CRF: The Best of Croatia

"CRF" is not a crime show you've never heard of, it stands for "Cutting Room Floor." It's been almost a year since we returned from Europe, and we've started to get seriously nostalgic.  To give us all an extra travel fix, we're posting some of our favorite photos that never made it onto the blog.  Here are our favorite unpublished memories and pictures of Croatia.

More than any other country, we associate Croatia with hedonism, sun and the scent of saltwater.  Our trip never felt like a vacation, but Croatia is a vacation by definition.  Everyone there was on holiday in one way or another - it was the same for the naked Germans and drunk Russians and sunburned Brits that joined us on those rocky shores.  It was July.  The sun never seemed to go down.

For a few happy days, we stayed at a huge campsite on Cres Island.  There was squid to eat in town and beer to sip on the long oceanside promenade.  When we swam, we were stung by tiny jellyfish.  When we walked in the balmy evenings, we listened to cicadas and waves.  Nearby, in a pine forest, a rusty amusement park spun its blinking, neon magic.

At home in the US, not long after the trip, someone told us that Croatia sounded "scary and Russian."  It's true that in some places, like Zadar, one can find bomb-scarred buildings from the Balkan wars - but you have to look hard.  The scariest thing about Croatia today? Probably the spiny sea-urchins that lurk in the shallow water.
The Dalmatian coast is mostly rock, and some salt-scoured islands feel almost entirely dead.  Real, comfortable, sandy beaches are rare.  Most people sunbathe on concrete slabs.

In Opatija, a city where seafood approaches perfection, we had a barbecue of squid and blitva.  The market where we shopped for our supper was made of Tito-era cement and seemed like the only cool place in the sun-baked city.

The heart of the summer - no rain, mild air, a sense that nothing bad can possibly happen - is best spent in a tent.  We soaked up the sun and got into our sleeping bag coated with salt.  We never went inside.  We ate by the ocean, we napped in the shade, we swam and walked and came home to a crowded camping city that smelled always of grilling sausage and suntan oil.
This was the semi-permanent home of one of our neighbors there at Camping Kovačine - grandparents, small children and at least two couples used this one camper as a base.  Did they all sleep inside?  Hard to tell.

Late one night - well past midnight - we were returning to our campsite in Ičići and came across this streetlight game of volleyball.

These scales always remind us of communism.  Every market from Minsk to Budapest to Sarajevo is full of them.

We spent a lot of time near the Mediterranean on the trip, but almost always during the colder months.  The summer seashores are too crowded in Malta or Greece or Provence.  At least, they're too crowded for serious travel.
But there we were, in Croatia during the high season.  We succumbed because there was no other choice.  It's Croatia that we think of first when our minds turn to sunny saltwater.  It was unavoidably perfect.  It was a vacation.
To see all our posts from Croatia, just click here.
To see all the Cutting Room Floor posts, with great pictures from the other 49 countries, just click here.

Things Croatian People Like

Tourism. It's an enormous part of the economy, accounting for 20% of their GDP. So, naturally, people are much more welcoming and accommodating than a lot of other overrun destinations. Still, hearing more German, from locals and tourists alike, than Serbo-Croatian was initially unsettling and I thought, "How am I going to know what Croatian people like if they're always catering to foreigners?"

Seeing old photos like these at the Tourism Museum in Opatija (which was, ironically, free) made me see it a different way. I realized that tourism has been such a huge part of their culture for such a long time that it's unfair to consider it artificial or inauthentic.
Tourist Brochures. I add this separately because we found it really amusing. We have never ever received a welcome packet at a border crossing before. It outlined various laws and cultural highlights in a full color, multi-page mock gossip rag. Very creative. At each campsite, guest apartment, museum, we were handed a glossy pile of paper. Wasteful, yes. Endearing, totally. Proof that they have a big tourism budget, absolutely.
Family-Style Meals. For the record: most of the meals didn't look like this one. I just figured you all might be sick of fins and gills. Croatians love to put a big plate of food in the center of the table for the diners to share, listing many "plates for two." When a lamb was done roasting on a spit, people that didn't even know each other when they sat down would dig in, all at once, to take a hunk of meat from the serving platter, piled high.

