First full day in Dubrovnik (10/16)

St. Blaise, the gothic church next door to my abode’s alleyway, is beautiful to behold, but such proximity has a downside. The belfry starts its work, clanging at 6:00 AM on Sunday morning. That would be six clangs. Big ones. Repeat at 7:00 AM. The eight clangs at 8:00 had their way with me – I arise, unwilling to be jostled from another dream in the next hour with nine. Church wasn’t my destination, but I do have a rendezvous with Mike and Colleen at 9:00 AM at the Onofrio Fountain. Big smiles are exchanged and in a moment the day’s schedule is set: first up, we walk the wall.

As with most fortresses, the broad walls of Old City are constructed so that the town’s former protectors could patrol them, looking out for potential invaders. Every few feet, there are openings in the wall for guards to shoot arrows, chuck spears, blow spit balls and the like at anyone foolish enough to threaten the town. Nowadays, we tourists of many tongues wag them as we circumvent the city along the wall and ooh and ahh at the spectacle of the sights – the sea, mountains, outer town, inner town, harbors, boats and islands all combine to ensure that you know that you’re in a fabled place.

The day is hot. Like lizards on a stone, we often stop to absorb the sun. In several spots along the southern wall soaring straight up from the Adriatic, I look down and see people sun bathing on the rocks and swimming at the fortress feet. Lilting up some 25 meters to me come excited yelps in Swedish, German, French and Croatian. Being European, the women are nonchalant about the whereabouts of their tops. Being an intrepid American traveler, I pretended not to notice.

Sometime in the afternoon, it is nap time for Mike and Colleen, so I say farewell at a pier where their hotel passenger boat picks them up. After a few moments of wistfully watching them putter toward their luxurious cliff-hanging accommodations, I dash off to don a bathing suit and then made my way to a particularly delicious looking jetty of rock, just off the southeast wall, surrounded by an inlet pool of sparkling azure-green water. I took a breath, leaped, and sparkled with it.

Bush and Eddy Everywhere

Tonight I wander about peeking in one bar and restaurant after another searching for something unexpressed to myself, perhaps a vibe or a sign that reads: “Oh Joe, There You Are, We’ve Been Waiting For You, Please, Please, Step Right In!” There is no sign found with that message, but my stomach did eventually give a sign that it would make me uncomfortable if I did not quickly choose a place to eat. A pizza and pasta place recommended in Lonely Planet just off the Placa pulls me in with delectable aromas and a smiling clientele.

“The liter pivo (beer) and a small veggie pizza” I tell my waiter. I’m glad to have my guide book to absorb me as I wait, but hardly turn a page after my ever nosy ears pick up a conversation across the room.

It became quickly apparent that a man and woman (from Chicago) at one table had become acquainted with three women (from France, Sweden and Norway) at another and are in deep discussion that goes something like this:

Norway: “We in Europe just don’t understand how you could have elected him twice… I mean, OK, the first time, you could say you didn’t know, but…

Chicago: “I know, I know…we hear the same thing everywhere we travel in Europe, but you see we’re from Chicago… we didn’t vote for him... the country is really divided.”

Sweden: “I’m sorry it happened, the whole world is sorry because, unfortunately, what America does affects us all.”

They talk while my pizza bakes, while I sip my beer, while I pay the bill, and I listen attentively, but for that hour nothing much more was said, simply repeated in different expressions of exasperation.

With a full tummy and a brew-influenced swagger, I decide to find the Mayor.

I find him at his perch outside the western gate. There he sits at an outside café table, whether it’s open or not, and leaps at the arrival of each tourist bus hoping to sell his rooms. His usual jovial countenance seems diminished as I approached him. “Hey Mayor, still hustling rooms”, I call out. “Hey, Garma, hey are you happy, because you know I want you to be happy”, Eddy replies as we shake hands. “It’s a dump, Eddy”, I said. “I will make it better” he said in a wounded voice as he pulled out the ubiquitous cell phone and begins pressing numbers. “No, no, no, I’m staying put.”

We sit down in front of the café. He tells me his story. Forty years old, makes a great living renting six rooms in his house to the flood of Dubrovnik’s tourists. He gets the bodies in the room, his mother cleans. Never married but impregnated one of his guests a year ago, a Bosnian, who wrote to tell him she’s pregnant but wants nothing from him. His quandary: pay her a lump sum of $20,000 that he judges is the tally of 18 years of monthly child support suitable for living in Bosnia, or pay as you go. His girlfriend will kill him if she finds out, but he doesn’t want to marry her anyway because she has a six year old son that’s not his. “How can I bond to him, he’s not mine!” This wasn’t a question; nonetheless, I tell him the tale of my sister’s adoption of Isabella and how I learned that a child bereft of your genetics can still conjure love and devotion. He grunts.

“This is depressing”, he reveals, referring to hanging out at night in the cold waiting for tourists. “I haven’t always been living here, you know. I visited LA and stayed with a friend who was trying to be an actor. But he had no charisma. But I do, so when I met someone who worked with Robert Dinero, I told him that I could be his stand in guy. I look like him, you know.” It was then that I had my “aha” moment; this is why he looked familiar to me when we first met – he’s a slightly taller, bulkier, folic-challenged, Croatian Dinero!

“How did it turn out?”

“Nothing… had to leave… visa expiring.”

Because he’s the mayor and knows everyone, soon there are three other men at our table. Eddy tells each of them that although I live in America, I’m really Croatian… just forgot to learn the language, or visit during the last 40+ years. They each nod their understanding.

