The Dubrovnik Diaries: Part 4

 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

I now just have the weekend to separate me from my inevitable return to real life. I endeavour to resist the melancholy by living in the moment. I think of my empty flat waiting for me, bringing to mind a question Ciaran posed about romantic loneliness. An old friend writes a touching but frank birthday text about a wistfulness than can accompany this milestone. 

It must be said, that this has been a more sociable birthday trip than others. Staying in a hotel helps (as oppose to an AirBnB studio), as do amicable locals and fortuitous meetings with other tourists.

Following a local recommendation, I schedule a day trip to small town Ston, 15km from Slano. It is known for its rampart- even longer than its better known Dubrovnik counterpart – and dubbed the European equivalent to the Great Wall of China. 

The intimidating edifice is immediately visible on arriving. The steepness and perilous-looking height of some sections are worrying. Despite being lengthier, a day around Ston’s fortresses is a lot cheaper than Dubrovnik's. As it’s midday, I put off scaling the wall for a few hours, when it’ll be marginally cooler.

I while away time at the Veliki Castle Fort and stroll through nearby streets. I find a playground and have fun on the swings until the discomfort of the chains digging into my hips forces me off.

I order drinks at various establishments and make a video call. I grab some lunch on the go, staining my new cream cardigan to my annoyance.

Finally, the hour arrives. The man at the toll gate explains there’s a long and short version of the walk along the walls. He claims the longer is well over 1000 steps but takes just 40 minutes. I don’t hide my incredulity. It looks too narrow and steep to complete in that time.

You’re young, he counters, you can do it.

Young, he calls me. 

A mixture of vanity and tenacity powers me on, albeit with hesitation. On the way up, I bump into a helpful Peruvian who swears the walk is shorter than the prescribed time and not as risky as it looks. He does advise me to stock up on water. 

It’s well into the 30s. My H20 supply is almost gone. I head to town with my new informal tour guide. When he hears I live in Belgium he asks, in Dutch, if I speak Flemish. He’s studying in Holland. I explain I don’t care for the language.  As we reach the shops, he’s joined by his surprisingly plain girlfriend.

I resume my solo walk and promise myself I won’t look back and/or down. I hold off for some time but like Orpheus, I can’t resist. With much panting (not helped by carrying my small laptop), I make it to the top. As I feel a gentle wind start to cool me off, I begin singing the Isley Bros' version of Summer Breeze. The summit of the wall resembles a biblical film or TV set. Before heading back down, I take a minute to have a heart-to-heart with God on the deserted fortress. Since there’s no-one around, I hitch up my skirt and remove my T-Shirt for an even tan. I later scramble to put it back on when I hear voices. Two fellow tourists loom on the horizon.

The descent is less laborious but trickier to manoeuvre. I slow down at the most precarious points, conscious that the next set of tourists aren’t very far behind. The Peruvian's 10-20 minute round-trip estimation is exaggerated. And to think there’s an annual marathon along the walls in September.

Still, by the end it feels like a personal achievement. I don’t like fear to talk me out of a venture.

The expanse of the wall means by the time I reach the exit, I’ve left Ston proper without wholly being aware. I even take a moment to paddle my feet in the sea. Unbeknownst to me, I am a couple of kilometres away from the main town. Once again I find myself hurrying for the last bus to Slano.

That evening, conscious that my holiday is drawing to a close, I take a sunset walk around the bay similar to that of my first night. I continue to be in awe, willing myself to bask in the now and draw thoughts away from the unavoidable end. 

On my walk, I see a rogue local woman throwing remnants of dinner into the sea. I’m shocked and disappointment. I wonder how the water remains so clear with such antics.

The following morning, the last full day of my holiday, I head into town to spend a few hours at the Red History Museum; recommended by Ciaran. I’m not usually a museum enthusiast unless there’s an exhibition of exceptional interest. The communist history of Yugoslavia fits the bill. Somewhat familiar with Josep Tito and his connection to Post-Independent African states and the Non-Aligned Movement, I wish to fill the gaps. Namely, how Yugoslavia remained autonomous from the USSR.

The RHM is situated in a still-active factory dating back to the 1950s. That would explain why the toilets have a pre-1989 feel. On the day I visit, the reception is manned by the voluble, charismatic – not to mention super-hot – Chico, who talks me through all the interactive elements of the exhibition. He speaks a very fluid and naturalistic English from “TV and school” he claims. When I complain that the RHM brochure misleads by conflating socialism and communism, he commends me for noticing the difference.

