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