MARCH 17, 2022 – From Yugoslavia I traveled a circle—north to Hungary, then to Czechoslovakia, on to Austria, and back down to Yugoslavia . . . transiting through Ljubljana (Slovenia) to Koper (Croatia), continuing onward to the ancient Roman town of Pula (Istrian Peninsula of Croatia), and landing in Medulin, site of the summer villa of my friends, the Jovanović family.
Subsequent posts will chronicle my initial and noteworthy foray into the heart of the East Bloc—and heart of dissension against Soviet rule. For now, however, I must catch up to my extraordinary Serbian hosts in Medulin.
Their simple villa was in sharp contrast to their museum-like residence in Belgrade. Though spacious enough to accommodate everyone comfortably—including Milas, Arsen’s Medieval brother (explanation to follow), three of Ana’s friends visiting from France, and me, the American—the Medulin dwelling was spartan in décor and furnishings. The place glowed, however, with late and lively evening “talk feasts”—banter, debate, discussion, and free-ranging conversation across three languages—mixed with ample food and wine . . . and cigarette smoke exhaled by several participants and inhaled by all.
If the Jovanović family were intellectual heavyweights, the French were equal to the task. Chantal, a physician, and Jean-Pierre, a medical student, hailed from Montpelier, and their comrade, Michel, was a psychologist from a town at the foot of the Pyrenees. All were blessed with an infectious sense of humor. Though in brains, education, and language I was the lightweight of the crowd, I compensated with my repertoire of pantomimes and impersonations, which induced generous laughter among the multi-lingual brainiacs.
The opening act each evening featured the ravings of Arsen’s “Medieval” brother—a former (Medieval) history professor back in Belgrade. He was possessed by mental disorders so severe, he lived the entire day as if the year had been 1381. He was lord of the manor, and we were his loyal subjects. Through at least the first round of wine, he’d grace us with tales of wild adventures within his domain. We played along, asking frequently for clarification. He’d respond with colorful elaboration. His enviable imagination cast a spell over all of us, which was broken only when he announced that he had places to go and promises to keep—usually upon Arsen pouring the second or third round of wine.
However late into the evening each of the “talk feasts” lasted, I was rudely awakened early the next morning by a neighboring rooster’s “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” While everyone else slept in, I’d go for my daily run, exploring back quarters of the charming town. By the time of my return, Arsen would have a good start on the preparation of a royal breakfast for the crowd.
Each of the 10 days that we all shared was devoted to excursions along the historic Istrian coastline and the picturesque countryside. On one occasion we visited the Roman coliseum in Pula. For me it was all an improbable world—a traveler’s treasure-by-chance.
But the biggest gems were the hosts and my fellow guests, whose gracious, humor-filled, adventuresome, scintillating company so enriched my soul.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