The RHM opened its doors on the 20 April 2019 to mild controversy. Chico finds it amusing that it coincides with Hitler’s birthday. I grimace. It could have been worse, he says. If it had opened on 10 April – which fascists proclaimed as Croatian Independence Day in 1941 - the museum would have received more threats than they already had-or worse.

Courtesy of www.godubrovnik.com

It’s a fascinating exhibition, much of it comprised of a set piece modelling a typical Yugoslavian home during the Tito era. It’s a good balance of social, political and cultural history; with references to the winning Croatian entry for the Eurovision song contest as well as the steady descent into totalitarianism and hinting at the eventual bloody break-up of Yugoslavia. 

It’s always with a heavy heart that I consider the distortions of the vision for a worker-led economic system. Under Tito, progress- albeit shaky at times- was undoubtedly made in terms of education, access to housing and industrialisation. He was a very canny statesman, severing ties with Stalin and instating his own interpretation of Communism, whilst making economic and diplomatic overtures to the West. 

It speaks volumes that leaders from both sides of the Iron Curtain attended his funeral. 

Nevertheless, he was an autocrat. The Yugoslav Communist party suppressed all opposition and were vicious towards perceived enemies. Yugoslavia went the way of many other states asserting Communist ideals (the true objective of which I maintain has never been truly realised). I can’t turn away from this uncomfortable truth. Lessons are to be learned.

Towards the end of the exhibition are two conflicting accounts of the infamous prison camps; one from a former guard who predictably and vehemently denies their brutality and the other from an ex-prisoner detailing the unimaginable horror of life during and beyond the camps.

Afterwards, I have a soft drink at the bar, later joined by a couple of German tourists. Chico explains the origins of the RHM (a family affair started with his politically-conscious brother and sister-in-law). The discussion widens to the geo-political sensitivities that still dog the region. According to Chico the majority of the electorate is disengaged from contemporary politics. He is frustrated about the lack of dialogue around the 1990s Civil War.

courtesy of www.adriaticdmc.hr

Cheeky Chico offsets the gravity with dark humour. I admit to being quite smitten. I should really refrain from pointing out the obvious to handsome men. Chico is nonetheless a tad bashful when I pay him a parting compliment. 

It’s one quick jaunt back to the Old City for nostalgia’s sake. I hope to bump into Bruno to say farewell but it's not to be. I must arrive whilst he’s on his afternoon break. Ships passing in the night.

That evening before dinner, I decide to take one last walk around the bay and venture into the Adriatic for a dip. The novelty of my environment has not worn off. I stop to take it all in and be fully present; remind myself that I am really here, in case it all feels too distant and fanciful once I’m back in Brussels. I reflect on how safe I have felt. To my knowledge, in Slano I’m the only brown girl in the village (deep-tanned Caucasians notwithstanding). Yet I’ve not been mistreated or made to feel a freak. The same goes for my experience in the rest of the region, the odd leery look from some male admirers aside.

The customer service has been by and large exemplary. I grow to be fond of the staff at my guesthouse and the nearby bar/restaurant run by the same married couple.

I’m still turning these thoughts over when I find somewhere discreet enough to disrobe and slip into the water donning my bikini. The current occasionally picks up. With my very basic swimming knowledge, I try nothing too adventurous. The coast takes on a different beauty from the perspective of the sea. And to think, it was by error I booked accommodation in Slano and not central Dubrovnik. It's one of the best mistakes I've ever made.

With no-one close enough to make me self-conscious, I offer up prayers of thanksgiving aloud for this marvellous experience.

I dry off with the hotel towel I've borrowed and return to a quiet spot I discovered on my first night, with two chairs suspended over the shallow waters. Sunset is almost over. Dinner awaits but I’m reluctant to leave. Returning to the hotel, I see a crowd gathered around a pop-up stage where a guitarist and pianist are doing Jazz, Rock, Pop and Latin covers. I pause once again to soak in the tunes and atmosphere. They’ll play for several hours as I come and go from the guesthouse.

Later that evening, after dinner at the hotel and a virgin Strawberry Mojito (on the house) at my regular holiday haunt, I’ll catch the duo’s encore. A group of English tourists I’ve seen before are also present. I had the impression they wished to keep their distance but they are far more amicable tonight. One of them looks especially merry, breaking away from his group to do exaggerated camp, arrhythmic steps.