Konzum Supermarket Billboards. Konzum is Croatia's largest supermarket chain and billboards for the company are absolutely everywhere. Sometimes they said witty things like "Konzum. Croatian word for Grocery" other times they were accompanied by cardboard cut outs of farmers dotting roadside fields to emphasize the farm-to-store aspect of their K Plus brand. This banner, strung up on the side of a cliff on the way to Krk Island was the most impressive.
Squid. I've never seen so many people eating squid in my life. If three things were offered at a casual eatery, squid was one of them. When there was a large menu, about a third of all diners would still order squid. Most often, they were grilled, but stuffed and fried were other options.
Perma-Pong Tables. Croatian people seem to really like ping pong tables - and not the type that you can fold away when you're not feeling particularly pongy. I can't say that they like ping pong itself all that much - just these permanent tables. We never saw a single person play it, instead opting for badminton and a soccer/tennis hybrid.

Honorable Mentions

Water Shoes and Yoga Mats. After a day on most any Croatian beach, you'll really like these things, too. Both make it a lot more comfortable to walk around and lay on pebbled and/or concrete beaches. The water shoes have the extra bonus of protecting your feet from spiky sea urchins and pointy rocks on the water's bottom.

Naturism. There are more naturist (read: nudist) beaches and campsites here than anywhere either of us have been. It's hard to tell if this is something Croatians like or a market they've excelled in because Germans (their biggest tourism clients) really, really like being naked. Either way, in Croatia, clothing is pretty much optional. (Naturist sites do not require full nudity).

Ice. It's sold at gas stations, offered in bowls at restaurants, there was even an ice machine at our Cres Island campsite.

Multi-Lingual Welcome Signs. At the start of every new town, there would be a sign that read "Dobrodošli! Benvenuti! Willkommen! Welcome!" Part of the reason is that the speed limit changes when you enter a residential area and part is the tourist infrastructure. Still, they really really liked it.

Gypsy Kitchens: A Hrvatska Cookout

There's been a lot of eating out in Croatia - and a lot of squid. So, we thought it was time to cook for ourselves and our guests - but we just couldn't pull ourselves away from the little cephalopods. Utilizing the barbecue in the backyard of our rental apartment, we decided to grill up some squid and pair them with another Croatian staple, blitva (swiss chard). To put our own spin on things, we decided to stuff the squid with cous-cous and brighten up the blitva a little.
We bought our squid uncleaned from a surly lady at the Opatija fish market. She offered to clean them for us, but didn't seem enthusiastic about doing it, so we decided to give it a try ourselves. It's not a difficult process, but it can be messy and gooey - also, it takes a little while.
There are three things that need to be done when cleaning squid. First, remove the edible tentacles from the base. You can cut them off just below the eyes, or just above where they meet at the head. Make sure to push out the beak from inside the little ring of flesh. Second, pull the head and guts out from inside the tube of meat that hangs behind the eyes. This is also easy: just grab the eyes and pull everything from inside the body. A spoon helps here, to get the last of the gunk from the tip. Third, make an incision at the base of the back, and pull out the backbone. This is difficult to explain, but easy to feel. The backbone is a clear, quill-shaped thing that looks like a plastic leaf. It comes out easily, and is very fun to look at and ponder. Make sure to rinse the rest of the squid well and scrape off as many of the little bumps on the tentacles as you can.

If you buy your squid in America, it's unlikely that you'll have to deal with any of this.
After washing the squid very well, dry them off and toss them in a bowl with olive oil, lemon juice and a little salt, to flavor and tenderize them before cooking.

