"YOU will cry when you see it. Bring tissues. You will need them."
We are finishing a marathon meal at Macondo, a seafood restaurant on a nameless back alley in Hvar. My dinner companion, a local painter, writer and actor named Niksa Barisic, was talking about a historic theater built in 1612 during the Dalmatian Renaissance and still in use half a millennium later. But he could just as well have been describing his feelings for Hvar itself, a mountainous, lavender-scented isle set in the blue, sun-blasted Adriatic Sea off the Dalmatian coast of Croatia.
For centuries, the island has lured visitors and inspired poets. "I know paradise now, I know Hvar," a lyric local saying goes. Now, 10 years after the end of a bloody civil war that devastated much of Croatia, it still struggles as it sees hope for its future in ancient tourist meccas like Hvar, sister islands like Korcula and Mljet, and Dubrovnik - Croatia's, and, arguably, Europe's, most beautiful city.
Recently rediscovered as an off-the-radar haven by the international celebrity set and their media-camp followers, Dubrovnik and Dalmatia's many romantic islands and hidden coves provided backdrops for lavish photo layouts in magazines like GQ, which this year proclaimed the Croatia "the Next Riviera, " and Sports Illustrated. In May, Croatia, a scythe-shaped country that sits astride the star-crossed, blood-drenched Balkans, was named the world's hottest travel destination in the new edition of the Lonely Planet guide to Croatia, which cited its "rich diversity of attractions," accessibility and "relative affordability" (its currency, the kuna, is far friendlier to the dollar than the euro is) as well as its "stunning beaches and islands" and "magnificent food."
That's a surprising turnaround for a country that saw its most fabled city, Dubrovnik, nearly destroyed by artillery bombardments during a months-long siege in the 1991-95 war. With eight million visitors expected in Croatia this summer, the government-run national tourist board has begun a campaign to restore tourism to its prewar levels, when upward of 10 million visitors annually flocked to the beaches of Dalmatia and Istria, the neighboring coastal province to the north. Back then, the tourist industry accounted for a full third of Croatia's national income. Tourism officials say that the number of visitors has grown 6 to 10 percent in each of the past several years.
Nowhere is the tourist board's touted "Magical Croatia" brand more fitting than on Hvar, where they give names to the wind but not the streets, where children are said to fly and the richest man in the world has to wait for his latte during fjaka, when the island tucks in for its afternoon siesta.
Holding court at Macondo, Mr. Barisic, a burly, bearded cross between Jerry Garcia and Zorba the Greek, is quick to cackle at his own stories and eager to share his knowledge and love for Hvar and its bounty. "You must be careful," he cautioned as he poured me a glass of the rich local red, strong as it is delicious. "One glass you won't feel; have two, you won't feel a thing."
Describing Hvar (awkward in English, it's pronounced hwahr) as a "hideaway for the creative poor and the very rich," Mr. Barisic said, "Celebrities like to come here because they're left alone. Bill Gates sails in on his yacht and no one pays any attention. No one cares. There are no paparazzi, no fans, no autographs. I was in a cafe with my daughter and a lady sat down at the next table. My daughter said, 'Dad, that's the lady from "Shakespeare in Love." ' "
Gwyneth Paltrow is among the many red-carpet faces seen blending in with the crowds in recent summers. "It gets to be like 42nd Street around here in July and August," Mr. Barisic said the next afternoon as he sipped a whiskey-laced coffee in one of Hvar's outdoor cafes. "No one sleeps during the season. Everyone is jumping around, singing and roaming the streets until dawn."
The scene is hard to imagine during a visit in late March, when the sun-drenched square, a wide piazza from the 13th century paved with polished white stone mined on Hvar and its sister island, Brac (the same stone was used in Split to build the palace of the Roman emperor Diocletian and, 16 centuries later, the White House) is deserted during fjaka.
Toddlers chase pigeons across the square, squealing with delight. Elderly men smoke in the cool shadows cast by the bell tower of the 16th-century Cathedral of St. Stephen, which forms the picturesque west face of the square.
A three-legged dog, a red scarf tied at its neck, trots as best it can behind its master who, like most dog owners here, carries a leash but seldom has use for it. Dogs here are a well-trained lot who obey voice commands and stroll in and out of the open-air cafes as they please. Their owners don't bother scooping up after them. That work is left to professionals, street cleaners who do an excellent job keeping tourists' Manolo sandals unsoiled during the raucous high season.
My friend Buga Novak, a Hvar-born translator and interpreter who lives in Zagreb, took me on a walking tour of Hvar town. Strolling the riva, the long waterfront promenade that winds around the harbor, she pointed out a hilltop fortress and the remains of city walls that were built in the 13th century to defend against Turkish pirates. Far above, another fortress, built by Napoleon, one in a long list of invaders, today bristles not with cannon but with instruments to record seismological and meteorological data.
On summer nights, when the fortifications above are illuminated and fishing boats bob at anchor in the harbor, films are shown in an open-air theater where audiences sit at tables, drinks are served and, Ms. Novak says, the chatter and action off screen can be as entertaining as the film.
In front of the Hotel Palace, children play at the base of the Pillar of Shame, where in the Middle Ages sinners were tied up for display, jeered at and spat upon. Nearby, water taxis line up along the riva to ferry summer hordes of beer-cooler toting "naturists" - the guidebook euphemism for those who like to perform their sun worshiping naked - to the island's highly popular offshore nudist beaches.
"The ancient Greeks and the Romans were growing grapes and producing wine on Hvar 300 years before Christ," said Andro Tomic, a local vintner, as he toured his vineyards high on the windward face of the near vertical mountain ridge that runs the length of Hvar. Mr. Tomic was one of only a handful of Croatians I met who did not speak English.
With Ms. Novak translating, Mr. Tomic said that Hvar's abundance of sun and strong winds - which he called "ideal conditions for producing the highest quality grapes" - had kept the vineyards insect and disease free. Those same winds blow with such force off the Adriatic that workers tending the vines have to be tethered by ropes to prevent them from being swept from the mountainside and cast out to sea, Mr. Tomic said.
Mythologized by islanders' ancestors, the winds are known by name throughout Dalmatia, explained Ms. Novak, who swears her Hvar-born mother "flew" as a child, lifted off her feet by a gust and blown the length of her family's backyard. "Bura, the good north wind, blows clouds and bad weather away," she said. "It is said that the evil south wind, Jugo, awakens the existing demons within you."
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