OK, I remember roughing it in the hostels of Ireland and France in the early 1980s, in what could only be described as adobe shacks, or halfway homes for the indigent. Or once, in '92, I crashed at Asbury Park's Empress Motel (long before the Great Gay Gentrification of the early oughts) where I had to ask for a room with electrical power and the sheets were cold and damp despite it being mid-July on the Shore.
But there comes a time in every portly man-of-a-certain-age's life when threadbare towels, Blitzkrieg-like mosquito attacks, and Cold War-era hot water heaters in the shower just lose their charm.
This was that time.
Bob and I planned to spend the remaining four days of our Croatia trip in Istria. Our destination was less than half-a-day's drive out of Opatija, and we left around 10 a.m., admittedly recovering from the wonderful dinner has in Rijeka the previous evening.
We drove the narrow winding roads out of the town and passed through the Učka Tunnel into the Istrian heartland, greeted by a giant sign which read: "Istria: Land of Good Wine" (in four languages, no less. It was a really big sign.)
Fall had arrived, the skies are clear with a slight breeze. Twelve days into the trip, every hotel and apartment a hit, almost every meal a home-run. Except breakfast. Outside of our hotel in Prague, and fending for ourselves in Dubrovnik, hotel breakfasts were not so great here in Croatia. Bad automated coffee machines, congealed scrambled eggs in chafing dishes, breakfast meats and sausages cooked within an inch of their lives in oil. Stick to the ever-present ham-and-cheese trays, fresh fruit and breads.
Our destination was an agritourism inn between the towns of Vsar and Kloštar. When we arrived, we were charmed: A Mediterranean-style, relatively modern villa with an olive grove; a giant spit out the front. Rustic, hand-painted signs touting wine and olive oil. A large busload of Germans were lunching in the dining area and the deck. A group of touring cyclists from a Slavic-speaking country pulled in and sat for lunch. Perfect, right?
First off, the proprietor, a stout woman in her early-50s, spoke every language, except English. And that's cool, as Bob and I are routinely embarrassed by our own monolingual limitations. But almost all the menus and documents offered came only in Croatian, Italian and German. Still, it was all part of the adventure.
Then we were escorted to our rooms. That's when the horror slowly crept in: For some reason, we each got a room, despite booking for a double-occupancy. The beds could only be described as queen-sized prison cots, supporting a single four- to five-inch mattress. The towels were little more than faded, frayed cotton rags. The largest, the bath towel, we assumed, the size of dish towel.
And then she handed us the mosquito repelling electronic devices:
Essentially a homicidal Renuzit, you slip the blue wafers into the device, plug it into the wall and a death aroma is unleashed. Still, we assumed that this was just part of the rural, agrarian charm of the place. Why the sign out front promised "agritourism," a winery, olive oil and food hadn't it?
In all fairness, we have no one to blame but ourselves. Bob had planned the trip based on our friend Jon Bonne's trip to Croatia about five years ago. He mentioned how he had gone the agritourism route through the wine country of the Pelješac Peninsula and so we thought, what the heck. Let's go for it. We probably should have done better due diligence ...
We unloaded the suitcases and headed to the nearby Limski Kanal, or the Lim Channel, formed by a glacial retreat during an ice age a long, long time ago. Its name comes from the Latin word "Limes" or limit, as the Romans used it as the natural border between two of its provinces, Dalmatia and Italia.
On a curious side note, Croatian waters were for centuries homes to pirates and brigands, dating back to the pre-Roman era. In fact, the Illyrians, the first Croatians, gave Rome so much grief with their piracy, the Empire invaded the country in 163 B.C. to make them knock it off.
Later, during the 1600s, Captain Morgan, the feared pirate of the Spanish Main, used the canal as a hiding place. He was above all else, tasteful.
We decided to have our appetizers here at the shores of the canal itself, fresh oysters cultivated just yards from the shore along with smoked fish with a couple of glasses of the local malvazija white:
Driving towards our inn, we had ran across a couple of konobas or cafes, specializing in spit-roasted pigs or lamb. So we decided to head to one of those for dinner proper.
