other events we’ve attended here. Gone are the slightly dinky, homegrown festival vibes. This tiny town in the middle of Istria has been transformed into the prosciutto capital of the world on this October weekend, though maybe it's always holding on to the title, I think as we pass a large marble statue of a leg of prosciutto in the square. There’s an outer market and a carnival surrounding the biggest tent I’ve ever seen. It has a real floor and air conditioning and when we step inside, it’s overwhelming in its enormity. The perimeter is lined non-stop with prosciutto vendors and the center is full of tables and it smells deeply of cured meat. A folk band plays and a few older couples swing around the dance floor. We get €2.50 plastic cups of rose from a local vineyard and start wandering. Every table has huge legs of prosciutto set on carving stands. The vendors cut thin slices of it with big serrated knives and hold them out for us to try.
Most of the producers are from Croatia, with a few Spanish, Italian and Portuguese booths thrown in. The prosciutto—prsût in Croatian—from our home state of Istria is thick and dry, almost jerky like. We’re familiar with it and it's not our favorite, so when we put a piece of Dalmatian prsût in our mouths we say “ohhhh” at the exact same time. It’s smoked, instead of just air dried, and the flavor is so different. We eat sample after sample until we find our favorite from Dalmatia and then we try the Spanish jamon Ibireco. It’s subtly sweet and the fat melts in our mouth like butter. We can’t decide which variety we like better, so we buy 100kg of each and more rose and sit down to savor them. Three men ask if they can sit down at our picnic table and we agree before watching with utter disbelief at the sheer quantity of prosciutto they begin to unload. They must have bought a plate from half the vendors and soon our table is bulging under the weight. On the way out, we spy multiple people who have bought entire legs.
At the car, we think we’re being very clandestine as we tell Hazelnut about each variety of prosciutto we’ve brought back for her to try as we feed her bites of the world’s most expensive ham. We’re not as sneaky as we think, though. The parking attendant smiles at us and comes over to show us a picture of his Pomeranian from his phone. We take Hazelnut back to the outer market and order some fritule to combat all the meat—little fried donuts, our order covered in pistachio sauce—and share our picnic with her on the curb. As we wait in line for the bathroom, she finds a hole in the back of the tent and sticks her head in to get a solid sniff of the meaty goodness. We go on a walk through the little town, stopping at a set of benches overlooking the valley below. It’s terribly beautiful.
Last time we hiked to this hidden bay, it was August and sweltering. The turquoise waters were filled with boats, the beach bar was open and slinging drinks and the rocky beach and water were full of swimmers. Today, it’s practically empty. Two people and their dogs brave the chilly waters of the beach but that’s it. The entire, horseshoe shaped bay and it's scrubby cliffs belong to us for the afternoon. It's still early afternoon but the sun is already casting deep shadows. We pick a spot from the opposite side that seems like it will have sun for the longest and hike over there. We climb down a short, steep trail and there’s a perfect cove worn into the cliff with steps practically carved into the rocks leading to the water.
The air temperature can’t be more than 70° and I know the water will be icy, but the hike over was just long enough to warm Hazelnut and I into thinking a swim sounds perfect. She dons her life jacket and I lose my clothes and we jump into the frigid water, scaring away a school of fish. Somehow, we convince Topher to join us and he squeals and hyperventilates for a solid five minutes until the water goes from feeling painful to numb. Hazelnut climbs out to do big, arcing zooms that end with a splashy jump into the water and a paddle out to where we’re treading.
We last all of ten minutes before the numbness starts feeling hot and decided we’re maybe risking hypothermia. We lay out in the sun, trying to soak in its warmth, and eat hummus and drink wine as Hazelnut chases crabs. Finally, she too curls up and takes a nap. The light has that golden, melancholy slant and we discuss our favorite things about living in Europe and what we want to bring back home to our new life in Colorado because yes, we decide. It will be a new life. A new life in a familiar setting, but we know that we’re different than when we left a year ago and we’re determined not to fall back into our old ways of being. We want more community, more slow days soaking things in, more every day adventure and more…this, I say, gesturing at everything. Quiet, luxurious time in nature.
By the time I’ve showered Hazelnut and myself, it's obvious Topher’s caught a chill. He didn’t spend his childhood breaking ice in the backyard pond to go swimming and it shows. I leave him under the covers with Hazelnut warming his legs the next day and manage to navigate the grocery store on my own, returning with his favorite flavor or Cup Noodles that only rarely gets stocked.
There's a hedgehog that’s started frequenting our yard and we take turns spotting it late at night when Hazelnut goes out and the other misses it. Finally, we catch it together and can sneak up close one at a time to see his cute little face as he searches for bugs and the other one holds Hazelnut, who desperately wants to say hi.
-Mikaela