                                                 
When I politely turn down his beckoning to dance with a smile, he plants himself next to me for small talk. He claims he’s ‘only’ had three glasses. For someone who is tee-total, that sounds to me like enough to get him in his current state. He invites me to join him on stage for a sing-song. I demure again. When his female friend also calls on me, it seems rude not to humour them. I add my voice melodiously to their caterwaul of Wonderwall. Or rather, the group caterwauling over the poor duo. I know it’s time to slip away inconspicuously when they segue into Queen’s I Want to Break Free. Never one of my favourites by Mercury and co. On exiting, I note for the first time in Slano, another Afrodescendant female amongst the revellers.

Despite nightfall I detour to discover the other side of the coast that my drunken interlocutor has just mentioned. I can only go so far by foot.

As is usually the case when I have to be up and out for a specific reason, my sleep is interrupted. I wake up too early and can’t properly return to snoozing. In the morning, I open my window wide to benefit from the bay view one more time. I wish I’d done that more often. I savour the thought of everything that will prolong this experience until my mid-afternoon flight back West; one last breakfast at the guesthouse, the bus ride to Dubrovnik and then onward to the airport (a fraction of the taxi price)…

During my morning meal, I record video messages for my sister and friends. A tear drops involuntarily during one recording. On my way to the bus stop, I say a heartfelt farewell to the available guesthouse staff; a number of them sadly not yet on duty.

I text my friend, Nika en route to the airport ...I’m in love with your country... In the end, we were too far from each other to schedule a meet-up. That’s fine. It gives me a ready excuse to visit again soon, pandemics-permitting.

My newfound favourite descriptor for this Balkans excursion is “a wonderful parenthesis”. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday getaway. This is comfortably one of my best trips, especially solo travelling. The pleasure of it even momentarily distracted me from the solemnity of hitting 40. 

I try not to think too long about readjusting to the real world back in Belgium, grim weather forecasts and all. There’s a rip-the-plaster-off part of me that just wants to get it over and done with…

But not quite yet. Not while brilliant sunshine, aqua-marine waters and cloud-covered mountains are calling outside my coach window.

Soundtrack: All'n'All + That's the Way of the World by Earth, Wind & Fire

LVC is taking a break for the rest of summer. Bonnes vacances.

The Dubrovnik Diaries: Part 3

 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

The morning after my birthday, I’ve reached the half-way point of my trip. I am doing my utmost to savour every moment, not to think of the inevitable return to reality. Time flies as it always does.

I have a very early start that Friday morning. I’ve booked myself on a one-day cruise around the three Elafiti islands - with lunch and drinks – for a nifty price. The only downside is, with my accommodation being so far from the main action, I have limited options for reaching the departure point on time. The buses into town aren’t regular before 9am. Either, I wake up at the crack of dawn to catch the first bus and reach Dubrovnik two hours ahead of setting sail. Or, I pay an exorbitant price for a taxi. Heck, if I lose out on a few hours kip to save 50-100 euros, so be it. I can always catch up on sleep during the bus ride.

The evening prior, I pass out very late after a full day of activity. That is, despite the raucous singing late into the night by some excitable gents out on the bay. So afraid of sleeping through the alarm, I wake up frequently nonetheless, eventually finding it too hard to return to slumber. I still find myself running to catch the bus with mere minutes to spare.

I’ve pre-arranged with the boat captain to be picked up from the main bus station in Dubrovnik. I kill time before calling him, knowing there’s no great rush.

He’s a jovial sort in that direct way that seems to be a trademark of the region. He drops me near the boat, not far from some German shops that have made their way to Croatia. I’ve missed DM and Muller’s since relocating from the Franco-German border. Being Dubrovnik, these shops are not as cheap as in their homeland but still better value than the rest of the region.

On the boat I make conversation with a camp and affable Irish-American named Ciaran. We’re born two years apart almost to the day. We swap pandemic anecdotes. A seasoned world traveller, Ciaran recounts how he took advantage of compulsory teleworking to travel around the US. We discuss COVID-management strategies across the globe, trans debates, colonialism past and present and whether communism could ever be truly realised. We have a lengthy conversation about the role of Christianity in imperialism as well as faith and sexuality.  It's true platonic kismet. Ciaran is respectful and considerate. I welcome the chance to have a thoughtful discussion about challenging issues.

