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Along with klapa, there are some other great folk music styles you can hear along the eastern Adriatic coast. In Rovinj–probably the loveliest seaside town in Istria–a characteristic style of folk singing is called the “bitinada.”

A bitinada group consists of a solo singer and a chorus of backup singers. These backup singers, known as the “bitinadora,” not only give the style its name, they are also what make this music so memorable. As they sing, they imitate the sound of instruments like the guitar, violin, mandolin, and contrabass. Providing rhythmic and harmonic support to the solo singer, a really big and skilled bitinadora will even imitate harps and clarinets! When they get going, they can sound like a whole orchestra.

Does this sound weird? It’s actually pretty magical–and really not all that unusual. In fact, the bitinada has affinities with similar imitative folk styles in Liguria, Sardinia, and Tuscany. One thing that several of these regions have in common with Istria is a long tradition of fishing. If you think about it, back in the days before radios and iPods, those fishermen had to entertain themselves somehow on those long days and nights aboard their boats. And so they would sing. But if you’re hard at work fishing, steering your boat across the waves and managing your nets, you don’t have a free hand to play an instrument. So that’s how the fishermen started imitating guitars, mandolins, and so on.

It’s no surprise, then, that a lot of bitinada songs deal with life at sea. They express the feelings of the lonely fisherman out under the nighttime sky, they praise the trustworthiness of the traditional boat known as the “batana,” and they tell of the good life back home in port at Rovinj.

The songs are traditionally sung either in Italian or the Rovignese dialect, related to Italian. Back at the end of the nineteenth century and the first few decades of the twentieth, the popularity of the bitinada songs spurred the formation of a lot of choirs in Rovinj. Some of the best were made up of workers at the old tobacco factory. Today there are still quite a few groups, and around Rovinj you can pick up some of their CDs–or better yet, hear them live.

In fact, one of my definitions of a “life is good moment” is to be in Rovinj on a summer day when the town is having a festival. On these days, the fishermen still bring in their catch, fresh out of the Adriatic and right up to the old harbor. They set up barbecues, and the whole port is filled with the smell of grilling fish. The bitinada groups come out and sing, and that Istrian wine flows freely. I hope everybody has the chance to see Rovinj on such a day–and you’ll learn firsthand why this town was long famed as “the most musical” of all Istrian cities.

I couldn’t find any samples of bitinada on the net, but here’s an excerpt from the lyrics of one bitinada song, called “Spunta il sole”–”the sun is rising”:

Spunta il sole                                    The sun is rising
spunta il sole a la colina                  The sun is rising over the hill
il tamburo                                         The drum
il tamburo e gia suona                     The drum is already beating
bela non piangere se parto via       My love, don’t cry if I go away
al mio ritorno                                    When I return
al mio ritorno saro da te                  When I return I’ll be yours
bela non piangere se parto via        My love, don’t cry if I go away
al mio ritorno                                    When I return
al mio ritorno saro da te                  When I return I’ll be yours

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Well, the secret has been out so long it’s hard to remember it was ever a secret. Hvar has planted itself firmly on the itineraries of the international jet- and yacht-set. And where Gwyneth Paltrow goes, the New York Times’ editors apparently follow…

The NYT has singled out Hvar in its recent list of “53 places to go in 2008.” The blurb calls Hvar the “St. Tropez” of the “new Riviera” that is Croatia. Such is the reputation of this ancient little town, crowned by a Venetian castle among hillsides covered in aloe and lavender: a party place for starlets and wanna-bes.

If you want to get away from the glitz, though, head over to the town of Stari Grad for an equally ancient, if less sexy, Dalmatian getaway. Or drive along the mountainous spine of the island and check out a few other villages like Vrboska or the vineyards around Sucuraj. You might not glimpse Gwyneth in these quieter spots, but it’s an unbelievably picturesque island… which makes it all the stranger that the NYT used a photo of Vis island, as Jeanne Oliver points out.

Get your fill of Hvar town’s pounding discos, then get off the beaten track, and you might even capture some of the magic I experienced on some beautiful December days back in the late 90s when I was the only tourist in town. I suppose I don’t mind sharing, though, particularly if it nets me a ride on some heiress’ yacht…

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Back in the middle ages, a sure cure for all your ills was a relic. Some bit of a saint or other holy figure could fix just about anything, whether blindness or infidel invasion. The veneration of relics is a practice that is actually a holdover from pre-Christian Europe, when all sorts of inanimate objects were assumed to have magical powers.

