CHICKENS FLY IN PORTOROZ
If you asked me to describe a chicken, I am afraid my best summation would be in a word; delicious. They cluck, are often afraid, and have breasts, I am quite partial to breasts I must note, though I never pass on legs or thighs. I know nothing more about them, except perhaps their feathers, which I don’t eat. I just recently discovered they had hearts, of course they have hearts, I imagine all living things do, but I have never seen it on a menu. In fact other than the aforementioned, I can’t say I have ever given a second thought to the chickens anatomy and it’s involuntary mechanisms. That is until I came across a package of chicken hearts in the frozen section of a supermarket the other day. I bought a pack and took them back to my hotel only to discover that there wasn’t an oven in my room and other that frying an egg every now and then, I can’t cook. I guess I sometimes forget myself far away from home.
Don’t be fooled by the look.
I left Los Angeles about a month ago with a strict warning from my father not to return until I have found a wife. Clearly he just wanted me out of the house, and quite possibly far from it as he was willing to buy an airline ticket to anywhere to make it happen. Today, anywhere is a town in Portoroz, Slovenia, a country I have no connection to and know nothing about.
Portoroz (or Port of Roses if you are like me and speak only English) sits inside the Istrian Peninsula at the head of the Adriatic sea. It boasts one of Europe’s more opulent seaside resorts in a region well suited for splendor. An excursion of luxury cars manage the winding roads that meander about the hills festooned with big houses on vineyards and towering pine trees for markers. The locals, all urbane and welcoming take midday strolls along the marina where luxury yachts are moored next to ramshackle fishing boats. Despite the poshness of the region, goods and services here are relatively within a pauper’s budget. I know because, I am pretty much…a pauper. A pauper in search of a wife and Portorose is a good place to start, because here, chicks are everywhere, even in Trees.
A reason to visit
As I stood under a tree at dusk waiting to cross Obala Street, I couldn’t help but notice the noise. There was chirping, beeping, and what I am certain was the sound of pecking, but it was the clucking that stood out. I was returning from dinner at Metropole Casino-yes if you are a fan of Las Vegas, then the region is proud to welcome you to one of it’s many Vegas style Casinos, that stretches all the way from Koper to Buje in Croatia- where I enjoyed the fish of the day, even though I was craving chicken. And Like that, a bell that usually accompanies an imaginary light bulb that goes on over someones head when a brilliant idea comes, tolled in mine. It was chicken, or rather chickens that were busy clucking overhead in the twilight. But how can that be? Can chickens climb trees? Do chickens climb trees? It was at that moment I dismissed the task of spending the evening trolling for wives. To be clear, I had planned on spending the evening at various trendy spots along Obala looking for single women. To be precise, one unmarried young woman to marry, yes my father was dead serious. Instead I would spend the evening trying to answer the question; Can chickens fly?
The things you will see
Portoroz is part of the municipality of Piran, an area bordered by Croatia to the east and Italy to the west. Piran, the birthplace of Italian composer Giuseppe Tartini honors him with a statue inside a square named after him. The square lies adjacent to neat little cafes on cobblestone paths overlooking the marina. It was here at one of the cafes I sat on New Year’s day and watched as the locals jumped into the freezing water as part of the town’s New Year’s day traditions. On the other side of town in an area called Seca, known for it’s camping and bike runs, where bikers can take a ride along the Adriatic sea in full view Croatia and epic scenery of Portoroz and all its amazing orchards and wine vineyards that cover its hills.
It was at one of these vineyards I found myself, stumbling past the brilliant artist installation at Formaviva. Formaviva a brilliant open air art gallery located inside a park on a hill. It cost nothing to go there and you don’t need to be a lover of art to appreciate stone and wood sculptures that are truly one of a kind and otherworldly.
By this time the sun was rising and I had forgotten my purpose for being up all night and had no reason as to why I was trespassing on private property. A vicious thirst gripped me, and it was then I noticed a several plastic bottles hanging from the tips of the grape vines. They appeared to be filled with water and I soon reached out and grabbed one to sate my dehydration. At this, I heard the crowing of a rooster. I turned around and notice much to my amazement several hens and the chicks leaping from the branches of trees and touching down like fighter jets on an aircraft carrier on the cold ground beneath. Dumbfounded I reached for my camera, but much to my annoyance discovered I had misplaced it sometime during my all night alcohol abetted stupor. They flapped their wings much like any other bird does in flight and covering several yards in distance. One landed just a few feet from me and I gave chase hoping perhaps to get it’s attention, maybe I would ask her, “hey how did you do that?” But instead she just leap away to a safer distance down the vineyard.
Just before the vineyards caretaker asked me to leave, he fetched me a glass of water, to which I was most grateful. As I walked the roads back to my room, a smile was stayed on my face the entire time. I had actually set out to accomplish one task and much to my own surprise achieved it. Chickens can fly and quite often do. Finding a wife here should be a cinch. And in closing I would like to recommend this place to anyone who is seeking a mate. I haven’t found one yet, but I am sure it will be a blast trying to do so.