Travel Musings

Actually

I'm perched at the bar at Uchi in Austin, TX, savoring my glass of Veuve, and waiting for my friend to arrive. I check my (personal) e-mail through my Blackberry to pass the time.

Angie's List is "just checking in" (for the third time in as many weeks). Screw you, Angie, I already pay you five bucks a month: stop spamming me. My Serious Eats daily e-newsletter awaits me. Goody, love Serious Eats. And then there's this reply from Anja, the woman who is renting an apartment in Dubrovnik to me next month.

Actually, writes Anja, I don't think you are coming afterall, therefore I am canceling your reservation.

WTF, Anja? Some background: I confirmed my reservation with Anja recently, and she offered to arrange a driver for me from the airport to her apartment (for a fee). I responded that I appreciate her offer, but I'll just take a bus, and could she please provide the name of the nearest stop. I'm actually becoming a little less cheap as middle-age creeps over the horizon: it's not that I won't pay for a driver: booking a ride with a stranger is potentially, although remotely, unsafe. Anja responds that their place is not on the bus route: her husband will pick me up from the airport. I thank her once more for her generous offer and decline it, stating that I don't want to impose and that I can take a taxi. The truth is, I don't know this guy; I don't even know that Anja is a legit Anja. "She" could be anyone.

Did I commit some sort of grievous Croatian faux pas by declining her offer?? Hey, wait a minute... I am the wronged party here, and I furiously thumb-punch my Blackberry keys.

Actually, Anja, I AM coming to Dubrovnik...and I explain the actual reason for declining the ride.

My Husband

E-mail from Anja. She has reinstated my reservation at her apartment. And, she reveals the actual reason for canceling my reservation: she is afraid that if I take a taxi the driver will tell me that her apartment is a pit and talk me into renting from someone else. Apparently competition between renters in Croatia is brutal.

Anja suggests a solution: she will pick me up from the airport. Which is a hospitable gesture, but she also inserts a slight chide into her reply: By the way, my husband is over 60 years old.

Fine, but...How am I suppose to know that? And anyway, so is Phil Spector.

I thank her, accept her offer, and let her know that I look forward to meeting her.

Some Movie References

The traffic to O'Hare, as always on a Friday afternoon, is insane: I arrive somewhat frazzled. The two-year-old terror in the Cubs shirt, whose wailing reverberates throughout the departure hall, fails to calm me. The agent confirms my window seat. *"Just don't seat me anywhere near IT," I deadpan, gesturing with my chin over my shoulder towards Damien. It's a joke: he probably isn't even on my flight.

Passing time at the gate, I survey my fellow passengers and sight a rare Sammy Hagar mullet: I sneak up on my prey from behind and snap a furtive shot. Will mullets be this trip's theme? I've discovered, through writing retrospectively about my travels, that a theme always seems to emerge. Now aware of the phenomenon, I try to anticipate the storyline awaiting me.

And as I admire the saved image on my digital camera, a crescendo of inhuman screams of bitter protest pierce my thoughts. I look around me to determine the source of this pain. And there's Rosemary, and Rosemary's toddler (who is not only hollering like a banshee, but punching her in the face), approaching the gate.

HOLY CRAP. **That mothereffing toddler is on this mothereffing plane!

*You guessed it: Foreshadowing in Everyday Life

**Toddlers on a Plane, New Line Cinema, 2006

My Life. My Nightmare.

Grrr. The Bad Seed, still flailing and wailing, kicking and screaming, is "seated" two rows back, one row over. It could be worse, I guess: he could be directly behind me. My co-passengers and I beam beseeching looks of desperation at our flight attendants to no avail: they refuse to look us in the eyes, directing their gazes to the nothingness a good foot above our heads.

We lift off, the wheels retract with a mechanical groan, and what a rush. I calculate that my take-offs number into four figures, yet I doubt that I'll ever lose the thrill of knowing that I'm leaving X (Chicago, these days), and in Y number of hours (eight today) I will arrive magically at point Z (Vienna, this flight).

We reach cruising altitude, which prompts some seat-shifting. To my abject horror, Rosemary and her toddler end up in the seat directly behind me. He's still in a state of conniption and his random kicks into my seat back send me flying in all directions.

An eternity passes and the flight attendant arrives. "Would you like a drink?" she asks. "A big one," I answer. She obligingly supplies me with a full glass, a back-up bottle, and an empathic shrug. I down my Ambien and choose my 80's Alternative playlist on my Ipod. I don't know who passes out first: Damien or I.

Anyway, I awake as we touch-down in Vienna.

Anja

The doors slide apart, and there stands Anja, front and center, proudly brandishing a large sign bearing my name. Spelled correctly, even. No one in the U.S. spells my name correctly. What a nice way to arrive at unfamiliar surroundings.