These days, in Europe almost any Catholic church worth its transubstantiated wine preserves for its miraculous powers some interesting body part of someone long dead. Among my favorites anywhere is the right hand of St. Stephen, the king who Christianized Hungary. Found appropriately enough in St. Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest, this “Holy Right,” as the Hungarians call it, actually looks more like the “holy beef jerky,” which is what I call it.

The Croatian coast is no slouch when it comes to relics, either. Many towns often have very costly, ornate reliquaries to hold those old desiccated saint appendages. For instance, St. Christopher is the patron saint of Rab, and the cathedral there houses his head. What’s left of it, anyway. One legend claims that back before he converted to Christianity, Christopher had the head of a dog. While there’s sadly no evidence of that today, if you go to Rab you can see the skull with the magnificent crown given by Queen Elizabeth of Hungary back in the 14th century.

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In the days when Dubrovnik was the independent republic of Ragusa, the republic’s flag used to feature the image of St. Blaise, its patron saint. In the early days of the Church, Blaise had been a bishop in Asia Minor. Then one day in the 10th century a pilgrim came to Ragusa from Armenia… and what did he happen to be traveling with but St. Blaise’s head! Blaise had appeared to this pilgrim in a dream, so the story goes, and told him to warn the Ragusans that Venice was about to attack. The pious Ragusans heeded the warning and managed to save their city. In gratitude for this miraculous intervention they made Blaise the patron saint, and you can still see his head, as well as his hand and foot, in the treasury of Dubrovnik’s cathedral.

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Clearly these saints were pretty well-traveled, even after their death. Another good story concerns St. Giovanni Orsini of Trogir. The villain, again, is those dastardly Venetians. When the Venetians sacked Trogir in 1171, they opened the sarcophagus containing Orsini’s bones, hoping to find some treasure. The grave robbers tried to remove a ring from the saint’s body, but it refused to come off. So they just took the whole arm, and brought it back to a church in Venice. It didn’t stay there, however. After waiting a discreet three years, the arm rose up and flew through the air back to Trogir, where one morning it was found resting on the saint’s shrine.

Those, admittedly, are all relics from holy figures you may never have heard of. For my money, then, the most valuable and most famous relic of all Dalmatia belonged to Zadar, which kept a wondrous vial of–get this–the Virgin Mary’s milk.

Any other weird relics you’ve seen on your travels? And did they work any miracles for you? Drop us a line in the comments.

If you’ve ever seen that mountainous Croatian coastline, you’ll understand that the land is not especially fertile. Indeed, there’s an old saying that the main thing grown in Dalmatia is stones. This is one reason why Croatian cuisine is not as rich and varied as that of, say, Italy.

But where the land may be spare, the sea has been bountiful. And throughout history people along the eastern Adriatic have lived as much off the water as from farming. So fishermen throughout this region have known how to eat well. The most classic of all seafood feasts in the Adriatic is the sumptuous fish stew known as brudet, brodet, or brodetto, depending on where you’re from.

Every town, even every fishing family along the Adriatic can have their own special recipe for brudet. Locals will say that you measure the talent of a cook by the quality of his or her brudet. Despite the dizzying variety and demanding standards, though, brudet can actually be a very simple dish.

It’s typically made in a single pot, and exclusively from fish caught that day. You can toss in just about any kind of seafood—everything from eels, turbot, and tuna to shrimp, squid and octopus—but the key is to use a variety. Croatians will add a spice called Vegeta, possibly even blending it with sea water. Onions, olive oil, prosecco, and wine vinegar help round off the stew for a quintessential Mediterranean flavor.

My favorite version of the dish is falši brudet, which is totally vegetarian. However you prepare it, eat brudet with some potatoes and tomatoes thrown into the stew. Heap some hot polenta on the side of your plate, and you’ve got an unbeatable taste of the Adriatic no matter where you are.

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Click here for istria.net’s brudet recipes.

I love legends, myths, and other dubious stories that plumb the mysteries of a place. Here’s a good one about the island of Rab:

Once upon a time there was a young shepherd named Kalifront, who guarded the sheep of his father on Rab. Kalifront’s father was a friend of Barbat, the powerful but somewhat thick-witted lord of the eastern part of the island, after whom that part of the island is still named today.

