23 july 2005

Dubrovnic! The old walled city is white stone on every side, unbroken winding walls and staircases that disappear out of sight. There are no cars in the old town, so it feels like a giant fortress. A fortress full of tourists, unfortunately. Unlike Montenegro, which has only been discovered by Serbs and a few Italians, the Croatian coast is crawling with foreigners. Worst of all Dubrovnic is a popular cruiseship stop, so the narrow passages are clogged with guide-following mobs waving around cameras and the wrong currency.

Still. It is beautiful. The water is deep blue green, and it hits the land on rocky cliffs with dark trees and clusters of bleached houses. The light is that fabulous intense Mediterranean light that turns everything golden and casts sharp shadows. The streets smell like saltwater and sweat and calamari.

I am sitting at Caffe Bar Mali Princ - the Little Prince - named after my favorite storybook. I am eating a Greek salad made all wrong, no olives and ricotta cheese, listening to that song that goes, and I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain. But today I am choosing not to miss anything.

Being in a laid-back beach town, even a touristy one, is a kind of relief. Serbia is a lot to handle. Serbia has too much testosterone for me. The people drive loud cars quickly and carelessly. Ticket agents and store clerks are abrupt and dismissive. Middle aged men - often with children in their arms - throw long, uncomfortably suggestive glances.

A number of Serbs told me how friendly Serbs are. And sometimes this was true. But often the warmth felt calculating, and even when it felt genuine it didn't feel reliable.

Being in Croatia and pretending it is any different is really just denial, but I am welcoming what feels so far like a small break from the Balkans.