A Tale of Squid Ink

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Hello all!

Oy! Such a delay in the reporting! I know, and I'm sorry. I've been stuck on any variety of transport, traversing the Balkans with many taciturn locals (get that dictionary yet, Handsome?). No time for internet... must catch the next donkey out of Split!

But I'll try to catch you up, and I'll start where I left off; Hvar.

Where? Yeah, I know. It's a Croatian island, off the Dalmatian Coast. It's about 3/4 of the way down the coast, and it is marvelous. When I was there, it was deserted and the weather could not have been worse, really, but I was deeply romanced nonetheless.

Actually, Hvar is the name of both the island, and the small town where I stayed, but there are a number of small towns on the island. Stari Grad, for instance, is about 15k from Hvar Town itself, and is the desolate nook where the ferry docks. All sources assured me that there would be busses and all sorts of brouhaha at the dock when we arrived, but at 8:30 that morning, there was nothing. No one. My bag weighs at least 80 pounds (for those of you snickering over there, I would like you to know that I did pare down my shoe selection to ONE PAIR, okay?), and I stepped off the boat to the realization that my destination was a lengthy, hilly, hot walk across an unknown, vacant island...

So I hitchhiked. Hey, no harm done. I'm alive, he's alive, and all is well.

Hvar Town is an ancient remnant of the Medieval world, tucked into a crook of land, and bathed by the crystal blue Adriatic. It is a very, very small port and, because the coast is so rocky, there are no beaches. Just a dock, where small boats bob madly in the wind, and divers bubble up without warning or notice to deposit netfuls of shelled creatures, awaiting their ultimate demise in a garlicky risotto... mmm...

It's teensy, that town, and built vertically out of the blanched yellow stone that holds it up. A looming fortress guards high on a hilltop, and life proceeds very, very quietly down below. Or, so it seemed, anyway. I was assured many times over that I should REALLY come back in the summer, when apparently the joint turns into a rocking Girls Gone Wild sort of show, complete with grappa shots out of strangers' navels, I'm presuming. I was happy with it the way it was, although I was also happy to rearrange my schedule to spend only one night there instead of the three I had planned.

I spent my day wandering, nibbling, of course, and snoozing. A fierce storm blew in midday, at which point I ducked into a church at the farfarfar end of town, that no one seemed to have remembered. It was ghostly, with cruicifixes, brilliant murals, half-burnt candles, and withered bunches of flowers all turning to dust. I poked around, respectfully, took some photos which I really wish I could download for you, and waited out the storm on a pew with my book.

After it passed, I climbed up get another incredibly steep hill and found my way to a restaurant tucked into an ancient cobblestone alley. Given the fact that I was about the only person on the island, I was, obviously, the only person in the restaurant. The other only person on the island, Mario, was my waiter. He poured me a glass of homemade brandy as I walked through the door and, well folks, many hours passed. What happened from that point is a bit of a blur, but I do remember that the marinated aubergine I had was positively crackling with garlic, and steeped in homepressed olive oil that gave me goosebumps. I bought a litre and have lugged it through three countries. My main course, a risotto with cuttlefish, simmered in the poor fishie's ink, was one of the most delicious plates I've ever encountered, sweet and studded with impossibly tender meat. By the time my meal was done, I had ink under every fingernail as well as all over my skirt, and was more than a bit tickled by the also house-made wine. Mario, who talked at me for hours about the beauty of his island, took one look at my stained hands and exclaimed, "Now you're pure Dalmatian!" (remember folks, it's the Dalmatian coast...).

When I asked if he would ever leave the island, he looked pained, wistful, and murmured "No...," as if I had asked if he'd ever leave his lover's side.

I left the next day, on a ferry bound for Split, and a journey that would lead me out of Croatia, through Serbia and Bulgaria, and eventually into Istanbul. I'll tell you about that later, because the very kind gentleman who is working here at the hostel in Istanbul quite obviously would like to resume playing his internet games. He walks in the room singing some romantic song and tapping his pen about every three minutes....

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