Anja is a firecracker! She whisks away my monster suitcase, Bagzillo, (he's bigger than she is: I could easily fit her inside him -- not that I'd want to) as I exchange currency. Her neighbor drives us to Apartment Panorama.

Sweet. I love my little apartment. The view from the balcony is spectacular; I have a kitchen, bathroom (with iron and ironing board: I'm an obsessive ironer), bedroom, and living room (with satellite tv); and bright light from windows and skylights floods the space. A steal at only $100 a night. Energetic Anja sweeps through the apartment, orienting me to this and that. And then she invites me to her garden for a drink.

I'm beat. Drained. Hurting, even. I crave, crave, crave a nap. But I can't refuse a drink with Anja, considering our strained history... Anja and I sit across from one another in her lovely garden overlooking Dubronik, a sweating bottle of hearty local wine between us. Eventually her friend from Germany joins us, we polish off the bottle, and my hostess opens another. Help. She serves us anchovies in oil with bread, and they're incredible: American anchovies be damned. Anja drags out her oversized photo album and shares her trip to the United States with me in halting English: we've been to several of the same places and we debate the pros and cons. I love this. Travel-weary or not, I'm enjoying myself: spontaneous afternoon picnics overlooking the Adriatic with complete strangers and God-knows-what-percentage-of-alcohol-by-volume-wine is not usually a part of my Saturday routine. Moments like this make for memorable trips.

Anja tells me all about her family: she and her husband (Alex) hail from Germany and they have two grown children. She speaks fondly, frequently, of Alex. "Mein husband speaks very good English..."

I finally make my exit, arms full: Anja, the congenial hostess, has stocked me with the remainder of the second bottle of wine, milk for my coffee tomorrow, fresh pastries, and her homemade bitter orange marmalade. She's very sweet.

I stumble upstairs to my crib, marveling over the disparity between Anja over e-mail and Anja over a picnic table. And then it clicks. Actual, gracious Anja says "mein husband". E-mail Anja writes "my husband". I haven't been corresponding with Anja: I've been corresponding with Alex. Alex canceled my room. 

Stradun, Old City

WHERE AM I?!?

I emerge from a deep, dark coma not hardly knowing my name, let alone the city, country, continent...Figments of the afternoon gradually unfold. Anja. Wine. Anchovies. Wine. Garden. Wine.

A hot shower hits the spot: I'm beginning to feel human again. I exit the apartment, turn right, and descend many, many steps to Pile Gate, one of the main entrances to the Old City, a Unesco World Heritage Site. Very convenient. Pile Gate spills out onto the Stradun, the Broadway of Dubrovnik. The stone walk and buildings are charming, but they'd be more charming if they weren't overrun with tourists. Being a traveler, and not a tourist, I can say that: I'm not part of the problem.

I dine outside at Poliskar (recommended by at least one travel blogger and Time Out Dubrovnik) and order my Old Standby for when I'm in dire need of food and can't take any chances: pizza. Poliskar pizza is not life-changing pizza, but it's good enough, and plenty of people pass by for my viewing pleasure.

Still slightly out-of-it, I trod the steps (all 204 damn one of them) back to Apartment Panorama and die for the second time today.

Alex

I feel like a million -- er -- *Kuna. Nine and a half hours of sleep will do that.

I knock on Anja's door: I need to pick-up some form that shows that she has registered me with a local travel agency. Hey, you're not Anja. Alex, my longlost penpal, answers. The moment is awkward, at best: I don't fully understand this paperwork and he seems unfamiliar with it at first. Then it registers, and he retreats into his home -- which I had visited just yesterday -- leaving the door open behind him. Am I supposed to follow him? Stand here? I don't know the Croatian protocol. He returns with the document and we exchange uncomfortable farewells.

I scamper down The Steps to Pile Gate, and, just inside to the left, join the line to "walk the walls" of the Old City: I read somewhere that they're best explored before 1:00, prior to the swarm of cruise ship hordes. Great, more steps. I'm the youngster in this crowd, although I'm huffing away right there with the rest of them: Pathetic.

The wall, which encircles the Old City, is a must-see: one's reward for clambering to the top is a 360 degree view of the town. My photo captures a view of the Old City and the isle of Lokrum.

*$200,000 USD: Divide prices by five to compute the exchange (from USD).

COLD DRINKS

Time Out Dubrovnik touts the hole-in-the-wall bar Buza II, a literal hole in the wall of the Old City overlooking the Adriatic.  The laid-back nook slips beneath the average tourist's radar, rendering it all that much more attractive to me. And the owners seem fine with that: as far as I can tell, their marketing extends to a humble sign marked COLD DRINKS in an obscure alley.

