The Getaway You Didn't Know You Needed: A New Lightness in Istria
At some point, you’ve fantasized about disappearing. No dramatic farewell or midlife crisis required—just vanishing for a few days, like a well-dressed ghost with excellent taste in wine. Somewhere with no push notifications, no Slack pings, no soul-sucking meetings that could have been emails. Somewhere with character, cuisine, and maybe a suspiciously good tan. That place? Istria. Yes, that Istria—Croatia’s heart-shaped coastal darling, formerly dismissed by James Joyce as a “back-of-God-speed place.” Well, Jimmy, respectfully: you were wrong.
Because let me tell you—this isn’t naval Siberia. This is dolce vita by way of the Adriatic, a region where vineyards flank sunburned hills and seaside towns move at the pace of an espresso slowly cooling on a stone terrace. Hollywood has started sniffing around, but the charm remains beautifully intact: unbothered, unhurried, and improbably seductive. Which is exactly why I packed my bags, turned off my phone, and flew straight into Pula.
Medulin: Where I Forgot How to Check Email
Landing at Pula airport, I was still half-haunted by the echo of my office ringtone, like some cruel Pavlovian ghost. But 20 minutes later, that phantom had evaporated under the Istrian sun, replaced by sea air and the scent of pine. Medulin was my first stop—an old fishing village that now wears the trappings of a stylish coastal escape. My hotel, perched right on Bijeca beach, was all glass, stone, and restraint. Think Bond villain chic with less world domination and more spa treatments.
After checking in, I made a tactical decision that set the tone for the rest of the trip: a long, late lunch with a view. I started with a crisp Malvazija—local, white, dangerously drinkable. Then came truffle gnocchi, hand-rolled and utterly indifferent to carb counts. By the time the Adriatic lapped at my feet on a post-lunch beach walk, I’d forgotten what stress even felt like. The sky, undecided between pink and fire, didn’t rush to make up its mind. Neither did I.
Fažana, Brijuni, and the Cult of Olive Oil
With my nervous system recalibrated to “vacation mode,” curiosity crept back in. So I took a short drive up the coast to Fažana, a quaint fishing village that punches well above its weight in charm. From there, I hopped a ferry to Veli Brijun, the crown jewel of Brijuni National Park—essentially what you’d get if Eden had a good PR team and Tito’s summer home.
You tour the island by train—yes, a literal sightseeing train—which putters past eucalyptus groves, sequoias, and a wild mix of animals, from native deer to (I kid you not) zebras. Tito knew how to pick a vacation home. Back on the mainland, I found a Konoba, the kind of rustic Istrian eatery that practically dares you to order everything. Black squid risotto, wild pear schnapps, a gratin I still dream about—each dish a small rebellion against moderation.
The day wrapped at Arboretum Pub, where Nicoletta Balija—olive oil whisperer and local legend—walked me through the gospel of cold-pressed excellence. Her olive grove spans 7.4 acres of green gold, and after a tasting that redefined my relationship with salad dressing, I left with a bottle large enough to weaponize.
Pula: Where History Wears Sunglasses
No trip to Istria is complete without a deep dive into Pula, the peninsula’s grand dame. Imagine Rome had a stylish younger cousin who still hosts underground concerts in ancient ruins. That’s Pula. The Arena—a colossal Roman amphitheater—is a stunning centerpiece, now moonlighting as a venue for film screenings and selfies from newlyweds in matching linen.
From there, I wandered through a living museum of stone: the Forum, the Arch of Triumph, the Temple of Augustus. But it’s not all marble and memory. Pula buzzes with boutiques, wine bars, and design-forward cafés where espresso is served with attitude. I missed the indoor market (rookie mistake: they rise early), but I made up for it at Aquarium Pula—housed in a 19th-century fortress, because why not? Sharks, rays, and octopuses gliding under centuries-old arches. If you want to feel humbled and awed at once, this is the spot.
Goodbye, But Not Really
My last evening in Istria wasn’t marked by anything grand. Just a final glass of wine, a sun setting with cinematic flair, and my toes in the warm Adriatic. It was a reminder that luxury isn’t always about opulence. Sometimes it’s about the absence of noise, the slow return of yourself to yourself.
I came to Istria to escape. What I found was not an escape, but a re-entry—a soft landing into a version of life I’d forgotten existed. Slower. Warmer. Tastier.
So, if you’re looking to disappear—do it properly. Pack light. Leave your laptop. And book a seat at that table by the sea.
You won’t want to come back. And honestly, you don’t have to.
Živjeli
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