Lord Barbat had a daughter, Draga, who naturally—since this is a legend—was the most beautiful of all the maidens of Rab. Barbat was thick-witted because he let his one and only beautiful daughter hang around with the island’s shepherds. It wasn’t long before Kalifront, consumed with all-too-typical teenage hormones, fell in love with Draga.

His better judgment drunken with lust, Kalifront ignored the obvious fact that he, as a low-born shepherd, would stand no chance with the lord’s daughter. So one day he poured his heart out to her, swearing that no boy had ever loved any girl more than Kalifront loved Draga.

Draga was not amused. Like the haughty cheerleader hit upon by a pimple-faced dweeb, she spurned Kalifront. But, since this was a long time ago, Draga was not quite as promiscuous as the average cheerleader today. In fact, her mother had vowed Draga’s chastity to the goddess Diana, and Draga used that as one of the many reasons why she and Kalifront could never be together. That, and Kalifront was hopelessly uncool.

Teenage lust cannot be denied, however, and Kalifront was determined to have her. Draga saw the look in his eyes and fled. Kalifront pursued her. Across the island they ran, through the fields of sheep (who probably would have been willing recipients of Kalifront’s attentions), along the rocky coastline, over the mountaintops… and finally the boy caught up with the beautiful girl at a dead end, right in front of the cave known as Loparska Jamina.

Seeing no way out, helpless, Draga did what the desperate usually do: she prayed. She beseeched the goddess Diana to protect her chastity. And the goddess listened.

The gods, though, typically grant our prayers only in a roundabout way. So Diana ensured that Draga would remain forever chaste by turning her into a stone statue right there in front of the cave. Kalifront, for thinking with the head between his legs and not the one on his neck, she punished too.

Kalifront was cursed never to find peace until the little stream that poured out of the cave dried up. Until that time, he could only eat the wild fruits of the forest—and the goddess demanded that every day he continue replenishing those fruits and that forest by planting new trees.

Because of Kalifront’s plantings, the forest gradually grew thicker and thicker. And a strange transformation gradually came over the boy, too. As the forest grew thicker, there grew upon Kalifront’s back a thicket of leaves and branches and roots. Over the years he grew ever greener, until finally, as a result of Diana’s curse, he became one with the forest he had planted.

Nowadays that forest on Rab bears his name, Kalifront, just like the other part of the island was named after the lord Barbat. So that lowly, horn dog shepherd boy has gotten his place in history after all.

(Adapted after a version of the legend from the Rab tourist office)

Notice Kalifront and Barbat on this modern map of Rab? (image credit)

Italian prosciutto—thinly-sliced, cured ham—is a well-known and popular delicacy. In the eastern Adriatic they have something just as good, but with fewer vowels. It’s known as pršut (pronounce it “per-shoot”), and you’ll find it on menus all over Slovenia and Croatia.

The best pršut, experts will tell you, comes from the karst region in the borderlands between Italy, Slovenia, and Croatia. Karst is actually a geological term for the limestone that makes up the characteristic hills and cliffs in this area. The secret to good pršut, though, isn’t the limestone but rather the consistent, dry wind that blows through the karst region. This is the northern wind known as the burja in Slovenia or the bora in Croatia, which I’ve written about elsewhere.

This wind is key to the curing process. Pršut comes from hamhocks that are hung up to dry for between nine and 18 months. The amount of time can depend on the kind of ham used, the winds, or even the producer’s persnickety preferences. When they’re properly cured, then those hamhocks go out to stores and restaurants around the world. In the eastern Adriatic, pršut is traditionally served simply, with a number of very thin, somewhat fatty slices accompanied by olives. Try it with some sharp cheese from the island of Pag and a glass of red wine.

A fun place to have a meal of some good pršut and see how this meat is made is the Kraljestvo Pršuta in Kobjeglava, Slovenia. The restaurant’s name literally means the “kingdom of prsut.” You can tour the factory: they make you put on these white plastic suits so you won’t contaminate the ham. That’s how you can have a close encounter of the pršut kind—just don’t get too close.

Any favorite recipes or accompaniments to pršut? Please share!