We can't sing the praises of this simple, satisfying meal enough. It's farm food. Plain and simple. Fresh peas, par-boiled, then finished in olive oil, parsley and garlic, "breaded" potatoes (boiled potatoes, sliced, covered in flour then fried in olive oil), and the main event, the suckling pig, cut in large chunks and served with a large helping of raw, sweet chopped onions.
A half-carafe of the house red, the meal was followed by a fragrant, homemade honey grappa which was sweet, but not syrupy, with a hint of flowers in both aroma and taste.
After a meal like that, we decided to retire early. The day had been beautiful, Istria is beautiful. A great meal, a nice mellow buzz, we could hang out in the dining room or on the deck ...
We returned to a ghost town. The lights were out and nobody, and we mean, nobody was home. Not even the owner. She must live in one of the nearby houses. The only one up, and it was barely 9 o'clock, was the family dog, who came over to make sure we weren't vandals.
We entered Bob's room and the air was electric with the whir of mosquitoes. Bob and I doubled up on the Renuzits, sealing all the doors and windows and taking refuge for the night in his room. Upon closer inspection, crushed corpses of dozens of mosquitoes dotted the walls and ceilings; victims of battles with previous tenants.
Sleep was full of fits and starts. At one point, I dreamed of Tito's soldiers lurking in the hills of the Lake Country, Hitler's Messerschmitts strafed the land, the relentless buzz in my ears growing louder, Louder, LOUDER. Only to wake myself, slapping my face and ears.
By dawn, Bob and I were zombies, staggering around the room in a quasi-death state. In the shower, at least the water was hot. But there's nothing more unsettling than hearing, and seeing, the pilot light of the water heater flame on, mere inches from your face, barely two minutes into your shower.
Enough. Bob looked sad, weary, resigned I thought, to the fact that our final days in Croatia would be spent in squalor ...
Fuck that noise. I turned on the Droid, ratcheted up the roaming and data charges, and booked us into a four-star resort twenty minutes away on the sea in the town of Poreč.
A day doesn't go by I don't thank Al Gore for the Internet.
The inn owner was disappointed when we motioned we were checking out. She rushed into the kitchen and came back with the phone, someone on the other end spoke perfect English. "I really need Internet access to get work done," I lied. The woman on the phone was gracious, promising a refund for the nights canceled. We piled into the Skoda and sped off towards the sea.
At least the dog was cute.
But there comes a time in every portly man-of-a-certain-age's life when threadbare towels, Blitzkrieg-like mosquito attacks, and Cold War-era hot water heaters in the shower just lose their charm.
This was that time.
Bucolic, right? Oh, that's how they lure you in ...
Bob and I planned to spend the remaining four days of our Croatia trip in Istria. Our destination was less than half-a-day's drive out of Opatija, and we left around 10 a.m., admittedly recovering from the wonderful dinner has in Rijeka the previous evening.
We drove the narrow winding roads out of the town and passed through the Učka Tunnel into the Istrian heartland, greeted by a giant sign which read: "Istria: Land of Good Wine" (in four languages, no less. It was a really big sign.)
Fall had arrived, the skies are clear with a slight breeze. Twelve days into the trip, every hotel and apartment a hit, almost every meal a home-run. Except breakfast. Outside of our hotel in Prague, and fending for ourselves in Dubrovnik, hotel breakfasts were not so great here in Croatia. Bad automated coffee machines, congealed scrambled eggs in chafing dishes, breakfast meats and sausages cooked within an inch of their lives in oil. Stick to the ever-present ham-and-cheese trays, fresh fruit and breads.
Our destination was an agritourism inn between the towns of Vsar and Kloštar. When we arrived, we were charmed: A Mediterranean-style, relatively modern villa with an olive grove; a giant spit out the front. Rustic, hand-painted signs touting wine and olive oil. A large busload of Germans were lunching in the dining area and the deck. A group of touring cyclists from a Slavic-speaking country pulled in and sat for lunch. Perfect, right?
First off, the proprietor, a stout woman in her early-50s, spoke every language, except English. And that's cool, as Bob and I are routinely embarrassed by our own monolingual limitations. But almost all the menus and documents offered came only in Croatian, Italian and German. Still, it was all part of the adventure.
Then we were escorted to our rooms. That's when the horror slowly crept in: For some reason, we each got a room, despite booking for a double-occupancy. The beds could only be described as queen-sized prison cots, supporting a single four- to five-inch mattress. The towels were little more than faded, frayed cotton rags. The largest, the bath towel, we assumed, the size of dish towel.
