Hvar Nagilah

The final stop on my journey was the small Croatian island of Hvar, and what a perfect stop it was. Once again a bus deposited us in a throng of placard toting room peddlers. Vowing to do a better job selecting a room, we carefully screened out potential risks by going with the person who offered us the lowest price. Hmmm...come to think of it, that might have been a critical error. Regardless, we followed the English-speaking man with the thick Croatian accent on the purported five walk to his abode. On this occasion we let him know we were timing it. When we passed the seven minute mark we began to browbeat him but he assured us it was just up the hill and would be five minutes without our heavy packs. As we ascending we haggled about the room fee until Kristen gave at a yelp when a massive, five-inch grasshopper leapt towards her leg. Our gallant guide scooped it up and proceeded to tell us that he was going to eat it, since he was starving due to an overabundance of haggling guests who cut into his profits. This probably should have set off warning bells but I was too busy laughing as he taunted Kristen with the giant hopper in his hands. We arrived at the house and examined the room, which fit the bill. Our host talked rapidly, used numerous hand gestures, and frequently supplemented his speech with a curious whistling or whooshing noise. Before we knew it we were seated at the kitchen table, downing glasses of homemade wine poured from a Coke bottle while being instructed on Croatian drinking customs. Though he poured ours straight, he cut his own wine with water. The conversation started to get a little weird when our host adamantly insisted that 'Croatian fascists killed the Indians' and that everyone he knew was 'Crazy like a cabbage'. Kristen and I smiled and tittered at this rapid-fire chatterer. After pouring us more wine and whining a bit more about how hungry he was, he lightly told us 'I am so hungry I am going to cut off your legs when you sleep and fry them in the oven'. We giggled and mocked his faux hunger, suggesting that the wine was used to dull the pain of the severed legs, while he told us how much 'I hate this job and I hate my fucking guests'. I laughed hard but couldn't figure out why it was all so funny. Maybe it was because when I was part way though my third glass of wine he said with a laugh, 'Only stupid fucking Americans don't cut the wine with water. After two glasses you would be drunk'. Which shrewdly explained why the room was spinning and his head looked like it was being reflected in a funhouse mirror. Lucky for us his intentions we truly benign. In fact, he showed us the time of our lives. Having spend the entire afternoon chatting with him at the kitchen table he took us down to the Stari Grad of Hvar Town, which was pulsating party of an old city. Before long we ended up stuffed in a bar like sardines, dancing and singing to American 80s tunes as the bartenders juggled flaming bottles of alcohol, lit the bar on fire, and pounded the aluminum air ducts with their fists while wielding a chainsaw. The next morning we were in for a treat. Our new friend threw us in his car and took us to the small village of Brusje, where the maker of the homemade wine, his old Uncle Antonio, lived and worked. The dilapidated old town of about two dozen homes was built entirely from the stone gathered on the surrounding lavender-covered hillsides. He proudly reported that his Uncle's home was built in the year 1600, though I presume his Uncle is slightly younger than that. We were welcomed with open arms and without any previous knowledge were treated to a home cooked meal with the family. Stuffed peppers, mystery meat on the bone, a fresh tomato salad made from homemade olive oil and vinegar, and copious amounts of bread filled our stomachs as we listened to the family argue in Croatian about, um, let's say tactical nuclear war. Hell, I have no idea what the heck they were saying, the only one that spoke English was the guy that brought us there. Nevertheless it was a fascinating experience and one I will not soon forgot. Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, feeling indebted to our friend we decided to help him out with is work. He managed to convince us to help him nab potential room renters off the bus. So, before we knew it we were the ones in the throng selling our wares. I knocked a few old ladies out of the way and showed a bit of leg but it was harder then I thought. Despite our native English-speaking advantage all our attempts ended in failure. Maybe I should have gotten completely nude. To forget our woes we headed out for one last wild party. The night was long, the drinks were plentiful, and Kristen and I carried each other up the steep hill before collapsing into a deep and pleasant slumber.