It could be my tomboy roots, or perhaps my current penchant for menswear, or maybe you could even call it ‘stoic’ pride – in any case, I’m not a big crier. In fact, I generally refuse to shed tears infront of others unless a there is a movie involving notebooks or a kid from the slums. Though many gut-wrenching moments have found my heart lodged in my throat or drooping somewhere between my knees, my tear reserve remains fully intact. That’s Riwa.
However, upon entering Croatia, Riwa was re-named Riva, (meaning shore) – a croatian tradition. I was immediately welcomed into the Churkovich family with unimaginable warmth. Residing just outside the city of Zadar, in a lovely village called Ploca, lives Lucy’s family – home for the next five days. We hit it off right away and though at times there was a language barrier, one thing that never seemed to get lost in translation: “Mangia Riva! Mangia!” And mangia we did. Zuchinnis, potatoes, beets, olive oil, wine, green beans, cucumbers, tomatoes – all fresh from Zore’s garden. Each day Franca filled the table with a spectacular spread of delicious dishes. But the real mangia happened at Festa: the village’s St Peter’s Day celebration. A feast to end all feasts. (“This isn’t the main course?!”) We ate lunch until it was dinner time, and then….we ate dinner.
On a scroching afternoon, we took a boat to a beautiful laguna for a dip in warm, crystal clear water; we walked through the bustling city and drank cold Karloveckas in little alley way cafes; we listened to melodies of the tide at the sea organ and had ample photo ops at the striking light installation that tributes the sun; we watched Angela (the Audrey Hepburn of Zadar) perform in an impressive puppet version of The Wizard of Oz; we visited war ruins and looked through old photo albums. We took walks with the kids, listening to Beyonce blaring out of little Anna’s cellphone. I competed ferciously at cards, despite the fact that my opponent was 10 years old. I watchd eagerly as Lela prepared hommemade desserts…mostly because she let me lick the bowl. One afternoon, in search of an unmet cousin, we knocked on a strangers door and within moments were smothered with hugs, kisses and of course food.
And before I knew it, it was time to say goodbye to my little Australian and her amazing family. Sad, but the distraction of having a ferry to catch, another adventure waiting always makes goodbyes easier. So big hugs, a joke or two, and I was on my way, tear free.
UNTIL I found the sneaky note left for me in my purse. A sneaky, but lovely note that made it impossible to ignore that ‘farewells’ mean you must eventually fare ‘without’, that sometimes endings deserve a little reflection. So. Right there in the country of Croatia, at the edge of Zadar, on the massive Jadrolinija ferry and infront of my new Croatian friend Tomas (with whom I was sharing a prime couch area) Riva took over and let out a few salty, seashore tears. The tears quickly turned to laughter as Tomas looked at me confused and earnest, and offered me a tissue and some of his ‘chippy chips’. (“Don’t tell anyone…..right, you don’t speak english.”) We sat in silence, eating chips and watching the sunset until the ferry for our long overnight journey back to Italy.
