Champagne Socialist in Croatia

A friend recently described the Croatian coast as "heartbreakingly beautiful" and he's right. Precipitous, stark, arid mountains fall abrputly into the Adriatic. The aquamarine water is crystal clear, and the most intensely green pine trees line the coast. Perhaps there is a Crayola crayon shade of sea-green or jade that captures the hue of that water and those trees. Medieval walled cities dot each island and are scattered along the coast. Inside the fortifications, the white Jerusalem stone is cool and muffles the peal of church bells. The air smells like salt and lavender.

The Dalmatian coast is truly one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. This is saying a lot because I am convinced I grew up in the most beautiful place in the world. Surely this is partly subjective; I recognize that the familiar becomes precious. But the remote western United States is also just tremendously beautiful in its grandeur and its desolation. I often have difficulty describing my hometown. One evening we docked in Trstenik and my friend and I wandered down the sole street of the small fishing village. Dusk had fallen and the moon was beginning to rise over the mountains. The road came to an abrupt end at the bottom of a hill in front of a large, old wooden barrel with a bottle of wine placed on the top that doubled as a sign that read: "Wine tasting, ----> 10 kuna." We turned and walked up the hill a short distance to a small store set down a couple of stairs off of a narrow stone alley. It was cool inside and empty save for more of those ten liter wooden barrels. I remember my parents used to have a lot of those barrels decorating their first log house. They functioned as tables, or perhaps as a TV stand, though I don't recall having a TV. They matched the wagon wheels that were reincarnated as chandeliers. The barrels in the Croatian wine cellar were covered in drips of wax. Lighted candles in wine bottles were placed incautiously on the tops. There was no one around but we heard laughter and voices outside; it was late and the wine tasting had turned into a small party outside. Several people were sitting on the stone stairs and smaller barrels-turned-benches and chatting with the neighbors across the alley. They asked us if we'd come for wine tasting, and when we said yes, they invited us to sit outside with them. They warned us they were drinking everday table wine. The white was poured from an old two liter Coca Cola bottle. The red was very good. It was grown on the hillside behind us, which had apparently just been purchased by a rich California-based vintner. They asked us where we were from. "America." "But where in America?" My friend was able to say New York City and be readily understood. One man had played water polo at the University of Santa Barbara and still had a business and an apartment in New York City. They all looked at me expectantly and I concluded that the most appropriate and satisfying answer was, "From a village like this."

Later a man on the boat asked me where I was from. He was a young Croatian guy with a shaved head who darted about noiselessly and seemed to take great pleasure in appearing in front of people with no warning. He claimed he had been in the army. Now he was the chef, but his talent was catching fish with a small spear and snorkel while we stopped to swim more than cooking anything besides thin noodle soup and chopped up tomatoes with vinegar. "Where are you from?" he inquired. "You're not Aussie. You're too quiet." I laughed. It was true. The Australians with us stayed up all night playing music and proudly started a "breakfast club" where they would begin drinking cheap beer soon after the boat left port at 8am. I told him I was from the States but he pressed, "No, where are you really from?" "I'm really from the States." "No, your family, originally." sigh. "I guess my father's family is originally from Ireland. But it was a long time ago. Actually, my mother's family is Croatian." "Do you speak Croatian?" he asked in Croatian. "No," I had to admit. I wish I did. He frowned and looked pissed off, but that was his normal look. "So you are half Irish, half Croatian. You could say, all mixed up, or just one big mess." "Well, that last part at least is true."

After that, he only referred to my friend and I as "America." This would have bothered me if I hadn't referred to him only as "chef." I think his name was attractive. Marco, perhaps. One day he winked at me from across the boat and demanded, "America! Come here." He curled his index finger, gestured I follow him, and disappeared into the galley. "Try this." He handed me a plate of sea snails on a bed of radicchio greens. They were covered in oil and salt. "These are delicious!" I exclaimed, "So this is what you make for yourself!" He held a finger up to his lips, "I just found them. Ssshhh. Don't tell the others. Why do you like the States?" I paused with my fork of sea snails halfway to my mouth and thought about what to say. Before I could say anything, he said, "You are probably some rich girl..." I raised my eyebrows. But inside I wondered, Is this true now for all practical purposes? Instead I answered flippantly, "Maybe I'll marry rich and then that will be true." "Me too." "Well then you won't be marrying me." Was it my imagination or did he look just a tiny bit shocked? That I wasn't rich? That I didn't want to marry him? He continued, "You know what we say in Croatia? Love is a pile of shit, with honey on top. Once the honey is gone, you are left with a pile of shit. Love is just foolish promises. Like life in America." "Thanks for the sea snails."