There was a time in my life when I thought it would be pretty cool to live in a lighthouse. Nothing but you and the waves crashing; peace, solitude, perfection. Well, I’ve since realized I’m not quite cut out for the hermit life. But I do want to give it a go sometime—and I can think of no better way to do so then renting a Croatian lighthouse for a time.

Staying in a lighthouse along that sublime Croatian coast has to be one of the best ways of escaping the tourist hordes but still luxuriating in the beauty of the

Here are some pictures from Adriatica of the lighthouses up for rental. Check them out and dream. Anybody want to go in on a week with me?

If you do it right, your first glimpse of the Adriatic can be a moment you’ll never forget. And I know how to do it right. One of my favorite moments on the tours I lead is when we drive through Vratnik pass, the historic gap in the Velebit mountains. On one side of the pass is a high, rocky plateau; on the other, that magical world of the Mediterranean.

The best way to approach Vratnik is from the east, via the town of Otocac. This is a small, reasonably cute town with some Habsburg buildings, but it suffered during the 1990s wars. Its Orthodox church has been abandoned because the Serbs who lived in the area were driven out. You see some more war damage as the road climbs through the little, formerly mostly Serbian village of Brlog.

But then you’re approaching an amazing frontier between two worlds. The Velebit mountain peaks rise up around you as the road climbs. East of the mountains, for several centuries, was Ottoman territory, ruled over by the Turks. West of the mountains, the coast, has always been a part of Western civilization, under the flags of Rome, Venice, Austria-Hungary, and now Croatia.

The road follows the path of the old Roman road through these mountains. Once over the pass it descends to the pirate town of Senj. But, near the top, as soon as you see the sign of “Vratnik,” you’ll know you’re there. There’s a place to pull over just north of the road. Climb up the hillside towards the stone fort—which, though it looks older, dates only from World War II. Once you crest the hill, this absolutely breathtaking view opens out before you:

It gives me goosebumps when I take my groups here. Every time I feel anew that magic of glimpsing the Adriatic, that whole landscape and civilization literally spreading out at your feet below. The name “Vratnik” comes from the Croatian word for “door” or “gate”—and as you can see, Vratnik really is the gateway between two worlds, between the world of the Balkan interior and that incredible Adriatic civilization.

One of the greatest glories of the town of Korcula—a pretty glorious place in most regards—are the carvings on the main façade of the cathedral. They count among the most impressive artistic achievements of the entire medieval age along the Dalmatian coast. They amaze me for both their actual sculptural quality as well as for their outlandish inventiveness.

In September of 2007 I caught the cathedral in spectacular light at the very end of the day—that honeyed light for which Dalmatia is so famous. My photos turned out quite well, and you can get a great look at these carvings, many of them executed by local artisans (not ones imported from Italy, which was more common).

Korcula cathedral photo 1

In the first photo you get a good overall look at both the traceried rose window, the wonderful carvings on the cornice, and the bell tower. In the bottom left of the photo, notice the serpent at the corner of the cathedral façade: the cornice decoration actually bursts out of the creature’s mouth, so in fact the entire roofline is really an ornamented representation of a serpent’s tongue.

Korcula cathedral photo 2

The next photo gives a good look at the peak of the cornice, crowned by a floral finial. Beneath the finial, notice the carving of a woman in 14^th century fashions. You can also see the pattern of beast heads alternating with scallop shells in pointed arches.

Korcula cathedral photo 3

I really love the work in the next photo. To the right you see the carvings of the corner of the cathedral façade; notice the bizarre long-nosed monster at the top, above the human face and the serpent head whose tongue forms the cornice. Just below the human face is a wonderful devil’s head—though it has horns, this face looks like a cross between a pig and a dog to me. The little arches to the right and left of the devil’s head are reminiscent of a typical Venetian Gothic arch. Notice also the clock in the tower, with the orb showing the phase of the moon.

Korcula cathedral photo 4

The last picture shows some of the carvings around the main cathedral doors. Though I didn’t manage to get them in the same miraculous sunset light, you can still get a good view of the beautifully detailed medieval representation of a lion. The lion has another creature in its claws; it almost looks like another lion, though a lamb would be more typical given medieval symbolism. Beneath the lion that’s what I think is a rather dirty image of Eve, really letting it all hang out.

Do you have any favorite churches or art along the Adriatic coast?