part0007

Friends at home in San Francisco raved about Croatia as a tourist destination. For me, Croatia was the place of disasters that started long before I was born, swept me and my family up, and caused our expulsion—which had continued until just a few years earlier. Could the tide have turned? I wanted to know. I wanted to go beneath the surface to learn what was happening in the countries of the former Yugoslavia, with which my family had such deep roots.

From Rovinj, Sasha and I wandered into the heart of Istria. We visited towns carved into mountaintops, some with stone walls that protected them from medieval marauders. Reminiscent of Tuscany maybe forty years ago, the interior countryside here was full of semi-abandoned and unexplored villages, hidden gems not yet discovered by the tourists pouring into the coastal towns and beaches.

In one such village, Tignane, we paused to look at a thick round table surrounded by twelve mushroom-shaped seats, all carved from giant slabs of local stone. Set under a huge gnarled tree, it reminded me of a scene from The Adventures of Asterix .

Almost immediately, Sasha and I were approached by Attilio, a local who was turning eighty that week. He explained that the fifteenth century stone table was used when a chieftain died. The twelve eldest men in the village sat on the stone seats and spread their long beards into the center. A flea was dropped in the middle and watched carefully. The man whose beard it jumped onto first became the next leader.

While Attilio shared the story, another local appeared. Dorian’s house abutted the open grassy area where the table was located. He had noticed our impromptu gathering, and couldn’t resist coming over to be a part.

“An early form of democracy,” he said in jest, referring to the flea ritual. “Not any worse than our current one, as far as I can tell.”

Dorian invited us over to his house, where he offered us a delicious homemade honey-flavored version of grappa called medica after med , or honey. As he showed us his lovingly restored home, he also told us more about Tignane—and its woes.

Many of the village’s buildings were abandoned, their beautiful ancient stonework crumbling. A complex bureaucracy kept ownership uncertain. Some buildings had apparently been left to descendants of families who had moved to Canada or South America or Australia.

Attilio explained that he and Dorian were among the few people still living in this town. He succinctly summarized why.