I would never have happened upon Buza II by chance: I intentionally sought it out, treading far south into residential territory and following the Old City wall eastward to COLD DRINKS.

Buza II just might be heaven. I slouch deep into a beach chair, surrounded by fellow travelscenti, sip a tap Ozujsko (the superior Croatian beer), listen to Coldplay, and breathe in the salty sea air. I should return at sunset.

I ask my server (the only server) for directions to Buza I: he instructs me to exit Buza II, turn right, stick to the right, and look for the unmarked door.

I follow his instructions, and not three minutes later nearly pass right by the most innocuous doorway (mysteriously labeled 8-20). I would have never found this place on my own.

Compared to Buza I, Buza II was positively stuffy: the dress code here at Buza I is bikini 'n Speedo. Swimmers, snorkelers, and sun worshippers dot the rocky outcrops below. I pull-up two chairs (one for me and one for my feet), slump down, sip a Karlovacko beer (the inferior Croatian beer), and surrender myself to the sun. I could get used to this lifestyle.

Lokrum

I hop the ferry from the Old City docks to Lokrum, a fifteen-minute, $7 ride. I stop at the casual, outdoor restaurant near the docks and order a sandwich. One bite into it and a peacock boldly joins me. Animals know a sucker when they see one (beasts can never go wrong appealing to single, American chicks approaching middle-age). I hand him his half.

Lokrum reminds me of Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia: visitors are free to wander (or camp, or swim) unaccosted, and peacocks (in Cumberland's case: armadillos and horses) roam wild.

My post-prandial hike takes me through a botanical garden, then I head towards the center of the island. More goddamn steps. An abandoned lookout and a breathtaking view of the Dalmatian coast, including the Dubrovnik Old City, awaits me at the summit. I descend the opposite side and follow a trail along the isle's perimeter, encountering the occasional sunbather, nudist, or bookreader as I go. I emerge into a public area complete with formal restaurant, active soccerfield, and black, bedrock "beaches".

Dubrovnik. Good God, 204 (that's way more than a hundred) steps separate me from a hot shower. 1/204th, 1/102nd, 3/sixty-somethingth, 4/fifty-onest, 5/204th, 6/can't do the math, 7/swans a-swimming. Sometimes if I concentrate on fractions I forget pain, but my trick is not working so good this time.

204/204th...Reduce...I have climbed 100% of the steps! I beeline it to Panorama, strip off my grundgy clothing, and rush the shower. Cold water...Cold water...Cold water...Crap. Crap! Time to visit Alex.

She's a Man-Hater

Alex greets me not unlike how Jerry Seinfeld greets Newman. "Hell-ooo, AL-ex," I reply. Right back atcha. I explain my predicament.

Alex responds that he can look into the problem, but he'll need to enter my apartment...just the two of us... ALONE. Oh, for eff's sake, he thinks I'm afraid of/hate men because I refused that stupid ride. "Yes, Alex. That's fine, Alex."

He delivers a patronizing lecture on the three switches located outside my bathroom: #1 (it bears a picture of a vibrator -- at least that's what it looks like to me) is for electricity, and I must Always Keep It Off. #2 is for the hot water heater. I need to Flip That Up. #3 is for the heated towel bar. I need to Leave That Off. And then he explains to me how the hair dryer works.

You mean it dries hair and everything? Golly! That's neat!

Post-shower: back in the Old City. Dining at Wanda (Prijecko Street 8) tonight because Time Out swears that it rises above the proliferation of ubiquitous, interchangeable, tourist-trap joints here in town. I order the mussels, and they're good, but the portion is on the stingy side.

A foursome from England sits across from me. Great. I'll eavesdrop upon their conversation.

Soon after placing their orders, the appointed trip bookkeeper whips out his trusty calculator and for the next hour reviews who paid what, who owes how much. Calculators at the table: that's right up there, faux-pas-wise, with smacking, nose-blowing, and talking with your mouth full. People wonder how I can bear to travel alone: as I observe this table, I wonder how people can stand to travel in groups.

That's the Dubrovnik downer that I've struggled to place my finger upon (I just dangled something, grammatically, I think): the people-watching is so-so. In Argentina I revel in the pretty people, in France I admire the womens' fashion sense, in Italy I marvel over the chaotic traffic, and in Hispanic countries I envy the effusive, demonstrative interactions between family and friends. Here, not so much. The English tourists are, well... English tourists. The German geriatrics lack humor, and the Croats aren't the wild n' crazy Eastern Europeans Steve Martin portrayed them to be on SNL. Not that I'm a ton of fun to watch, either.

I pay the bill (20 bucks: seems like everything in Croatia is 20 bucks) and tackle the Steps of Sore Muscles for the final time today.