Docking at the first island, he and most of the passengers are ready to go for a dip. Clothes fly off and bikini and trunk-clad bodies of all shapes and sizes leap into the water, squealing and cheering. I’m almost as green as the sea with envy. My hope is we’ll find somewhere fairly distant where I can paddle in shallow waters. I brought my own bikini just in case.

Each island is more picturesque than the last. Ciaran says the Croatian coastline has become his favourite. It really is a piece of paradise. At our final stop off, after a tasty and nutritious lunch, adventurous Ciaran goes for a hike. I grab some ice cream, catch up on my writing and head to a lovely stone church.  A woman comes in with a small bikini riding up her buttocks. She plants her virtually nude behind on the wooden pews. I wonder how many bare bum cheeks have previously sat in my very seat.

After some quiet time, I walk towards the other end of the beach. If the water proves too irresistible, I don’t want anyone from the boat to see me in my bikini. I still have a long way to go feeling at ease with my body on the beach. 

Sure enough, the call of the Adriatic is too strong. I see that one can go quite far with minimal swimming ability. I find a discreet corner to slip on my two-piece. I ask a kindly stranger to watch my stuff. I wade in to the sea as far as possible before removing my skirt. The water is surprisingly cool. I squat to avoid exposing my thighs and rear end. I feel somewhat liberated and pleased with the contrast of cold water and the heat.

Ciaran and I reconnect later, exchanging about our afternoon adventure. Back on the boat we continue a conversation with a couple who've met on that very holiday. Neither are proficient English speakers but it’s the sole language they have in common. Ciaran tries to draw them into our own discussion but there’s only so much they can follow. The nearly-eight hour excursion wizzes by. I tell Ciaran of my plans to ride the cable car to Mount Srd before sunset. He asks if I’d like to join him for dinner later. It would be a pleasure except there’s no time before the last bus. We settle for more in-depth conversation over late afternoon smoothies. Ciaran treats me for the second time. By the end of our chat, we’re already discussing him coming to visit me in Brussels later in the year.

I head back to town with apprehension, not certain I’ll be able to visit Mt. Srd and make it back in time for the bus. At the ticket office I’m told it’s an eight minute round trip. Great. My initial plan is go up and come straight back down.

I’m pretty nervous on the ascent. I look at the rocky terrain and laugh inwardly at prior plans to trek back down by foot.

Hell, no. 

At the top, the view of the Old City below, distant hills and islands is so captivating, it puts paid to the idea of a swift return. 

I came at the right time. The air is cooling and the sun is slowly beginning its descent. Only the call of the last bus to Slano pulls me away. Once again, coming full circle, I arrive at Dubrovnik just in time to catch my ride back.

At night, after dinner at the guesthouse, I watch shoals of diverse fish dance around the lights of a small ferry docked at the bay.

Soundtrack: All'n'All + That's the Way of the World by Earth, Wind & Fire

The Dubrovnik Diaries: Part 2

The next day, after falling asleep too late (and thus fitfully) I attempt a lie-in. I have until 11am to catch some breakfast. After joining my Morphē morning prayer group, I head down to a silver service-style, continental morning meal. As it’s not a buffet, the portions are just right. I find myself joined once more by the kitten from a family of cats that haunt the establishment. Not an animal fan, least of all domestic felines, I am still not inured to its cuteness. In a charitable mood, I offer the little moggy some bread. It pounces on the morsel and disappears, bounty-in-paw, with a comical alacrity.

The bus ride to Dubrovnik is a treat in and of itself. It’s a tour of the stunning landscape. Nearing midday, I resist the heat-induced drowsiness so I don’t miss a thing. I regret not sitting on the East-side of the coach, which has the best views. I make sure to rectify this oversight on the return journey.

There are many spots I’d like to hit in central-Dubrovnik but I retain a degree of flexibility. I plan to spread my excursions over the coming days. I pick up a three-day pass with access to local transport, select sites and eateries. As I head out of the tourist office to the gate of the Old City, I stop to compliment a lovely Franco-African family.

