June 24, 2005: Dubrovnik

Arrived 1:30 pm. From Montenegro to here is a beautifullly paved coast road like Highway 1 in California. Coming around the side of a mountain you suddenly see Dubrovnik, its red roofs and huge city walls. There's nowhere to park and take photos, unfortunately, so I ride on in to the city gates - no vehicles are allowed inside - and park on the sidewalk in front of an Internet cafe where I was finally able to upload my dispatches and photos from Albania.

The Internet cafe people assurred me that despite all the busloads of tourists there were rooms to be had here. I'd seen "apartment-zimmer-rooms" signs on the road into town and they said yes, just ask. I rode back up to the highway and back down toward town again where I saw all the signs, and stopped in front of the first I saw. It was up a couple of flights of city stairs - old city stairs - and I rung the bell. A middle-aged woman came to the door and she showed me in past a stone building, a garden where onions and tomatoes and brussel sprouts were growing, and into the next building upstairs to what used to be their kids' rooms but are now blocked off from the main house and made into guest rooms.

I took it for 40 Euros per night - normally it was 50 but I bargained down - I was told I wouldn't pay less than 30 and probably more with my two down-sides, 1) single 2) one night only.

It had a partial view of old Dubrovnik city wall and the sea, and turned out to be about 600 stairs down to the main gates. I noted this and was glad I'd be climbing them again in the cool of evening.

My landlady told me that the restaurant at the harbor was the cheapest and best fish in the old city, so I slowly made my way there, savoring one of the world's great cities. Tears came to my eyes as I marvelled that only a few years ago we were all watching in horror as these walls were being bombed; and this is a living city, as in people actually live here. Where did they go? To families inland? To refugee camps? I strolled and wondered where I would go if San Francisco was attacked. To my parents' in Morgan Hill, I suppose. Then I thought about my friends who lived in New York City when it was attacked; none of them left, but it wasn't actually under seige.

I looked around at the people working here, living here and thought, wow, they sure have been through it - they've had to run for their lives. The twenty-something guy at the Internet cafe had said, when I remarked how busy the city was, "Yes, thank God, everyone is back." And then I looke at him again and realized that he'd been here, he'd had to run.

Dubrovnik's walls were made for war and they are awesome to behold. Seven centuries old, they're over a meter thick, burnished rock, and fairly glow with strength. Dubrovnik has also always been wealthy. The main street and the squares are smooth marble. The city has the feel of Venice but it's built up the side of a hill so many of the alleyways rise up narrow staircases were people live in the old stone apartments. Many of the staircases are lined with lush green plants which, paired with the stone, gives the place a rich, jungly look I didn't expect.

The world visits Dubvronik. I don't think I've heard so many languages in one city at one time outside of Amsterdam, perhaps. All the European languages, plus Japanese, Chinese, the Americas, other Asian countries; India, maybe Korean. Sitting at the restaurant by the harbor I was surrounded by Spanish, Japanese, Russian, British and the waitress could deal with all but the Japanese. The restaurant was crowded and there was a queue of about a dozen couples waiting to be seated on the patio overlooking the harbor. I went to the host and asked if I could be squeezed in somewhere, and was seated with another single, a Croat in his 60's who owned a yacht and spent 40 days a year charting it, showing people around the islands. What did he do the other 315 days? "Nothing," he said, and smiled. His teeth were very white in his very tan face. "I stay in my apartment here in Dubvronik, and in the winter go to my apartment near Genoa."

The man looked happy, content, despite a lean, wiry frame that would suggest a nervous person. We talked about the coast, his English was good, and so was his French and his voice was easy and relaxed. He said that Albanian's waters were "the best," but there were just no more fish. "Every year for my birthday I take my girl and eat good fish at an excellent restaurant," he told me. "It costs one hundred eighty five Euros," he said, shaking his head. "By the sea, it's fewer expensive to eat meat."

Our food came - both of us had ordered a paella-like seafood pilaf - and thankfully he did not feel the need to chitchat during dinner. I enjoyed the mussels, prawns, and squid in the flavorful rice and listened to the languages being spoken, slapped a mosquito, and had a sip of dry Croatian wine. Finally, my new friend leaned back and lit a cigarette. "San Francisco I think is very nice," he said, and then we said goodnight.

It was 11:00 and the city's restaurants were still busy but subdued, as if the night air muffled the sound of clinking silver and glasses. Hundreds of people were wandering, like me, but it didn't feel crowded. I ducked up an alleyway and walked along the big walls, then came down another alleyway staircase past contented cats sitting on tiny porches, past the open windows of apartment dwellers washing dishes, watching television, a couple playing cards half outside of the doorway to get some air.

I lingered, and then thought of those 600 steps. The city is surprisingly small and I was across it in five minutes, stepping up and up and up to my apartment-zimmer-room, creeping in like a teenage daughter late from a date, not wanting to wake the parents.

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