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I’m amazed at the blank stares I receive when the words “Croatia” and “vacation” appear in the same sentence.  It’s true: when my friends first mentioned going to Croatia all I could think about was war-torn country, bullet-holes in the churches, and ethnic cleansing.  After all, the Bosnia-Serbian conflict was just 10 years ago.

What I was not prepare for was the resilience of the people of Croatia.  This region has been a region of conflict for centuries.  Unfortunately I fear that this may be once again another region of conflict sometime soon.  But because my understanding of this country, these people was so limited (and laughable) it made this the perfect place to take a vacation.

My friends took the liberty of renting a 45 foot yacht for us to sail around the islands that do make up Croatia.  Over 1,100 islands.  Obviously in our four days on board we couldn’t see every island.  But the best way to get around Croatia is by boat.

First, let’s start with the water.  The sea was so clear, it made Hawaii look dirty.  Pristine, untouched and simply gorgeous.  When our yacht would drop anchor, you could see the anchor on the bottle of the sea.  Very clear.  The next trait about the water: the salinity was so high it was impossible to sink.  That is an odd sensation, considering Michigan’s fresh water swimming permitted one to sink indefinitely.  No, hold your breath and try to go under and it won’t happen.  The furthest I could get was just above my eye brows.

Next on the list was the seafood.  The first place we held up for the night had four seafood restaurants.  When we got off the boat, a fisherman was cleaning the largest grouper-fish I had ever seen.  I believe this was the same fish that swallowed Jonah from the bible.  Not sure.  One of my companions made a comment about how delicious the grouper looked and I agreed.  That night, the restaurant, convienently located right next to our yacht, told us the specials.  The lady finished with “Oh, and we have fresh grouper.  The fish is so large you could probably all share it.”  Having the fish go from the ocean to your plate within the span of two hours definitely means it’s fresh.

If it’s true that you can tell more about a culture by its cuisine then what we tasted spoken volumes.  During our stay aboard our version of the S.S. Minnow, our captain was about to show us what true local Croatians were all about through their cooking.  And it was an interesting story.

Sometimes you just have to say “Screw it” and throw caution to the wind.

Originally we were only going to spend about 10 days in Tuscany.  Towards the end, my friends had sold us on joining them in Croatia.  To me, the only mention of Croatia was regarding the Bosnian/Serbian war that broke out some ten years ago.  Other than that, I knew very little.  But two, well-seasoned travelers in our group both said that Croatia was their favorite country.  With that, we headed out.  Since my friends already had air transportation we had to find our own way across the  Adriatic.

The first leg of our adventure consisted of the bullet train between Rome and Bari.  Bari is an old, port city.  And like many other port cities, the city grew up around the military fort built to protect it.  Fortunately it was compact.  A fifteen minute bus ride separated the port from the main train station.

Nearly 11 o’clock at night, I was standing on the bow of a large ship as it set sail for Dubrovnik.  Cruise ships never interested me.  My longest stay aboard a boat was an overnight trip on a sailboat.  This was 150 miles across the Adriatic Sea, taking 9 hours by boat.  Since the ferry had two restaurants, two coffee shops and two bars I said “Why not?”

Pitch black said Good-night to us.  The rising sun over the Adriatic said good morning.  In this distance, the mountains of Croatia were waiting.  The early morning fog had yet to disappear so we spent our time, sucking down the delicious cappuccinos the barman produced.  The caffeine was needed simply because we had to hit the ground running.  This was a Slavic country.  I doubted many of the people spoke English and probably fewer spoke French.  No clue where our friends were or how we could contact them.  If something had happened to them, we would not have known about it.  No idea what the currency was or even how to say “Thank You” in their native tongue.

We were flying in blind.  And loving every minute of it.

Italy shuts down between 1 and 3 p.m. every day.  Even the restaurants and bars.  If you find yourself hungry at 1:30, forget about it.  You’d have better luck capturing a pigeon for lunch than finding an open restaurant.

Thus was our predicament during one day of our vacation.

Maybe it was poor planning on our part or the fact that the previous nights dinner still sat in our stomachs.  Whatever the excuse, hunger did not visit us until we were into the lunch-time blackout.