I’ll hear a lot of French during this trip, with many of the Francophonie also choosing to holiday in Croatia at this time. It’s useful practice, especially when so many Slavs are proficient English speakers. I try to learn some survival Serbo-Croat ('Hvala', 'Adio') and resist the instinct to default to my first or second language when saying ‘thank you’ or ‘bye’. I find a rough-edged appeal in the sonority of Slavic languages.

At the entrance to the walls is a man in period costume playing soulful-jazzy guitar with a loop machine. I pause to commend him. He introduces himself as Bruno. He's so appreciative of my acknowledgement, explaining he’s used to tourists just passing by. He advises me to stock up on water from one of the local vendors, rather than get ripped off in the Old Town.

I decide to begin my Dubrovnik excursion in earnest at the famous city walls. It’s close to 1pm- still high noon in the 30-something degree Celsius heat. The man at the ticket office is good-natured in a cheeky manner. He wonders out loud why I’d embark on the steep climb given the hot weather and time of day.

Come back at sunset, he advises.

Not possible, I explain, with my bus schedule. I laugh about him not being a good salesman.

I don’t care about that. It’s about protecting yourself.

It gives me a chance to burn off those breakfast calories, I protest.

However, as soon as I start climbing I realise my folly. The ticket collector also neglects to tell me that the walls are supposed to be scaled in one direction only; counter-clockwise. It doesn’t occur to me, even when the vast majority of tourists are walking in the opposite sense. It’s only when I stumble across a French-language guide that I’m made aware of the error. 

Well, I have always beaten to the sound of my own drum. 

I’m told later by restaurant staff that it’s for safety reasons, particularly when there’s a crowd. By fluke, I arrive at a time when the rush hour starts to slow down because of the heat.

I sweat profusely throughout the ramble. It mingles with my make-up and stings my eyes. I am sure a history of acne means I perspire more than the average. My mild vertigo also kicks in at times, particularly when I see there’s little between me and a sharp drop. There’s a hairy moment when I slip on some smooth paving. When I do reach safer ground, no longer worried about tumbling to my death, I stop to admire the gorgeous topography.  Byzantine influences are detectable in the architecture. The sepia coloured roof tiles complement the coastal views and surrounding mountains. Lokrum and other islands can be glimpsed in the near-distance. I feel blessed. I can’t resist taking pictures, even if it’s just on my humble feature phone.

I notice a difference in tourists I pass. The Anglophones tend to be friendlier.

By the time I’ve walked the circumference of the mediaeval rampart and stopped off for refreshments, the day is fast spent. I want to return to the Guesthouse for a siesta before dinner. I make my way back to the Old City gate. There’s enough time to walk down the Stradun main street and visit the Cathedral. The other attractions will have to wait for another day.

I return home to do a little life admin, shower and a change of outfit for dinner. I have decided on a nearby restaurant that has live music during summer. They say they are fully booked, save for some choice seats overlooking the bay and with a clear view of the stage. The kindly staff make it sound like a commiseration prize. 

The service is excellent. A good-looking waiter, young enough to be my son (if I were a youthful mum) shows me to my seat. My main waiter, Andrej, keeps me entertained, giving honest menu recommendations. He’s keen on the duck and the lamb. I opt for the former, with the latter to look forward to another evening. The meat is impressively tender even if the ‘secret’ sauce just tastes like a particularly salty Bisto gravy. The music begins towards the end of my delicious starter. In between bites I’m reading a superb entry from this year’s Caine Prize for African Writing. If the singing is just adequate, the guitarist compensates. In any case, both vocalist and accompaniment deserve more consideration from the crowd. For most of the set, I’m the only one applauding.

I’m not in a rush. I finally settle the bill and head out towards the bay for a brief after-dark stroll.

The morning of my birthday itself, I have set my mind on a full timetable. I tend to avoid scheduling any significant excursions on the day itself, as I’d be more sensitive if things went awry. I do intend to resume where I left off in Dubrovnik’s Old City. I want to spend time in still, sacred spaces like the various monasteries sprinkled across the town.

Best wishes start to trickle in via text or email. I’m pleasantly surprised by some. One French acquaintance reaches out on my UK number. 

I have a strange relationship with my birthday, having been coy in the past about mentioning the date but still expecting others to make an effort. It’s for that reason I would hesitate to give the precise date. I’d be offended if it were forgotten, therefore better the other party be ignorant than indifferent.

