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Balkans Diary: Ring Them Bells, We’re in Dubrovnik!
We’re back from two weeks in Eastern Europe, visiting five
countries, most of which used to be Yugoslavia. To follow along, you need
a spanking brand new map.
We started in Zagreb, Croatia, meeting thirty other tour
members. Day One, a tall gray-haired fella saw Bonnie’s Provincetown
sweatshirt, pointed at the writing and said, “That’s where all the
queers go.”
Toto, we’re not in Rehoboth anymore. I quickly turned away.
My verbally reaming the guy a new orifice would not be constructive.
Bonnie handled it beautifully.
“I know,” she said, smiling, “I’m one and that’s
why I go there.” She
proceeded to tell him and his stunned wife our life story.
We shook off the insult (I admit it, it upset me) as there
was much to see in Zagreb. My first note home, from a back street internet
café tells it well:
Here in Zagreb (and that was hard to write as the Z is where
the Y should be on this computer keyboard). Fabulous old city
(had to erase a z there) with Austrian-Hungarian architecture, bronze
statues, squares, parks, open markets with meat, cheese and vegetable
vendors, lots of outdoor dining, great beer, friendlz (damn) people. We
are in a glorious old hotel, where the Orient Express used to stop.
Streetcars everywhere, zoung (ugh) people in great clothes, and perfect
weather. Mostlz (shit) the buildings are 19th centurz (you know what I
mean).
Off to cocktails on a terrace overlooking the main square and
a Schnitzel dinner. Pivo! (thats the onlz word I know in Croatian and it
means beer.) Faz...er…Fay
Travelers Tip: Meals last two and half hours so you just
relax and go with the slow flow. Zagreb is a laid-back but up and coming
city.
Next stop Sarajevo in Bosnia and Herzegovina (one country,
two names). I knew it as a glorious Olympic City, ruined by the 1991-1995
war. The Eastern Orthodox Serbs fought the Roman Catholic CroATs (just
some pronunciation help there), and then everybody turned on the Muslims.
Ostensibly it’s all over.
Armed guards boarded our bus to check passports at the
border. We then drove past horribly pock-marked buildings, abandoned homes
without roofs and miles of rubble. The conflict ended a dozen years ago
and much is still a mess. In the City, amid burned out high-rises (still)
there are great signs of revival, but not enough to keep you from shaking
your head and despairing over f-ing religious wars.
We stood on the street corner where, if we’d been paying
attention in 8th grade, we learned that Archduke Ferdinand was shot to
start World War I. We saw buildings from the 1400s, the Turkish Bazaar,
beautiful mosques, and dined on what looked to be a Sarajevian Nic-o-Boli.
and Coke, which, along with Johnny Walker, is universal.
Sarajevo was fascinating, with many lovely sights, but it
made us sad.
Meanwhile, Bonnie’s grey-haired crony Dave, kept trying to
be friends, introducing us to other folks on the tour, trying to make up
for his opening gaffe. We began to feel like his pet lesbians.
Next our bus headed to Mostar, the city known for its
magnificent 16th century stone bridge. The bridge was bombed to bits in
the war, but the government rebuilt it exactly as it was. Great photo ops.
Lots of mosques. And a monument to a synagogue no longer in existence.
Croatia had Nazis during the 1940s, too.
As we boarded the bus to exit Bosnia, Dave and his wife made
sure to sit behind their new homosexual buddies.
We drove back into Croatia and the city of Dubrovnik,
which means, for all you show queens, a quick chorus of Liza’s “Ring
Them Bells”…like Liza, we found the Balkans a ball. Dubrovnik is a
medieval walled city, high above the Adriatic, with breathtaking scenery,
white buildings and red tile roofs, pounding surf, people still living
within the walled area and another contemporary city bustling just over
the drawbridge outside.
Within old Dubrovnik we saw elegant churches, statues,
historic public buildings, coffee houses, restaurants and, well, of
course, Polo, Benetton, etc. the place throbbed with tourists, residents
and energy. Incredible seafood, too.
Quiz: Name a resort city with fabulous restaurants,
skyrocketing real estate prices, which has lost its in-town hardware store
and pharmacy and is in danger of becoming a city of T-shirt shops,
investors and tourists, with few full-time residents? Ta-da, not Reho but
Dubrov-nik...our guide told us their sad, familiar tale. No Wal-Mart yet,
but its probably on the way.
Dubrovnik was shelled mercilessly in the 1990s but much has
been repaired, re-sculpted and renovated... simply beautiful.
Within the first week we got to know a wonderful group
of Aussie travelers on our tour, taking delight in bashing George Bush
together, comparing countries, tax codes and healthcare. After Croatia,
our Australian friends would be off to a hiking vacation—very fit, those
Aussies. We also met two lovely Canadian women who, we were happy to hear,
really appreciate their government-run “socialized” medical system.
Next up, a day trip to the Republic of Montenegro, the
world’s newest country (unless one cropped up last night in Africa),
having seceded from Bosnia only recently.
