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The Travelling Pants
"The only time you should ever look back, is to see how far you've come." - Proverb
Enough's enough. Exploring Pula on foot my first day in the city, I was physically uncomfortable, and decided it was time. I was flying to Athens at the end of the week. It would be much cheaper to do this here. The first store I visited was a little boutique shop selling designer beachwear and exactly the kind of baggy, comfortable-but-stylish (in a hippie kind of way) pants I was looking for. I shopped around a bit, and by a stroke of luck stumbled on Pula's central market where scores of local venders were peddling everything from fresh produce and homemade honey to hats and sundresses. I found a stall selling the same kind of pants as the boutiques, but for half the price, and the vendor cut that in half again when I looked around in other stalls.
"What size are you?" She asked, showing me the discount racks.
I shrugged and shook my head, sheepish. "I have no idea."
The vendor had a look at me, made a decision, then handed me an armful of options and pointed to the back corner of the tent draped with a beach towel which served as her fitting room.
As I was paying for my purchase, the vendor could no longer stand the intrigue. She already knew, from the fact that I didn't know my own pants size, that I'd been travelling for a long time, but she didn't know why or from where. I was used to the interrogation. Naturally, people were curious. Most people weren't able to place my accent. Croatia saw a lot of tourists from other parts of Europe, but almost no North Americans. I'd been asked if I was German, Austrian, Italian, Polish...but people always seemed bowled over when I told them I was from Canada. Their second question, inevitably, was, "What the hell are you doing in Croatia!?"
"Aren't you afraid?" The market vendor asked when I told her. It was everyone's third question, and my answer was always the same: of COURSE I'm afraid! I would have to be stupid not to be, but it would be even stupider to let the fear get the better of me and turn back. There were times when I was tempted to return somewhere I'd already been, somewhere I knew I liked like Tuscany or Trieste, but the logistics of this trip forced me to keep moving forward. Just when I started to get comfortable in a place, I had to leave it for somewhere new. It was kind of like making a living wearing in new pants, but isn't that the whole point? Trying on different pairs until I find the right fit?
The fear also makes living more intense. Because I always have to be present and aware of my surroundings, I'm forced to experience every moment to the fullest. Everyday is a celebration. Ice cream tastes sweeter, colours are brighter just because I'm there to see them. Prepared for the worst, I'm always pleasantly surprised when my expectations are exceeded.
My place in Pula wasn't so bad after all. Steeling myself for another ghetto like my second apartment in Rome, I stocked up on San Rocco's remaining complementary amenities (classy, I know). I squirrelled away everything from the sewing and shaving kits to Q-tips and soap (it was only then that I finally figured out what I thought was some weird European penis-holder for the bidet was actually a plastic shoehorn). I took a long hot shower (God only new what my next bathroom would be like), washed my hair thoroughly, and crammed as much artisan cheese and prosciutto down my throat as I could at the breakfast bar before checking out.
Given my last experience, I was more apprehensive still about renting from another guy, but Mladen, when he picked me up in the reception area, was not at all what I expected. A world traveller like myself, he was used to being tight on cash (which was why he'd offered to drive me), and his apartment, when we got there, was surprisingly tasteful and tidy. The shelves in my room were lined with stuffed animals and the pull-out couch I was sleeping on was equipped with clean pillow cases and a fluffy purple duvet with flowers on it. There was a yoga mat in the living room, and tofu and organic green tea in the pantry. Mladen also had two cats to whom I heard him baby-talking frequently. If it weren't for the fact that he had a girlfriend in Paris, I would have assumed he was gay.
I had lunch yesterday at Orfej, a modest trattoria praised online for its quality food and low prices. While the meal itself was everything it was promised, the establishment was characterized by what I call "fusion confusion". Besides the fact that I was drinking bambus (a wine-and-coke cocktail that was Croatia's remedy for the rough local reds and would be considered "wine sin" by serious vintners like Kozlovic), the music seemed to be an overreaching attempt to appeal to an international demographic. I'd been there about a half hour when the P.S. I Love You soundtrack of rousing Irish flutes and fiddles yielded to the golden country strums of Johnny Cash. Strangely, it was the same song I'd heard on the bus from Trieste: "She Used To Love Me A Lot". Before this trip it was a song I'd never heard before, but it was growing on me.