At breakfast, I allow myself the extra slice of bread and another small croissant. Sis leaves me a voice note of birthday greetings and hopes I won’t feel lonesome. I head off to catch the bus into town. I’m excited by the thought of the blissful scenery en route.

I hold on to being 39 until two minutes to midday BST, when I officially came into the world in July 1981. To an extent, my neurosis about this milestone echoes what I felt in my late 20s. The difference being that much of it dissipated by the time I turned 30. Not so much this year. In the weeks leading up to my 40^th, I do the predictable mental inventory of all the disappointments and what remains unfulfilled. 40 stands out amongst milestones either side of it. Sis maintains that even if one had hit all their personal benchmarks, there would be pause for thought. None of my acquaintances who have celebrated the mid-life mark in recent years has done so lightly. A friend who turned 40 earlier in the year assured me that the pressure eases up on the other side.

My first stop in the Old Town is a church next to the Franciscan monastery. The coolness and tranquillity is what I am after. Yet the quiet leaves room to entertain darker thoughts. I think with resentment of all the acquaintances for whom I remember their birthdays year in, year out and have never even bothered to ask about mine. It’s not even as simple as fair-weathered vs. loyal. There are the usual suspects who already set the bar pretty low. There are others whom I’d consider better friends and from whom I expect more. On the other hand, I tell myself, I wouldn’t want to do a kindness forever in hope of reciprocity. It taints the gesture. My mind wanders yet again to discontent both personal and in relation to the world at large. My wiser side implores me to allow myself a mental break, at least for today. I try to turn these inner grumblings into some form of prayer.

Spending longer in the church than I planned, I finally slip out to the monastery next door. My access-(almost)-all-areas pass affords me free entry. The grounds, including one of the oldest pharmacies in Europe and a museum, are far more modest in size than I anticipate. I bristle at an exhibition dedicated to a Croatian monk working in the DRC. It screams white-saviour-complex. Someone has taken the trouble to correct the errors in the French-language explanatory text with a marker.

Neo-colonial displays aside, there is an appealing serenity to the Franciscan monastery. I aim to find similar pleasant solitude in the Dominican monastery further up the Stradun. On the way, I permit myself to roam aimlessly along the sun-drenched, pretty mediaeval streets. I take detours up narrow stairways and through arches, once in a while stumbling upon some more beautiful scenery. I pay too much for a bland smoothie and am deterred from buying a snack at a bakery by the dismal customer service.

I pick up some reasonably-priced trinkets at the outdoor market, a stone’s throw from the Dominican’s.

When I eventually arrive at the monastery, I find that my 3-Day pass affords a discount but not free entry. I’m apprehensive about parting with more money. A friend - to my knowledge, not miserly- mentions his positive experience in Dubrovnik being marred by the extortionate prices. He’s not wrong. I find myself constantly doing conversions from Kunas to Euros or Pounds in my head or on my calculator. I decide nonetheless to cough up the equivalent of 3 euros for the entrance fee. I’m less interested in the museum’s artefacts than the peacefulness. I do a perfunctory visit around the exhibition halls before taking some time out in the courtyard, where orange trees relinquish over-ripe fruit.

The next stop is Lokrum island. It’s worth it for the boat ride, even if the island itself is more jungle-esque than I was aware. 

There are signs of civilisation. Swimmers abound. Sunbathers sprawl out like mermaids on flat rocks. A couple of bars are ensconced in the tropical-looking trees. It’s not unusual to see a family of peacocks strutting around. I stop off for lunch in a café playing some attractive lounge music. I order a slightly more indulgent afternoon meal than usual (not hard) but not as much as the occasion demands. I hope one of the staff can point me to the Benedictine monastery, provided I don’t have to hack through the vegetation to reach it.

I find time to Skype sis. She’s bemused by my reaction to old geezers in scandalously small swimming trunks.

I am pleased to discover that the Benedictine monastery isn’t far from my current location. On my way, I make peace with not having time to do all I had on my mental list. I switch on some EWF; the ideal soundtrack for my blissful adventures. I discover Lokrum’s own version of the Dead Sea and once again envy the swimmers taking advantage of the natural pools and lagoons. I use the opportunity to tan my legs, which don’t get much exposure to sunlight.

I've made it this far without referring to Game of Thrones but it's impossible to avoid. Parts of the monster-hit series were apparently filmed in Dubrovnik. The City gets as much mileage out of it as possible, with various tours conducted in its name. On the island I stumble into some sort of GoT-themed attraction. Having no affinity to the show, I promptly leave.

