Yesterday, it seemed like a temporary inconvenience to be living without our luggage. Today, I just balked at the thought of getting into the same sweat-soaked tee shirt and jeans, not to mention the inevitable food stains on my shirt. I find eating on a plane somewhat challenging….
The gift shop at the hotel was open, and although their swim trunks were clearly overpriced, they were almost free compared to what John had paid the evening before. The “toiletries kit” that Lufthansa had given us contained a huge white tee shirt, so at least I had something clean to wear. It was only later as I saw some pictures I realized how much I looked like a slightly deflated dirigible in this costume.
Dubrovnik is the kind of place that Michelin gives three stars, and yet manages to give at best one star to any particular attraction within it. It is not Florence. There are really no grand buildings, no great museums or art galleries, no famous or important churches. Yet it is an example of how one plus one plus one can indeed equal three. All of the pieces come together to form something almost extraordinary. Of course, it would be more extraordinary if there were fewer tourists around. Sometimes I feel that we tourists, like Little Father Time in Jude the Obscure, should hang ourselves “… because we are too menny.”
All the guidebooks did agree that the cable car to the top of Mount Srd was one of the major attractions. (By the way, Srd is not a misspelling: apparently vowels are optional in Croatian syllables.) We saw many places selling tickets to this, but we figured that we would buy one there as it would probably be the cheapest price. Unfortunately, we arrived just as the ticket printer stopped working, and with the bureaucratic mindset nurtured by decades of socialist rule, they decided that the best thing would be to simply stop the admitting any passengers until they could somehow get it to work again. We waited in line for what seemed like an hour, though it was probably less. By some miracles one of the no doubt underpaid employees did manage to fix it, and we were treated to a panoramic view of the ancient walled city as we ascended the rocky hill.
It had been gray all morning, but the rain waited until the precise moment when we exited the cable car. It was fortunately not a long shower nor a heavy one. We took some pictures as it sprinkled, and John was in the mood for something light to eat. There was a cafe at the top with a rather attractive outdoor patio. We asked for a table, but the young woman who was seating people told us that they had closed it because of the rain. Now, by this time it had stopped raining and she was as aware of this fact as we were. But she neither had the authority to change the directive that had been given her earlier, nor the the initiative to ask for this rule to be reexamined in the light of changed circumstances. I reflected that she could have a great career in the Los Angeles City School District.
We saw a sign for a restaurant in Bosanka, a nearby village. A older gentleman sitting by the sign saw us reading it and informed us, that it was a “good place.” The road, really a path covered in some macadam, looked interesting, so, despite the slight discomfort of hiking in my flip-flops, we started walking to Bosanka. John was in better shape for the hike having worn his regular leather shoes, though these combined with his swim trunks would have made anybody who saw him assume that he probably hailed from Stuttgart. The landscape was at once familiar yet foreign. Even though as dry and rocky as California hills, the vegetation is different. This is still relatively early in their summer, so it was still somewhat green. Along the way we saw reminders of war. There were the remnants of what I assumed were either German or Soviet bunkers on the hillsides, and several monuments to locals killed in the Homeland War of the Nineties.
There was not much to the village of Bosanka, and we found the restaurant on the far side of it. It looked like the kind of place that specialized in grilling huge slabs of meat over a wood fire. There were a number of patrons, but apparently only one overworked waiter. He motioned for us to sit anywhere. John found a spot on on the outdoor patio, away from all the smokers, the bikers, and the smoking bikers, and sat there. I had my doubt whether they were actually serving people there, but John insisted that this was the spot he wanted. As it turned out, I was right. The waiter never actually told us we had to sit in the main part of the restaurant, but simply acted as if we somehow were not there. After over twenty minutes of being ignored John was so irritated that he suggested we take an Uber back to the hotel.
We napped at the hotel after our exertions, and then spent the late afternoon at the pool by the sea. The day had cleared a bit, and we had a stunning view of the old city and its walls from there.
Late afternoon is a popular time for kayaking, and we watched people, with varying degrees of success, trying to paddle around the island.
We also found the jacuzzi and the indoor pool. The designers of the hotel had rather cleverly placed a kind of mirror above the pool and this gave the room a remarkable sense of openness and light.
When we returned to our room, we discovered that Lufthansa had finally delivered our luggage. I nearly cried with joy.
In the evening, we went back to Dubrovnik. Along the way we saw yet another bridal party. Dubrovnik seems to a quite the place for British destination weddings.This group even wore sashes declaring “Hens Party,” as if anybody could have doubts about it. I should not be so snobbish, but I wondered what their combined GCSEs might be, and decided that the number did not in anyway approach higher mathematics.
Before getting dinner, we walked around the walls of the town in the magical light of early evening.
There was quite a crowd at the cathedral, and we walked inside to see what was happening. I quickly figured out that the Catholic Church in Croatia still celebrates Corpus Christi on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday instead of on the following Sunday, as does most of the rest of the Latin Rite. Had the liturgy been in some language I could understand I might have wanted to stay, but instead we pressed on to find a restaurant in the old town.
Following one of Rick Steves' recommendations, we found a small cafe that specialized in Dalmatian food. The cuisine was not extraordinary, but sitting at a table in a small alley on a warm summer night was enchanting. Out waitress was absolutely charming. As the portions were small, we decided we could splurge on gelato, and ate our ice cream as we walked back to the Gran Villa Argentina.