One Last Swim 10/17

The next morning, I’m up early to meet Mike and Colleen at their seaside hotel, Villa Dubrovnik, for a proper breakfast. http://www.villa-dubrovnik.hr/

While I wait for them, I stroll over to the veranda off the restaurant which overlooks the sea and a small nearby island lauded for its nude sunbathing, perhaps just 250 meters away. The bola (northern wind) is active and gives me a show. In small ripples, the water was pushed in opposing directions, and then suddenly swirls in concentric circles, deepening abruptly as if a large flat pan smacked against the surface, and then just as suddenly new water rushs in and swirls some more. The bola’s dance with the sea is capricious in form, and I could not guess would transpire next. Well before my enchantment left me, I turn to meet my hosts for breakfast and enjoy a hearty bowl of oatmeal.

The three click walk back to the Old City is along a road and walkway paralleling the sea. The sun is hot. I stroll up to a beach lying below the precipice where I stood and watched the remnants of what undoubtedly would be a packed beach in the summertime; now, only a few diehards enjoy the last weeks of sun and warm water. I decide to join them. I sit on a large rock right next to the gently lapping water, pull my swimsuit from my backpack, wrap a sarong around me for the clothes change, and after absorbing some heat, splash into the Adriatic for what would be my last encounter with that clean and invigorating sea.

Lapad – The “Burbs” 10/18

This is my last full day in Croatia. Tomorrow, I will take a bus to the Dubrovnik airport and through a series of stops and planes reenter my former world.

I’m a little nervous about the bus schedule. Yesterday, I confirmed the time and place: just outside the Old City at a bus stop at 8:00 AM Croatian Air told me. This morning, I get up at 7:00 AM and decide to make a trial run. I can see approximately where the bus should be at 8:00 AM on my map, and want to ensure it actually is there today. I walk out of the Old City, up several flights of stone stairs to bring me to the road above the town. I turn right, left, meander, find one bus stop after another. I’m confused. I stand at a bus stop that I think should be it, so suggests the map, until 9:00 AM. No airport bus.

Frustrated, I return to the Croatian Air office. She can’t confirm if I was at the right bus stop, but she could confirm that the bus didn’t run this morning. So much for preparation. Undaunted, though fatigued, I start from the beginning… the Placa, and try again. Ahhh, should have turned right at the top of the stairs, not bend to the left. The right stop was a block away. Now if only there is a bus tomorrow.

Surprisingly, I bump into Mike and Colleen on their way to a city bus to explore the Dubrovnik suburbs to the west of the Old City. I join them. We circumnavigate the bulbous Lapad Peninsula and marvel at all the small green and rocky island outcrops that punctuate the sparkling sea. It seems that every 100 meters there’s a stairway down from our walkway to a pool nestled behind an outcropping of boulders, a sensual invitation to take a dip. But we ignore such quiet pleas, for where on a mission to walk the rubber of our soles, and we do.

On the northern end of the peninsula, we observe the several cruise ships and private yachts tied up along the Gruz Harbor. Mike, noting that his Balboa Yacht membership from Newport Beach, California should enable us to have lunch at some Croatian yacht club, ushers us past the gate and disappears inside, quickly reappearing with his trademark wide grin and motioning us to sit down. Best calamari I’ve ever had.

On the way back, I pay attention to the local people, for in October in the Lapad area there are few tourists. People are walking everywhere. The busses are frequent, clean and efficient. There’s not a paucity of cars, unless of Japanese origins. Lots of children and teenagers who smile and laugh a lot. The adolescents look like smaller versions of their parents – there’s no display of rebellion, of tattoos, piercing, pants cinched below the pubic bone, or Mohawks. Viva Croatia!

As night descends, I make my way back to the Old City. As I approach the western Pile Gate, I look for Eddy. As ever, he’s at his table, ear to phone as he scans groups of people passing by for homeless tourists. I sit down beside him.

“Are you happy?” he asks in which is now our trademark conversation opener. “A little sad to be going home tomorrow”, I replied.

“Hey, Garma, you’re Croatian… this is your home… you’re just going to America for a visit!”

We shake hands, and I turn to cross the drawbridge and enter the gate to the City, slowly
making my way back to my room along the Placa, stopping often to absorb all that I can. I spot Ana, my "landlady". She approaches me and appears, again, to be in a daze, eyes fixed ahead but not on anything particular. She passes right by me, not seeing me, for I too am among nothing in particular. I say nothing.

It’s a lot warmer tonight. Everything is still; even the winds abate, earning us a well deserved reprieve.

Last Day in Croatia 10/19

Sure that it was 6:45 AM, I pop out of bed to gather my things and make my way to the airport bus, but my watch suggests it’s 2:45 AM. Confused, I settled back into bed and in 15 minutes the bell tower confirms the watch’s assertion by ringing three times. The rest of the night is fitful; I hear every bell till the seven counts urges me from bed.

I have plenty of time before the bus is scheduled to arrive, so I take my time walking to the bus stop. Along the way, there are many perfect spots to sit on a stone wall and look down at the City or at the harbor, or a special building. There are few people roaming around at this hour to distract my attention. I imprint all I can.

Yesterday’s practice run pays dividends as I’m confidently at the right place at the right time. Early, in fact. I observe a garbage collector in a garbage collector outfit. Obviously bored and unmotivated with his work, during the 30 minutes I was there, he shuffles between the garbage can next to my bus stop, to another one across the street, and back again. Amidst this journey, he takes a break and leans against a building for a smoke.

Across the street, a woman in the bakery shop ventures out into the brisk early morning air for a smoke. He slowly ambles toward her and they speak. Since people generally stay around where they were born in Croatia, I imagine they might have known each other all their lives, being that they appeared to be the same age. She disappears for a moment and returns with a loaf of bread which she gives to him. For a beat or two, they both hold their respective ends of the loaf as their eyes touch. No money is exchanged, only smiles.

The bus comes and I go, leaving my smile with them.