BudgetTravel

Well, at least until the weekend. The lighthouse is surrounded by campgrounds; mostly this was a good thing because they served as a buffer between us and all that construction. Come Friday night, however, droves of camper vans arrived, many of them parking not in the allocated spaces behind and adjacent to the lighthouse, but right alongside the water. The weekend warriors didn't bother us much. We still had our sea view from most angles, and really, there's not much as entertaining as Germans strutting around in nothing but Speedos, sandals, and socks.

Once upon a time, the isolation of an island lighthouse would have been hard for Nick and me to resist, but now that we have Willa in tow, less-romantic things take priority, such as reliable scheduling and proximity to distractions. And Savudrija had plenty of those. When we weren't admiring local jungle gyms, we toured Istria. One afternoon we puttered 40 miles down the coast to Rovinj, a Venetian-style hilltop city with sunny piazzas surrounded by pastel buildings and an 18th-century baroque church. On a drizzly morning, we set off inland into the Mirna Valley, amazed at how, within just a few miles, the crowded coast melted into rolling hills, pretty vineyards, and bougainvillea-covered stone villas. From the base of the valley, we spotted Groznjan, one of several medieval Istrian hill towns. With coffee-colored stone walls and towers peeking out of the clouds, it came off as very Disney, the kind of place where you wouldn't be all that surprised to find a cadre of singing elves.

The lighthouse steps (Joshua Paul) BY THIS AUTHOR • Read an excerpt from Gayle Forman's "You Can't Get There From Here" MARCH 2007 ISSUE • Table of Contents • Dream Trips • Lighthouses of Croatia • Family Camps • Eat Like a Local: Chicago • Trips That Can Change Your Life: Adventure Biking • Road Trip: The Olympic Peninsula • 40 Best

No elves. Instead we got artists, lured here with cheap rents by the government in an effort to reverse the depopulation that once threatened to destroy these historic villages. We explored the maze of narrow cobblestoned streets and browsed in the galleries, which were full of blasé, cigarette-smoking creative types who produced everything from traditional Croatian ceramics to abstract modern color explosions to silly sculptures. At one stop, an Italian-speaking sculptor showed off his collection of anti-cell-phone art (various mobile phones that had been hacked, smashed, and melted into oblivion) before unveiling his pièce de résistance: a pair of plastic chicken legs wearing black lace panties, hidden behind a peep-show curtain.

"Porno poultry!" I joked.

"No pornography," he huffed, whipping the curtain back over the chicken.

Having satisfied our daily quota of artiste attitude, we headed toward the hill town of Motovun, where the art was of the edible variety. Konoba Barbacan is reputedly one of the best restaurants in Croatia, especially in autumn, when truffles are harvested on Istria's wooded hills. As we wound our way along the steep mountain roads, playing the real estate game ("Would you buy that farm?" "Nah, I prefer the stone villa"), we got a little lost and arrived--starving--at 3 P.M., only to be told that Barbacan's kitchen had closed a half hour early. Dispirited, we walked farther up the hill and found the cavernous, wood-beamed Pod Voltom, where we enjoyed an indulgent meal of veal medallions in a white-truffle sauce. On the way back down, we picked up a jar of black truffles at Zigante Tartufi to cook with back at home.

Home. We actually called the lighthouse home because it felt precisely like that. Which was a little strange because the interior was the opposite of cozy--more like classic utilitarian blah. The two bedrooms weren't so bad: hardwood floors and comfortable beds and a view to the sea that compensated for any aesthetic shortcomings. But the view couldn't save the kitchen, bathrooms, and sitting room. White walls, white tile, nautical art, and plastic tablecloths. Plus, there was no bathtub, though Milan's daughter-in-law generously loaned us a plastic basin in which we were able to bathe Willa.

The rhythm of the place, languorous like the sea outside, proved seductive. It was hard to stray far for long. In the mornings, we woke up late (Willa spoiled us by actually sleeping through the night, jet lag and all), meandered up the street to Market Barbat to pick up fresh rolls and cherry turnovers, and returned to brew multiple cups of coffee in one of those little espresso percolators (all of the lighthouse kitchens are stocked with pots, pans, and tableware). We ate our breakfast at a table on the lawn and wandered into the villa's inner courtyard and up all those steps to the top of the tower, where on a clear day we got a 360-degree view of the Gulf of Venice, the Julian Alps towering in the background, the Slovenian foothills, and the coastal inlets and rocky inland spine of Istria. Or, if the stairs felt like too much work, we'd take a walk up the coast, tromping through the caravan parks and pine forests, making the obligatory stop at a rickety playground. Then it was lunchtime.

The Venetians ruled Istria for more than 350 years, and the Italian influence is still strong: Street signs and town names are bilingual (Savudrija's Italian moniker is Salvore), the coastal cities are full of Italianate art and architecture, and on menus you'll see far more risottos than meat-and-potato stews.

Being in the continental mood, and traveling with a child who got cranky post-sunset, we tended to cook dinners in and take long lunches out. There were at least a dozen restaurants within a mile of the lighthouse, and scores more when we ventured down the peninsula. We didn't find a dud among them. Whether it was risotto with shrimp at San Marco in Umag, gnocchi with beef at Gostionica Cisterna in Rovinj, or a pizza with prosciutto, artichokes, and olives at Pizzeria Andi in Savudrija, the food was fresher, cheaper, and tastier than anything I've enjoyed on the other side of the Adriatic. And because Istrians are prolific vintners--grape obsession being yet another happy Italian holdover--we drank some wonderful local wines. Nick favored the robust red Teran, about $7 a bottle at most stores. I was partial to the milder plonk sold out of homes and at roadside stalls. An old lady up the road from the lighthouse--look for the VINO sign--poured some perfectly decent table wine ($5 for a liter and a half) out of a series of vats in her front room.

The seafood, in particular, was so delicious that I decided to cook some for dinner. This wasn't as easy as you might expect for someone staying at a lighthouse. Though I could choose from 27 varieties of cured ham at the mega Supermarket Plodine in Umag, there wasn't a fresh gill to be found. I went to Milan for help. Surely he'd know what to do. He spent much of his day weaving a fishing net--that is, when he wasn't watching goofy videos he'd downloaded from the Internet. Yet when I asked him where I could buy fish, he looked at me as if I'd just inquired where I might procure some uranium. Apparently, one doesn't buy fish around here. One catches it.

The only thing I know how to catch is a cold. So I made a few more inquiries and, early one morning, wound up in old-town Savudrija about a mile up the coast, which consisted of a couple of cafés, a church, and the port. The port was deserted when I arrived, so I sat down on the jetty and waited. Just before 8 A.M., like children arriving at school, the boats returned. I set out to inspect the goods, but the grumpy fishermen weren't interested in me so much as the big suppliers who'd shown up with their refrigerated trucks. I wheedled myself a rather sad pair of unidentifiable gray fish, overpriced at about five bucks. I brought them home and tossed them in the back of the fridge, unsure of what to do with them.