There, we toured the Bay of Kotor, a fjord with a deep bay
surrounded by almost vertical granite mountain walls—a stunning sight.
So too, was the walled city of Kotor. Historic buildings, skinny streets,
outdoor dining, great pizza.
Traveling to the gorgeous seaside town of Split (back in
Croatia again) we came face to face with the Communist legacy. Young
people, in designer clothes and glasses all seemed hip to the art of
business and tourism, welcoming us and being helpful. Sadly, their commie
era elders haven’t adapted. The perfectly located hotel had utilitarian,
politburo ambiance and a surly staff grunting at requests, serving
expensive cocktails and resenting having to hand over one ice cube and a
thimble of liquor. The dinner entrée seemed made of the shoe leather
Nikita Khruschev used in the 1950s to bang on the table at the U.N.
But we had a great balcony to see the sea. Turned out we were
directly over the Petrol station and woke up smelling like diesel
(dykes?).
But steps away, inside the walled city of Split we saw
amazing Roman ruins, and spent time overlooking the sea, sailboats, cruise
ships and georgeous mountains. My gaydar was down or else there just
weren’t any discernible lesbians in Croatia.
Driving North on the coast that sound we heard was the
dollar falling again against the Euro. It sunk to an historic low for the
third day running but luckily we were still on Croatian kunas.
I’m glad our accountant Larry was along, since in addition
to computer keyboards transposing Y & Z, Croatian money transposes our
decimal points and commas. 22,000 equals twenty two kunas (dollars) and
22.000 is something else entirely, leaving terrible room for souvenir
purchase blunders.
Our next two stops were Plitvice National Park, with dozens
of cascading waterfalls and 16 sparklingly clear lakes and the upscale
resort of Opatija on the Adriatic... heaven on earth....eating exquisite
seafood and sipping wine along the sea. We rolled up our pants and walked
into the Adriatic to our knees.
Then came Lake Bled, at the foot of the Alps, with a castle
high above the lake. Postcard material. Our Aussie friends walked around
the lake one morning. “How long did it take?” we asked. Hearing they
made it in an hour, Bonnie and I set off. By the time we made it halfway
around, we remembered how fit those damn Aussies were. Two and a half
hours later we dragged our sorry asses back to the hotel.
I wouldn’t say the food in that part of Croatia was awful,
but either you had pork Schnitzel and boiled potatoes or pork Schnitzel
and boiled potatoes. Excellent
pivo, though.
By this time, we’d been in so many hotels, I got up in the
middle of the night, feeling my way to the bathroom and couldn’t find
the commode. It was like playing pin the tail on the donkey only it was
put the tail on the toilet. I think I peed in the bidet.
Ah, Venice. A water taxi took our group to our hotel on the
Grand Canal. Venice is much more of a living city than I imagined, with
narrow pedestrian streets and boat-filled canals. I’d always pictured
the romantic classical buildings and crooning gondoliers. I didn’t
picture the advertising posters, motor boats carrying linens, beer and
cucumbers and the sheer number of people— residents and tourists—on
the streets. Venice is famously sinking and Larry suggested it was from
the volume of tourists.
We toured the hot spots and in St. Marks Square Bonnie paid
one Euro (by this time costing us $1.41) for pigeon food so they could
flock all over her. I was nauseous. As I tried to take her picture a sharp
clawed bird landed on my scalp. I shrieked, channeling Tippi Hedren in
Hitchcock’s The Birds.
Bonnie celebrated her birthday in Venice, where we dined
along the Grand Canal, toasted with Prosecci (sparking wine) and dined
fabulously for a pretty Euro. Everything was magical.
Even the rest of the folks on the tour, including Dave of
“Queers go there” fame celebrated with Bonnie and some even
gave her small birthday presents, including a Venetian glass letter
opener, a rose, sinful candy and other lovely gestures.
On our last night, we dined as a group, sitting with our
friends from Down Under and the wonderful Canadian women we met, toasting
to new friends and a splendid two weeks.
Leaving dinner, Bonnie stopped big Dave, saying she hoped
that the Q word was banished from his vocabulary. He thanked her for not
getting in his face about it and helping him not to be embarrassed. In
fact, he thanked her for saving the trip for him after his big goof. They
bonded.
Our water taxi came early and we were off, racing through
Venice Bay to the airport.
When my carry-on went through airport security I heard
jabbering in animated English/Italian. A guard pulled me aside and I heard
the word “knife.” Uh-oh …visions of a Venetian prison cell. They
searched me and then my bag. Aha! The damn Venetian letter opener. After much negotiation, Bonnie agreed to put the letter
opener in her carry-on and walk back to check it.
So home we came. We adored the trip. But I’m having
something other than schnitzel tonight. And I’m glad to have my own my
computer back. I was beginning to think of myself as Faz. But I could use
a nice cold pivo.
Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth
Beach Memoir and Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach. Contact her
at www.fayjacobs.com.
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