So we did what anyone would do in our situation: we drove around.

Aimless wanderings, missed turns, and pure chance brought us to this small, mountain-top village called Montagna which is Italian for ‘mountain’.  Our first impressions of this town was that it was deserted.  No traffic, either by car or by foot.  Most of the buildings: boarded up.  I’m not sure what made us poke around this completely empty town but we did.  One of us noticed a sign which read “Ristorante”.  It was almost deserted . . . two men having lunch at a back table told us that maybe this place was the oasis in the lunch-time desert.

The owner came out to greet us.  A young owner.  His English: impeccable.  With open arms, our host bade us to sit and enjoy the best they had to offer.  No, no menus.  Just whatever the kitchen happened to fix.

Thus became the parade of dishes.  Pasta dish after pasta dish.  Sauces and fragrances which danced on the tongue, leaving warm fuzzy feelings in their wake.  Each course was accompanied with a wine, something specific to each region of Tuscany.

Right about at the third course, we watched our host as he served a basil-based pasta dish.  The pan on which he served the pasta - he cradled the dish as if it were a newborn baby.  The proud look, beaming from his eyes; his slightly cocky smile; the handling of the food with extreme care . . . this was more than some college-kid hired to slop out food at the local TGI-McFunsters.  No, this guy was different.  So we asked.

Not only was this kid the owner, he was the chef.  It was just him.  At nights, his father and sister would help out.  But this was his place.  This was his food.  This was his labour of love.  And what we had stumbled onto was not some feed-bag, chow down restaurant but rather a magical place where passion and love combine to create something truly special.  And it showed.

We invited him to have a drink with us.  Which he willingly obliged.

Underneath that rain-soaked tent, he told us his story about living in Ireland for a few years before returning to Montagna.  The restaurant, which had been in his family for generations, was now his mantra.  The town, once numbering 500 had now dwindled down to twelve.  Most of the people have left, looking to find jobs in the city.  Only a few, brave hold-outs remained with him being one of them.  The monks in the adjacent seminary were doing their part for the community: producing wine.

We spotted him as we were leaving, transfering his passion into the polishing of the silver platters he had in his kitchen.  Mirror-shine.  As is my tradition when visiting great, but out- of-the-way places I said a silent prayer for him.  My hope was that his resturant would still be there, upon our return at some future date.  Whether he may remember us or not is irrelevant.  The love he openly displayed for all to see made a lasting impression on us all.  Something none of us will forget for some time to come.

The appeal to medieval cities stems from the idea that at one time, advances were made and then suddenly time stood still.  Very rarely do you find a small town where buildings are five or six hundred years old and then suddenly buildings from the 70’s or 80’s appear.

Thus is the story of Monterchi, Italy.  This completely medieval town probably sprang up because it was the half-way point between two major cities.  What remains of the cobble stone streets shows hundreds of years worth of foot, horse, donkey and cart traffic.  It is an odd sensation, touching stones that have been worn smooth with the passage of time.

Much as it probably was in the 1500’s, the town has one restaurant and one bar.  To my recollection, the bar was never closed.  Always open to serve either beer or wine along with an assortment of meats for a continual afternoon of grazing.  The fact that the meat was free with the beer was an added bonus.

Once a day, my friends and I would find ourselves at this bar drinking Peroni’s and munching away on the free salami.  And since Italians seem oblivious to drinking water, beer and wine was the main thirst quencher.  Every now and then, a car would zoom by on the small streets.  But other than that, nothing was around to disturb us or our views of the city nor of the country-side.

It was here that I was exposed to the concept of “vino de casa” or house wine.  Before, it was always choosing a bottle of a long extensive menu.  But in Italy, the “vino de casa” often times tasted better than what you could get out of the bottle.  And that is not an insult but rather spoke to the quality of the house wine.  Add to that the house wine only cost 5 euros for a jug made this an easy decision.

While I was traveling abroad, it was the first time where I didn’t have clear internet access.  The tiny town in Tuscany had a “hot spot” which means we would park the car on the street and steal internet.  In Croatia, forget about it.

I kept a travel journal, just as usual.  I’ll probably cherry pick the best stories and share here along with some photos.

And just for the record: jet-lag is horrible when you’re coming home.