We grilled the squid over very hot coals for about three minutes per side, until the meat began to firm up and acquire a slight translucence. The skin, in contrast with the flesh underneath it, should char and darken - where it was once almost clear, it should become more solid looking while the body lightens and plumps a little. The cooked squid looks more like a champaign flute than a deflated balloon.
The stuffing could be anything: risotto, ham and cheese (very popular here - my brother Luke had it), rice, polenta... even regular stovetop stuffing, if you want. We used a spicy, saffron broth cous-cous, mostly because it was so easy and quick. We loaded the cooking liquid with olive oil, saffron, red pepper flakes, chili powder, parsley, garlic and sauteed onion.
Aside from cous-cous's fast cooking time, its texture really made it a nice fit. The best way to approach stuffing is: spoon the grain in with one hand and pack it in with the other. Use the thumb and middle finger of your non-spooning hand to pop the squid open just a little and the index finger to press your filling down. We pressed the bottom of the slippery things into the bottom of the pan to keep them upright as we worked. When we cut the protein on our plates, each ring was filled in with our cous-cous, making for a nice, complex, compact bite of food.

Blitva is a very traditional side dish here and we've had our fair share, which made us more excited to make it. Blitva is the Croatian word for swiss chard (or "mangold," as it is translated on many English menus), but really defines its most common preparation: swiss chard, potato, olive oil and garlic. Cooked down into more of a mash it makes a wonderful dairyless alternative to creamed spinach, but we were craving something a little fresher and lighter for our cookout. So, we used equal parts red potatoes (with skin) and carrot, red onion and forewent the garlic - as it was already incorporated into our main course.
The greens should be trimmed, but the leaves shouldn't be completely removed from their stem. It gives the final product a nice crunch and juicy bitterness. Cut them into strips and rinse well. The starches were cubed and boiled together until just tender. It's important to refrain from overcooking, as you want them to stand apart in the final dish as opposed to blend together. Strain, salt and set them aside to let cool. Then, coat the bottom of the pot or pan with olive oil and add in your swiss chard and red onion. Keep it on low heat and cover. Turn the chard over often to make sure the entirety of it steams uniformly enough and, when you have the consistency you want, add in your potato and carrots, salt, pepper and a spicy paprika. A few stirs and you're ready to take it off the heat and let cool. Everything you're working with will lose its color and really break down texture-wise if you overdo it. Better to err on the undercooked side.
It wouldn't be a true Hrvatska grill plate without čevapčiči, minced meat sausages, which look, smell and taste like breakfast sausages and were easily found at the grocery store. We grilled them as they came - a sheet of connected rods - and only cut them apart after cooking. Just today, we saw an English translation of čevapčiči that read "grilled Hamburger sticks," which is about right. The squid should be eaten before cooling down, it only gets chewier as it sits longer. As soon as our plates were filled, they were devoured. So, we apologize for not having a more artful shot.

