Day 15: Nin to Pakostane

As I haven't shaved for a bit I went full hipster last night and strode into the trendily named "Mad Duck". I was greeted like a long lost brother. Yes, I am also so very glad I came to visit you but please stop hugging me and stop crying. You're wetting my shirt. 

Might as well do this properly so I order the truffle burger described in the menu as the Sistine Chapel of burgers. I ask for chips and am told the Sistine Chapel of burgers does not come with chips but golden goodness pencil fries. The bewildering description of beers with names usually associated with rewilding projects in The Archers means I can only point at one that looks drinkable rather than plantable. OK. Bring it on.....

The Sistine Chapel of burgers arrives with the golden goodness pencil fries. The burger is taller than it is wide and lanced with a knitting needle. I know that if I remove the knitting needle, the Sistine Chapel will collapse. If I leave it in, I will lose the sight in at least one eye, maybe two. I opt for vision over carnage and stretch both hands to pick up the Sistine Chapel of burgers. A novice mistake in hipster circles. 

Here's the problem. The truffle burger has a beef pattie, bacon, onion, cheese, salad, mayo, BBQ sauce and, oh yes, truffle, between the two halves of a soft, untoasted bun. The bun begins degrading about 15 seconds after construction. By the time the waiter, sorry, gourmet guide and serving companion on my journey of taste, brings the burger, there's an accident just waiting to happen, and happen it does. As I pick the thing up and dislocate my jaw ready for a bite, the two halves of the bun become four quarters and the contents drop out and slide down my shirt, still damp from tears, and into my lap. I ask for a large spoon and a wet wipe.

The problem with the truffle burger is that truffle is a delicate flavour but you can't taste the burger for the cheese, the cheese for the onion and the BBQ sauce trumps the lot. If there was truffle in there it was lost. Whist we're here, a small circle of a limp lettuce leaf was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that use of the word salad.

Lazy day today with a bit of off-road. (The white bits on my handlebars are micropore tape to patch the foam tape on which the glue has melted in the heat). About 60 km down the coast to Pakostane. I booked an apartment and agreed an arrival of 15:00. The owner tells me I will be met by his mother in law. When I get there, his mother in law has the build of a wrestler, a moustache like the end of a stiff broom and a five o'clock shadow that was probably visible just after breakfast. Either something got lost in translation or there's an identity thing going on here. 

Whoever this is speaks English with the same competence that I speak Croatian. He opens the door and starts pointing at various things and naming them in a way that suggests they are either dangerous or not to be used. "Freedge, kittle, hair con, shoower". I'm a bit worried he's going to test me and if I mess up we'll have to start over. After the tour he rubs his thumb and finger together to indicate my Halifax Rewards card isn't going to cut it. I give him 60 Euros for the 58 Euro bill and he gestures to say he will get change. I haven't seen him since.

The cultural difference in demeanour is really noticable. There's a lack of any warmth, even if you do something for someone, such as step off the pavement to make room for a buggy, hold a door open or pick something up that someone has dropped. In each instance not a nod or smile or word. There's no animosity at all (apart from being five Euros down) just neutrality. Strangely I have seen a number of wrestler sized, broom moustached men pushing buggies in which there are dogs. Old or disabled dogs peeking out between their toys being pushed along for an evening promenade.

Best lunch spots are the roadside Pekaras. I don't have to lock my bike etc. to use these so I keep an eye out for them. Possibly the unhealthiest food you can find but pastries to die for (and probably from).

Right now I am in Konoba (restaurant) Obala overlooking the Pakostane harbour. In the outside bar area there are four tables of about 18 men who are the same age as those I saw drinking small bottles of spirits and sitting on beer crates outside of the shop in Stinica where the cafe and restaurant were closed for the off season. They are playing cards and have been doing so for the hour and a half I have been here writing this blog. There's water and coffee on the tables but no alcohol. Just saying.