We had one more gelato before we left Split, but you can hardly hold it against us. The lemon flavor was transcendent: we have talked about it several times since we left, and we have conducted several comparative experiments since. It is a serious business, this ice cream sampling, or at least we have made a habit of pretending that it is.
Zipping down the Croatian coast, we stared out the windows as the scenery whirred past us. North of Bosnia, most of the landscape is truly picturesque: the crags are gnarled and gumdrop purple, and peppered with dark, feathery trees. The fields on both sides of the road are rich with these boulders until about 150km south of Split, when the small clusters of rocks give way to impressive mountains with striations of grape crops. The ridges in the east cut across the sky like the edge of construction paper after a pass with those rifled designer scissors. The juxtaposition of the Croatian ranges augments the beauty of the horizon, which turned thirty shades of blue as encroached on Bosnia.
It was time for a swim around 14:30, so we hopped off the coastal road and parked on the top of a hill that overlooked a solid rock beach. Once again without a plan, we sauntered down the choppy hill, leaping from pathway to amorphous pathway in order to reach the rocks 100m below us.We were assailed on several occasions by these large winged insects that looked quite a lot like clothespins. There were no snakes in the hill, but our suspicion that there may be was still elevated enough to make us test every footstep we took before we committed, as if the ground we were stepping on had the potential to be extremely hot, and we kept having to make sure.
Arriving on the rocks was only the first challenge we faced that day. We tested out the shards of coral that lined the shore, trying to determine whether or not they were stable, first, and moreover, whether it would kill our feet to use these as our diving boards. After toeing the water a bit, and bemoaning how much of a shock jumping off would be, we charged boldly into the fray: and yeah, it was chilly. I recall yelping. The water was crisp and a strong light blue, the way you would imagine glacier water to be. We could see maybe 10m down, so we were sure that we in no danger of hitting the bottom. The danger came from a less conspicuous source: the treacherous sea urchins which punctuate the coast like pindots on an Italian silk tie. After our third dive, Adam swam back to shore and clung to the vertical-pancake rocks, scooping his feet towards the platform just under the wave break. I immediately heard a chirp to my left, and saw Adam scoot backwards, wincing: SHARP, he yelped. Shark? No no, sharp! Agghhh!
Back up on the shore, it looked like we had gotten away safely. Three half-inch spikes jutted out of the sole of his right foot, near his pinky toe. Quickly plucking them out and dispatching them into the Adriatic, Adam brushed his foot and examined again. We discovered another 20 smaller spines buried deeper under the skin, only grapite pencil dots now, after the pressure of walking around on the rocks. Over the next couple of hours, and after our arduous hike back up the hill, we efforted to extract as many of the bastards as possible. About 15 still remain, but the pain has greatly subsided. Adam has been an incredible sport about the whole thing, insisting that he can hike with us all day, and leading the initiative to jump of some of the higher cliffs that we have found in Croatia. His pain has, to some immeasurable extent, been abated by a traditional Croatian remedy for sea urchin wounds: an olive oil wrap for three nights consecutive, which is meant to coax the spines from the skin and to numb the skin sufficiently to bear the pain of walking around.
Onwards we sped, then, towards Bosnia, which was an anti-climactic episode: we had truly hoped to receive a stamp at the border, but our passports were not even inspected. Once again, we are victims of the pain often faced by three modestly dressed middle-class white males. When will the prejudices end? Just around the bend from Bosnia, the crayon box of Dubrovnik is visible straightaway. The coast is decorated with houses and beset with very small motor boats for short-term skips between the twelve hundred islands just to the west. We matriculated into the city and found some provisions for the night, located our hostel, and ascended the stairs to down our welcome drinks. In small chalice-type shot glasses, the man who owns the property served us a honey liquor made with grapes from Croatia. To us, and no one else, we said.
After some warm-up exercises on the hostel patio, we ripped into Old Town. Along for the ride is a lovely French Canadian girl called Stephanie, who has been here for several days and had already received a tour of the city. We sliced through the castle walls which were modest and beautiful, and dotted with bullet holes. The ramparts are entirely lit in a muddled orange light, so the entire castle looks haunted and ancient. But just below them, the Easter parties raged with great fervor, especially at the gay bar and the pub just next to it. The chair cushions here were purple and pink and orange, cow-print and leopard-print, fluffy and welcoming. We had travarice, several more pints, and some pretty intense laughs about our surroundings. The end of the night wrapped up with a compliment about my shorts–or shirt, depending on how you interpret the accent–a lesson about Croation pop music, an interjection about Michelle Obama, a Facebook request, an ironic hi-bye interchange across the way from the parking lot, and a great deal of fatigue. Good morning, Dubrovnik.
12 April 2009. Easter Sunday.
Religion: the enemy of commerce. It turns out that there are no shops open on Easter, which we knew, but that there are no…things…open either. This set a fantastic opportunity to go to Lokrum, the island about 4km from Dubrovnik. Of course, to prepare us for the journey, we felt that one more helping of gelato would probably be a wise investment. Lemon, please.
A 40kn boatride later, we rolled into the docks in front of Lokrum’s park, and were greeted by some shrill coos from the peacocks housed there. The F.K.K. awaited us, so we veered north around the island and found ourselves on a rude beach made of enormous boulders and canyons. Water sucked into the alleys between the sunning spots, spraying our feet and misting the air. We skipped the beach. Around the bend and totally secluded, we found a natural cove with the clearest water I have ever known. It was a 50 meter expanse made of blue marbles, at least 30m deep and pummeled by waves. Cliff diving, ladies and gentlemen.
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