Foodies Flock

Between the cities of Rijeka and Opatija - technically a part of the latter - is the small town of Volosko. It's an old fishing village which consists of not much more than a small harbor on the Preluka Bay and a few stairs leading steeply up to a cluster of labyrinthian streets. While it's apparently a primo windsurfing and sailing location, we heard about it because of its restaurant scene. "Foodies flock to Volosko," we were told via guide book.
People eat late here. So, we arrived at around 7:30 to find the daytime activities still in full swing. The scene felt much more local than Opatija, from where we'd walked. Merlin's brother, Luke, and Luke's girlfriend, Sarah, were in tow, having just met up with us after a whirlwind journey from Seattle to Switzerland to Italy to Croatia. We were feeling celebratory and indulgent and waited until the sun set a little to sit down for a nice meal and a bottle of wine (or two).
There are about five restaurants right on the water and then a few more tucked away into corners of town. Tables are set up just about everywhere they can be, coexisting with the non-restaurant-related motions of the harbor. It all feels very relaxed. While decor ranged from sleek to maritime to tavern, there was a general theme of fresh seafood, focused preparation and congenial service. At Plavi Podrum, on an indulgent whim, we decided to opt for the degustation menu. It didn't matter that our food was more dressed up than we were, a dollop of foam on my scallops and a heat-distressed tank top on me.
The village's fishing traditions can still be felt, not just tasted. Each time we walk over to Volosko, there are people with fishing rods. Lights twinkle at night, strung up on nets and boats are heavy with equipment. At Konoba Tramerka, we were shown a big plate of the day's catch. There was no menu aside from this display of ingredients and a quick run down of preparations. Everything was served family-style (which was apropos) and the meal was ordered one course at a time. This style of dining, choosing food as you move through the evening, reminded us of our time in Italy. As did the ricotta custard for dessert.
Sadly, we didn't take any pictures of our food. It's something we only realized the morning after each meal. You see, Volosko lulls you into a completely relaxed mood - like eating this well is just a normal part of your life. Kids sold seashells while their parents said hello to their neighbor, passing by on a motorcycle, between bites of seafood risotto. We were extra happy to have Luke and Sarah at our table, helping us to more truly relish in the good food/good friends atmosphere of dining a la Volosko.

Cres Island

Cres Island has been our favorite. It's rocky, scrubby and desolate for long stretches. The pace is much slower than on other islands like Losinj, Pag or Krk - it hasn't developed into a tourist spot in the same way, for some reason or other. There are pretty stone beaches and long cement promenades, pine forests and hardscrabble sheep pastures. Though people do go and there are a few thousand residents, it's never difficult to find yourself alone. We camped on Cres for four days and then went back yesterday because we missed it.
Outside of Cres town, the villages are sun-baked and sleepy. Perched high up above the water, places like Lubenice and Beli have almost run out of people, with only a few old folks left in the ancient buildings. Water is scarce in the higher hills, and the roads to these towns are narrow and difficult - they exist now more as curiousities than communities, and all the younger people have left for other, easier places.

In Beli, on the northern part of Cres, we found doors open to quiet kitchens and beautiful vistas down to the sea. The walls and ceiling of this small covered market - unused at the time - were covered with scratched-in names and words. A beach far below was busy with sunbathers and swimmers, but the town was nearly silent. Endangered griffon vultures wheeled overhead, their nests not far along the coast in a preserve.

Cres town is much more bustling, with a lively center and a packed marina and harbor. The water is clean enough - even with all the boats - for thousands of sea urchins and whole shoals of glittering fish. Locals fish right from the town shore or dive in the shallows with snorkels and masks, collecting mussels and clams from the bottom.

We ate lots of squid, octopus, sardine and dorade, all of it caught right in the surrounding channels. Men in overalls and rubber boots sold their catch on the pier in the morning, then retired to the cafes for the afternoon, keeping an eye on their bobbing boats while they drank and talked to one another. We were spoiled by the quantity of fresh, delicious seafood. It's a little frightening to think about turning back inland.
Though there isn't the same kind of infrastructure in place on Cres as on other islands, tourism is still the big industry here. There's a big focus on camping, though, which is nice because the island seems less developed even in the hotspots. Some dozen campsites, ranging in size from massive to tiny, dot the coast. Some are better equipped (and noisier) than others - ours had thousands of people and this carnival type space on the outskirts.One of the reasons Cres is less touristy than other islands is that it's not connected to the mainland by road. Unlike Pag, Krk and others, visitors need to take a ferry to get to Cres, where they are likely to need their own car. The ferry "town" of Porozina is really just a dock and a few bars.

Coming to Opatija from Cres was hard. The mainland and the city are pretty and fun, but we missed the simplicity and loneliness of the island. It really was a Croatian backwater, with sheep and tractors on the roads and a sense of unspoiled culture. When we took the ferry back, knowing what to expect, the rush of familiarity and excitement was almost confusing to the two guests we brought along. By the end of the day, though, they were talking about going to other islands and about how much they loved being offshore; it's really nice, we all agreed, to be disconnected and left alone.