And then she handed us the mosquito repelling electronic devices:
Essentially a homicidal Renuzit, you slip the blue wafers into the device, plug it into the wall and a death aroma is unleashed. Still, we assumed that this was just part of the rural, agrarian charm of the place. Why the sign out front promised "agritourism," a winery, olive oil and food hadn't it?
In all fairness, we have no one to blame but ourselves. Bob had planned the trip based on our friend Jon Bonne's trip to Croatia about five years ago. He mentioned how he had gone the agritourism route through the wine country of the Pelješac Peninsula and so we thought, what the heck. Let's go for it. We probably should have done better due diligence ...
We unloaded the suitcases and headed to the nearby Limski Kanal, or the Lim Channel, formed by a glacial retreat during an ice age a long, long time ago. Its name comes from the Latin word "Limes" or limit, as the Romans used it as the natural border between two of its provinces, Dalmatia and Italia.
That's no fjord ...
On a curious side note, Croatian waters were for centuries homes to pirates and brigands, dating back to the pre-Roman era. In fact, the Illyrians, the first Croatians, gave Rome so much grief with their piracy, the Empire invaded the country in 163 B.C. to make them knock it off.
Later, during the 1600s, Captain Morgan, the feared pirate of the Spanish Main, used the canal as a hiding place. He was above all else, tasteful.
From the deck of the oddly named Restaurant Fjord
We decided to have our appetizers here at the shores of the canal itself, fresh oysters cultivated just yards from the shore along with smoked fish with a couple of glasses of the local malvazija white:
Driving towards our inn, we had ran across a couple of konobas or cafes, specializing in spit-roasted pigs or lamb. So we decided to head to one of those for dinner proper.
We can't sing the praises of this simple, satisfying meal enough. It's farm food. Plain and simple. Fresh peas, par-boiled, then finished in olive oil, parsley and garlic, "breaded" potatoes (boiled potatoes, sliced, covered in flour then fried in olive oil), and the main event, the suckling pig, cut in large chunks and served with a large helping of raw, sweet chopped onions.
A half-carafe of the house red, the meal was followed by a fragrant, homemade honey grappa which was sweet, but not syrupy, with a hint of flowers in both aroma and taste.
After a meal like that, we decided to retire early. The day had been beautiful, Istria is beautiful. A great meal, a nice mellow buzz, we could hang out in the dining room or on the deck ...
We returned to a ghost town. The lights were out and nobody, and we mean, nobody was home. Not even the owner. She must live in one of the nearby houses. The only one up, and it was barely 9 o'clock, was the family dog, who came over to make sure we weren't vandals.
We entered Bob's room and the air was electric with the whir of mosquitoes. Bob and I doubled up on the Renuzits, sealing all the doors and windows and taking refuge for the night in his room. Upon closer inspection, crushed corpses of dozens of mosquitoes dotted the walls and ceilings; victims of battles with previous tenants.
Sleep was full of fits and starts. At one point, I dreamed of Tito's soldiers lurking in the hills of the Lake Country, Hitler's Messerschmitts strafed the land, the relentless buzz in my ears growing louder, Louder, LOUDER. Only to wake myself, slapping my face and ears.
By dawn, Bob and I were zombies, staggering around the room in a quasi-death state. In the shower, at least the water was hot. But there's nothing more unsettling than hearing, and seeing, the pilot light of the water heater flame on, mere inches from your face, barely two minutes into your shower.
Enough. Bob looked sad, weary, resigned I thought, to the fact that our final days in Croatia would be spent in squalor ...
Fuck that noise. I turned on the Droid, ratcheted up the roaming and data charges, and booked us into a four-star resort twenty minutes away on the sea in the town of Poreč.
A day doesn't go by I don't thank Al Gore for the Internet.
The inn owner was disappointed when we motioned we were checking out. She rushed into the kitchen and came back with the phone, someone on the other end spoke perfect English. "I really need Internet access to get work done," I lied. The woman on the phone was gracious, promising a refund for the nights canceled. We piled into the Skoda and sped off towards the sea.
At least the dog was cute.
No comments:
Post a Comment