Whilst meandering, I eventually locate the Benedictine monastery. I’m expecting something still operative, like those in the Old City. Instead it’s a complex of ruins, surrounded by botanical gardens. An older gentleman from mainland Dubrovnik confirms I’m in the right place. He’s just returned from a swim. He offers to teach me.

No time. I need to catch the ferry back to town. Besides, I don’t have the gear.

He mentions the nudist beach I almost had the misfortune to innocently walk into earlier. I frantically wave away his suggestion, more from prudishness. I only fully realise what he was insinuating after we’ve said farewell.

The views from the ferry back to town seem even more sumptuous as early evening totters towards sunset. I capitulate to true indulgence with two – not one, but two-amazing ice cream lollies in the Old Town.

On the way to catch the last bus back to Slano, I stop to chat to my new friend Bruno. He of the loop machine and sweet guitar improv.  I ask if he can play me a song for the occasion. I regret the request when he starts singing the traditional birthday song.

Do you know the Stevie Wonder version?

I don’t like doing covers.

Bruno tells me I don’t look my new age and knocks off 10 years. I can’t complain.

He’s glad for the company and gives me a parting sideways hug. I worry he's getting the wrong impression. He’s amiable and attractive but I’ve never been one for holiday flings.

As I head to the main bus station, I look forward to sun set bus rides, drinking in those amazing vistas and a lamb supper at a local restaurant.

Soundtrack: Good People Remixes by MF Robots, All'n'All by Earth, Wind & Fire

Part 1

 Part 3

Part 4

The Dubrovnik Diaries: Part 1

Beyond the vagaries of the pandemic and relocating to Belgium, 2021 was always going to be a significant year for me. This summer marks a milestone birthday. A round, intimidating figure especially in a sexist world which tends to judge women more harshly as we age.

My dirty 30s reach an end. The era of the naughty 40s begins.

A number of years ago I told myself that if I weren’t married, I’d spend my 40^th birthday somewhere far away that I hadn’t yet visited. Cuba was at the top of the list. Fast forward, and the uncertainty of non-European travel – not to mention prohibitive high season prices- My travel ambitions become more modest.

Now double vaccinated with the required paperwork, it’s sensible to remain within the EU. I have long wanted to visit Eastern Europe. Since childhood I have heard wonderful things about the former Yugoslavia. Plus my Serbo-Croat friend Nikola – or Nika-recently returned to the region after spending her formative years and most of her adulthood so far in the UK. It’s indirectly thanks to her that I settle on Croatia. To retain my autonomy, I don’t plan to stay in her family home, however. My destination choice will therefore be determined by flight times and proximity to the coast. For the sake of well-being and good energy, I need to be by the sea.

In late July, I head to Brussels airport for an overnight stay. It’s the first time I’ll be travelling by air from Belgium.  My flight to Dubrovnik, Croatia via Vienna is just after 10am. I could wake up at the crack of dawn and catch the bus but I don’t want to cut it fine. With current Corona regulations and the post-Brexit status of my British passport, I need to be prepared for eventualities. 

The airport initially seems eerily quiet.  Thankfully, my gamble pays off when I see other nocturnal travellers hovering round a coffee shop lounge; preparing for a night of uncomfortable, upright kip.

Notwithstanding the awkward sleep, I’ll be glad I camped out overnight. Check-in starts to become busy circa 4am. By the time I join the queue after freshening up, around half-5 am, the line is snaking around the dividers. To my relief, the check-in and security process is straightforward on the Belgian end. I show my hard copy vaccine certificate and I’m away. One chic looking fellow traveller is alarmed that nobody even queries her COVID status.

That's worrying, she tells me.

It’s less simple in transit. At Vienna, it’s my citizenship that is of concern. I join what looks like a fast-moving line after mine grinds to a halt. The blonde official lingers over my British passport; eyeing me before returning her gaze to the document.

There’s no stamp, she observes Where do you live?

I explain that I reside in Belgium whilst protesting the validity of my travel ID. I don’t remember other passengers in her queue being subjected to this level of scrutiny.

The UK is no longer part of the EU. For all we know, you could have over-stayed. Do you have any other ID?

Overstayed? I practically throw my brand new Belgian identity card at her, muttering an expletive about racist assumptions when she finally lets me pass. So much for me graciously living out the last beatitude.

