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 40th 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.
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
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