Camping Kovačine Grill Night

As the summer has progressed the campsites we’ve stayed in have been getting busier. In the spring we often stayed on large lots with only one or two other campers around. Now, in the middle of July, it can be difficult to find a spot to pitch the tent. The largest and most crowded camp we’ve stayed at yet – Autocamp Kovačine, just outside of Cres town on the island of Cres – was more bustling urban center than wooded glen. “Grill party” night, when seemingly the whole population gathered at the shore, felt like a New York street fair set in paradise.
Kovačine has seven hundred fifty pitches, and I would guess that the average lot was home to three (maybe three and a half) people. There were almost no empty spots, even at midweek. There are three restaurants on the premises, a small supermarket and a few bars – many people never leave the campground. The grill party was especially for those people, the ones who are regulars and part of the campsite community. Campers greeted each other excitedly and saved spots at tables for friends. As with a lot of other campsites, much of the conversation was conducted in German.
This man orchestrated most of the grilling. He set up quite early in the day, lighting his coals hours before the first diner was served. Friends gathered around him as he worked, joking and laughing. It seemed that he was a fixture here, and that his jovial and efficient preparations were an important part of the annual scene.
These kids were selling shells and painted stones for a few kuna. We bought a sea urchin and a rock for about a dollar – mostly because we wanted to take their picture.
As the sun set, two men began playing music on a stage and the festivities really got underway. The beer began to flow a little more swiftly from the bar taps and younger children were put to bed.
Along the promenade the mood was quieter. People were strung out along the shore in groups or alone, watching the sky slowly blacken. This is not the culture of the island, or of Croatia, but of the campground – people are there to savor the beauty of a place, and to pickle themselves in the hot, July evenings. It’s detached, of course, but it’s also special in its own way. One of the best things about camping (for us) is that we can feel part of nights like this, where we aren’t outsiders or foreigners, but really part of a crowd.