When I arrive in Croatia, a handsome official takes issue with my COVID-status. In broken English he insists on a PCR test result, even when I brandish my vaccine certificate. Once again, I can attribute this suspicion to my Burgundy passport. He asks when I was last in the UK. For once, I'm pleased to answer '2019'. It’s only when I insist that I live in Belgium that the penny drops at last.

Unable to find alternative routes to my accommodation, I’ve pre-booked a taxi. It’s very pricey and I do grumble. On the other hand, I’m trying not to let my skinflint instincts dominate this holiday. If I don’t treat myself on this occasion, I never will. That’s what savings are (partly) for, after all.

It’s a trip of many ‘firsts’. It’ll be the first time I’ll have a driver waiting outside an airport holding a card with my name. The taxi agent and I eventually locate each other. I tell him it’s my first time in the region. Only half-joking, he  pulls me up (incorrectly) on referring to Croatia as part of the Balkans.

We’re an independent republic.

Doubtful, I am reminded of the origins of the word ‘balkanise’ and how fresh the memory is of the last civil war. It shouldn’t come as a surprise if a fierce patriotism surfaces amongst some.

Half-way through the transfer, there’s a change of driver. The second speaks English. I appreciate not having to force conversation for the first part but am grateful for local insights after the handover. It’s then that it dawns on me I have not booked accommodation in Dubrovnik proper. I misunderstood the address. Instead I’ll be staying in Slano, a suburban beachtown. Hence the difficulty in finding direct public transport. The driver speaks of sporadic bus routes and expensive Dubrovnik-bound taxis. I begin to panic.

On arriving at the Guesthouse, I receive a warm and laid-back welcome from blond, bespectacled, baby-faced waiter-cum-receptionist, Vlad. He’s so relaxed, there's no rush for me to pay for my room (although I insist). He’s far more optimistic about the bus schedule, kindly printing a colour copy. I will have to be mindful of departure times either way, particularly on Sunday, but it’s feasible. Alas, it means no evening excursions in the main city after sunset. Maybe, that’s for the best, given I’m travelling solo. My mother’s caution rings in my ear. “Remember, you’re a black woman alone in Eastern Europe”.

Vlad shows me to my room. It’s old but clean. The shower room is the most modern part of the en suite double. It’s dimly-lit but there is a lovely view of the Adriatic through the dated French-style windows. The constant sound of crickets, nevertheless makes me nervous to leave them open.

Since I’m not as close to Dubrovnik as I thought, it’s the ideal excuse to explore my immediate surroundings. That evening I’ll allow myself to wander. The forecast throughout my stay is consistently in the 30s. The proximity to water prevents the heat from being suffocating.

Slano is idyllic. Situated in a valley, it’s flanked by imposing, vegetation-covered hills. Cruise boats regularly dock at the harbour. The main draw is of course the water. Clear, aqua-marine sea that I didn’t think was possible in Europe. It’s as if locals and tourists alike strive to keep it intact. I’ll later discover it’s similarly pristine elsewhere. 

I’ll also become accustomed to the site of half-naked men and women, strolling to and from the nearest swimming point. It’s so commonplace that the Marina has a policy of only attending to fully-clothed clients. Not for the first time, I regret my lack of the necessary skills. The water is so inviting.

Whilst on my picturesque stroll I drop by the independent boutiques that encircle the Guesthouse and stop to enquire about restaurant menus from helpful staff. I receive very useful information from an amicable Hungarian woman working at the Marina, in addition to my own research, on what to see in Dubrovnik.

If I thought my ethnicity and gender might pose problems with locals, I’m relieved to be wrong. Apart from some churlish bus drivers, it's a convivial atmosphere all round.

En route I discover pebble beaches in the vicinity. I can’t resist a paddle. On returning to my hotel, I realise that’s the final straw for a beloved pair of sandals.

Before heading back to the Guesthouse for some dinner and a Zoom catch-up with a friend, I find a semi-isolated spot with two chairs suspended over the water. It appears to be a lifeguard lookout. I scribble in my gratitude diary. No shortage of entries today. As well as the breath-taking scenery, I’m beaming about a well-received recent BBC feature on my very own kid sis. 

Soundtrack: Selection from Bluestaeb's Giseke

Part 2, Part 3 + Part 4