We just spent the weekend in Opatija, Croatia (with a side of Trieste) for the fourth time since moving to Budapest. The first time was for the sake of convenience, it being simply one of the first places you to reach en route to the sea. The subsequent trips were made out of sheer, head-over-heels infatuation. On my part, that is. My husband thinks it’s a case of anchoring, and probably regrets that we hadn’t ventured further south the first time around. Nonetheless, he shakes his head, smiles, and then insists that we go back to Opatija time after time. If you love a place and you live nearby, you should go every chance you get. After all, expatriates never know when they’ll set sail to live elsewhere, willing victims in an endless cycle where favorite places are constantly forgotten and established. So we went, presumably for the last time, in the off-season and in off-weather.
Huddled in the northern corner of the Gulf of Kvarner, Opatija is small and so obscure that the GPS system refuses to acknowledge its existence. It is, then, difficult to find if you’re looking for it, and easy to miss if you’re not. But past the winding, rock-walled roads and the industrial city of Rijeka, a pastel, seaside village eventually does appear, and none too shyly. At first glance, it is all bustle and sparkle—a Mediterranean-like tourist haven that promises crystal waters and family fare. However, a closer look reveals the fading glory of a city that was once glamorous, but has over the years been reduced, without grudge or pause, to something that is, if less imposing, no less lovable.
Opatija was a turn-of-the-century playground for celebrities and Austrian nobility, and it seems that no expense was spared in attracting and accommodating them. Grand estates and hotels like Hotel Kvarner were top-of-the-top in their prime, often set along the picturesque shore or among exotic gardens that now contain 30-foot towering versions of everyday house plants. Nowadays, restraint is clearly exercised in the maintenance of these places, and if a hotel happens to get downgraded, one of the stars is simply blotted out (barely). The paint fades and chips, and time marches on. I can’t really explain why it’s all so attractive to me fifty or a hundred years on. I guess I just like the romance of the afterglow.
And I’m not entirely alone. To this day, Opatija is still appealing to Austria. The whole of that country—or at least everyone over age 60—seemed to be there this weekend. They were relaxing in the cafes, browsing the hillside shops, and wandering slowly along the seaside promenade, which runs uninterrupted for several miles, drunkenly following the line of the jagged coast. With benches, coves, and secret resting spots at every curve, the promenade is reason enough to fall in love with Opatija.
We arrived late on Friday after battling tunneled, snowy mountain roads and variable speed limits. We headed straight for Hemingway restaurant, where we spent the rest of the evening happily unwinding over black risotto. On Saturday, we woke up up early to the call of the Adriatic, which hastened the call of Italy. Opatija itself has an Italian feel, but for the real experience, we usually spend a couple of hours in Trieste, or Trst. Actually, the experience isn’t so great—it is an average port town. But Italy is to my husband what Opatija is to me, so it’s only fair that we make the trek through the tree-lined roads of Slovenia. In this region—where a word is legitimate even if it doesn’t contain a vowel—borders are always confusing and always nearby.
Back in Opatija, the afternoon was filled very easily by a slow walk and then a barely faster jog along the promenade. Then we set off for dinner at Ružmarin, where the chef at Hemingway had promised we would find the best ćevapčići in Opatija. He was surely right. The smoky 2-bite chunks of meat were delicious and—when coupled with a red pepper puree called Ajvar—reminiscent of carefree childhood vacations. One more moonlight walk through Angiolina park, and our day was complete.
Sunday was bleak and gloomy. We had intended to stay for most of the day, but after breakfast, a morning stroll, and the requisite coffee break on the patio of Hotel Kvarner, the weather turned nasty. Halfway back to the hotel, the rain sent us and billions of Austrians running for cover along the promenade. Opatija seemed to say, “Just go.” So we did, prematurely and without regret.
As I mention the weekend here, or perhaps over dinner with friends, I expect the usual questions. Why Opatija? Why not go south to the places that are so trendy these days, even among the likes of Beyonce and Bill Gates? I could blame the drive, but to be honest, there’s just something about Opatija. Maybe in fifty years, once it’s no longer cool, I’ll feel the same about Dubrovnik.
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Simply beautiful! Thank you.
Sounds wonderful! I can see why you fell in love with it; I’ve fallen in love with it too and haven’t even been there.