Sometimes I see him, the one I left in the dust. I do my best not to think about him, because a moment spent missing something that isn't here is a moment wasted, but when I'm eating alone in a restaurant, surrounded by couples enjoying a romantic, candlelit meal and listening to sappy love songs, it's almost impossible not to look up at some tall man with dark hair walking past the window or passing my table on the way to the bathroom and think, for an instant, that I see his face. It's moments like this when it hits me just how far away I am. All at once, every inch of the four thousand miles becomes tangible, something I can see and feel with every sensory molecule in my body, something I can weigh.
Sometimes I see that relationship as if from outside a fishbowl. Those people are foreign to me now. That skinny, fresh-faced girl clinging to someone else's side - she looks familiar but I can't put my finger on where I know her from. Not that it matters. Her outlook has changed. She can never go back, only forward. You gain a lot when you travel (besides weight), but you lose things, too, like the ability to relate to people you once loved.
"May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground. Carry on," Fun sang. As Antonella Kozlovic said, "What happened before doesn't matter." It's the here and now, and what lay ahead that still has the ability to make a difference. Thanks to her, I began to understand wine as a philosophy more than a beverage. Thanks to Oliver Arman, I now knew it was as much a lifestyle as it was a tradition.
I don't consider myself a 'wine snob' by any stretch of the imagination. Not yet. But I still couldn't resist stopping in a rustic little wine bar in Pula's ancient Roman Forum today. I asked the waitress if they had Kozlovic Muskat by the glass. "Not Kozlovic," she shook her head apologetically, "but we have another Muskat that's also very good." In a way I was relieved. Kozlovic is the Ferrari of Istrian wines. Some things are best left experienced only once. I was aware of the fact that I was acquiring expensive tastes, but I could see wine becoming something I was truly passionate about. Well into the tasting at Kozlovic, Dan, Antonella and I somehow started talking about Rome, then the Vatican, then Catholicism, then God. Antonella brought the conversation back to wine with a laugh, as though suddenly realizing how deep we'd gone. That's when it occurred to me, though, that wine is a kind of religion in itself. It has more to do with art and poetry than alcohol. Its bouquet smells of our commune with nature. To drink it is to literally taste the fruits of the earth through the labour of human hands, the taste of our own creativity. This was a pursuit I was very familiar with.
The food scene in Pula is only so-so. It's a city with a lot of international traffic, thanks to attractions like the Roman Amphitheatre and Temple of Augustus. This means tourist traps, most of them with frozen fish and overpriced cocktails. Like anywhere though, quality meals can be found if you know where to look. Thanks to recommendations from my host, Mladen and the internet, I'm happy to say I've managed to eat well here. I had lunch today at Vodnjanka, an out-of-the-way, locals-only trattoria in a residential area. It takes some work (and walking) to find, but trust me it's well worth the effort. Vodnjanka is the real deal, serving fresh, home-cooked Istrian specialities accessible to all budgets. It has a small, no-frills menu which looks extensive until you try to order, and then are told the fried sardines are not available at the moment, or they only have two of the twelve meat entrees - only the products that looked best at the local market that morning. They're only open for lunch and, oh yeah, they're cash-only, which isn't a problem considering a glass of red wine is only 6 kuna ($1.19 Canadian) and my fuzi with Istrian ox goulash: 60 kuna (about $11). For a second I actually thought there was an ox hair in my pasta, but it turned out to be a sprig of fresh rosemary. Prices aside, this is a level of quality which is virtually impossible to find anywhere else in Pula.
What the hell am I doing in Croatia? I'd answered that question countless times by now, but at the moment I'm reminded of one particular conversation I had with the young female wine-maker at Pilato. "North Americans," I'd explained, "are just beginning to learn how much Croatia has to offer. Unspeakably beautiful countryside, rich cultural history, clean air and water, amazing seafood, prosciutto, truffles, olive oil, world-class cheese and wine..." My voice trailed off. When I found it again, it was coloured by a shade of sadness. "It's the next big travel destination," I said. "I think tourism is definitely going to increase in years to come."
The vintner raised her glass to that. "I hope so," she sighed and took a long draw on her own Malvazija.
May karma strike me down; I didn't.
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