postcard 59: november gloom

The deep breath before the storm.

Some decisions are hard. What’s the best pairing for the LAST of our favorite gnocchi? Some decisions are easy. Pack our favorite mugs, every ratty dog toy and as much olive oil as will fit.

The sky has turned grey and spits rain, the air quality has deteriorated and I wonder if maybe we’ve stayed a week too long. The endlessly wistful weather has turned to match our spirits. We try, desperately, not to be gloomy but we take turns, using up all of our positivity to cheer the other one and then waking up the next day with a deep sense of existential dread. Well, the humans at least. Hazelnut’s just mad it's raining.

I never bargained for this deep impossibility. I knew leaving everything we’d ever known in Colorado and being away from home would hurt, and it did! But I didn’t realize just how deeply going back would feel like breaking in two. I keep itching to edit down these, frankly sad notes, but the challenge this past year was to write these very honest snapshots of life and right now, the predominant emotion is sadness. This whole year has been crammed with deep emotions and in some ways I’m looking forward to the quiet task of rebuilding a simple life back in the States. During the pandemic, I chaffed terribly against the feeling of boredom but after the last few years I think maybe boredom sounds like not the worst thing in the world. Remind me I said that, when I’m bouncing off the walls in April.

We go to the beach and eat sandwiches, bundled in sweatshirts, sitting in a depression to hide from the wind. We fill suitcases with our camping gear and shorts, and cycle through the laundry again, breaking down and going to the laundromat to dry since the last load took three days in this humidity.

I think the girl behind the counter is laughing at us, but she’s just delighted to realize we know something about olive oil. We’re in Vodnjan, the heart of Istria’s olive oil production, at the new oil festival. The owner comes out, speaking English, and tells us about Zizolera, an ancient variety that was recently rediscovered. Normally, the Istrian olive oil starts smooth and vegetal, finishing with a strong spice that makes you cough if you’re tasting it correctly. The Zizolera is just the opposite and I’m delighted by its uniqueness. The owner leans in conspiratorially and tells us his organic certification makes him better than everyone else. We taste at a stand with a bored little girl, absentmindedly dipping crackers in oil, whose parents steer us away from her grandfather’s oil and to their biodynamic blends, sharing a table. At the end, we buy from one of our tried and true favorite producers, awkwardly ducking out the back to avoid the other growers, and go home to pack some more.

Finally, I can't take it anymore and call in sick, despite the mountains of work waiting for me. We turn on Christmas music earlier than usual, plugging in a snarl of twinkle lights. Topher bakes cookies and I spend the day reading on the couch and it's actually just what we both need. We finish with our very favorite Christmas movie, Klaus, and predictably cry at the end.

It’s properly cold when we walk into town to go to the notary’s office to dissolve our lease. I’m glad I grabbed a coat. Our landlord awkwardly hands us back the Tupperware from last week’s batch of cookies and has included candy inside. It’s a baffling Croatianism we’ve just begun to learn. No gift can be left unreturned. As we’ve been getting rid of things via Facebook groups preparing to move, anything free—even the janky doubly second hand bike I inherited with rust and spiderwebs—has been met with gifts of chocolate or coffee, offers of wine. It’s ridiculous, but also sweet. Inside the notary office, you could cut the silence like cheese. We all sit there, studying the walls, as the notary carefully binds the signed papers in red, white and blue string. Small talk stresses our landlord out, because he doesn't speak English and we don't speak Croatian, so we settle for silence. When we leave, it's sleeting. We’re thoroughly soaked by the time we get home.

Next week we begin our very long journey back to Colorado. Send us your favorite playlists, audiobooks and podcasts to keep us company as we drive across Europe and the US! We’ll need it.

-Mikaela