Hiking on Cres Island

The ferry to Losinj Island was a means to our end destination, Cres Island. Attached to Losinj by a short bridge, it is the largest island in the Adriatic and mostly uninhabited and wild. We saw this as a perfect opportunity to try out our "Walking in Croatia' Cicerone Guide. Don't let the name fool you, "walking" implies fairly level ground and the ability to wear sneakers or other "walking" shoes. This is just the first of many of Cicerone's little jokes. We completed two of the hikes in the guide and found other humorous word choices, like "stroll" and "rating: very easy." Luckily, we were outfitted in hiking shoes and a secret desire for something tougher than 'very easy,' so it didn't put us out too much.
The first hike took us from Cres Town up to the little chapel of Sveti Salvadur, then down to a cove in Sveti Blaž. Once up above the town, we found ourselves surrounded by piles of stone on three sides and a hot sun above. Our feet walked over rocks and pebbles loudly, as if surveying the site of an ancient avalanche or collapse. Stone walls made a sort of maze made navigable by trail markings. Thankfully, Cicerone had hit that nail on the head. Olive trees and Christian altars were the only thing breaking up the ocean of rock around us. It all felt very biblical, like the sun had, in time, stripped everything down to the pallor of purity. Even the wooden crosses nailed here and there were bleached colorless, as were the triangular stone rosaries draped around them. This altar had a battery operated light, which blinked one little red flame every other second. We imagined the pilgrimage someone must take to change the battery. Cicadas chattered loudly and we counted at least five different types of butterflies.
This was all very level and, without the precarious surface underfoot, would most definitely have been a very easy stroll. We soon emerged to more forested terrain and spotted the water below for the first time. This put an extra spring in our step, because we knew that eventually, that's where the trail would lead. An incline began, coupled with shade and we stopped for a moment at the church, where a group of brits were taking pictures and laughing, sweatless and in flip flops. We acknowledged it more as a benchmark than a destination and continued right along, under a cooling ceiling of pine.
Finally, it was time to descend the ridge we'd traversed and approach the cove that had been taunting us from below. Just above it, the trail widened and life abounded, present and past. Distracted by the blue to our left we were startled by a sheep standing right in our path, staring as if waiting for our eyes to meet. It's wool was mangy and long, but had the dyed red streak of ownership. Terracotta tiles were piled high in a mound here and the rest of the ruined stone house stood in its own pile there. An outline of a chapel marked the center of the disappeared little hamlet. Of course, it was simple a ruined wall resembling lego structure just begun. This is when we realized that we'd forgotten a bathing suit. There were a handful of people on our lusted after beach below and we prayed that their bodies wore a "suits optional" sign. As we found them clothed, we moved around to see if the other side was more secluded, desperate for a swim. Nope, a boat was docked with four people- middle-aged Italians - lounging aboard. But then.... they were naked! That evening, we toasted Europe and Croatia, specifically, for being a place where forgetting your bathing suit isn't the end of the world.
The next day, we tried out another trail, our second hike. This one was not as well marked, from the dramatic cliff top hamlet of Lubenice to the peak of Helm, and was tinged with a slight sense of foreboding throughout. Probably because the start was marked by a gravestone. My feet were slightly blistered from the rockwalk the day before and the soft bedding of dried orange pine needles cushioned the first part of the path. Intense plant weaponry lined the perimeter of our trail, thorns like you wouldn't believe. Burrs stuck to my hiking socks, justifying their (very cool) calf-high length. All of a sudden, I started to get nervous about snakes. It's amazing how an emotional mood can be set way faster than it can be shook away.
Soon, it was a rock floor, which made my blisters groan but silenced my newfound fear of snakes. The guide book said we'd go through two gates, but at least ten more seem to have been erected since they last "strolled" through. Each one was fashioned out of twigs and sticks and needed to be lifted and moved out and back again gingerly. Just as often, we had to swat away placemat sized webs with some of the largest spiders we'd ever seen ornamenting the centers. Prey dangled in the middle, mummified into a tiny gauzy teardrop.
The Cicerone guide also said that the views from the top were all blocked by trees, but that seems to have been rectified, as we found a ladder and view platform at Helm's peak. Once again, we looked down at our watery salvation and pushed along back to meet it.
Back we went to Lubenice, where more tourists had arrived and where one of the seventeen permanent residents offered to sell us homemade olive oil with a shout of "Olivo!" out her front door. A gorgeous cove sat at the cliff's bottom and we hoped that the "45 minute hike" would zig and zag us down the steepness. It did, but it also had the thickest coating of stones we've encountered so far. If the route to Sveti Salvadur was a rock sand box, this was quicksand. We heard loud whimpering from the couple below us and were just happy that the path was wide enough to keep us far away from a drop. Each step pushed a wave of scree ahead of us, making for a posture conundrum. Leaning forward while navigating a steep descent seems illogical, but leaning back makes you feel like you'll slide. A swim. A swim. A swim, the though pushed us through. It took much longer than the 45 minutes Lonely Planet said it would.
At the end of the journey was the prettiest beach I think I have ever been on. Impossibly, the water was bluer and clearer. Schools of fish rushed around our ankles, all in plain site through the water. Only ten or so people were there when we arrived, almost all carried to the coast by their boats. But we had really earned it. What looked like white sand from above was actually smooth stone, which massaged the soles of our feet. We lay, our bodies half on the hot stone and half in the lapping water, not needing to worry about the messiness of sand. It was hard to tear ourselves away and we did so only after collecting a few stones as smooth as marbles, one red, one yellow, one black and one white.

P.S. Neither of the two Cicerone walks nor the third hike down to the cove below Lubenice were dangerous if proper shoes are worn. So, please, no flip flops. And wear sun block. And bring lots of water. And you should probably not do the third if you're even moderately afraid of heights. Otherwise, enjoy!