The soul of Dubrovnik is discovered with every step one takes within King’s Landing. It wafts out of down-to-earth kitchens preparing grilled fish, squid and Hvar isle mussels for evening tummy rumblers. It is the pride that adds a rich timbre to the maître D’s presentation of the gastronomic delights on tonight’s menu that comes from the belly of his restaurant.
On high grounds along the city walls, one throws back one’s head and breathes in the briny green scent of the Adriatic Sea, eyes closed. Pivot back to the old city, open the eyes again and one catches light twinkling off the roofs of ancient lookout points. The 21st century wanderer solemnly curates centuries of art evident in the hands of a skilled weaver, a craftswoman from a long line of artisans, diligently transforming cotton, spun silk and wool into elegant folk masterpieces in Croatia’s signature colours – blue, yellow, red – and myriad more, colours that adorn the breast of local people. Amalia is her name, and she trades her craft on the western side of the city wall. Yet, the warmth in her open smile and her easy banter betrays a resigned sadness. She is one of the very last, she says. The young are not keen on the craft. In the ten or so years to come, she does not know if her people’s art will endure. I assure her that there will be enough men and women who will keep such communal treasure alive, be it Croatians or people from abroad. And to prove that, I bought a few pieces of embroidery myself.
One receives candid smiles from Croatians as forms of greetings, their shops revealing anything from relics, stories of the 1990s war, kevapcici, women’s intimate apparel to frozen yogurt – gems to be discovered along the hidden alleys away from the Stradun, the artery connecting the streets of the Old City. Peering into one such ‘hole in the wall’, one catches a glimpse of an antique men’s hair salon, straight out of Tito’s Yugoslavia. You can almost smell the burgundy leather and hear the creaking of those barber chairs. The wooden mirrors lovingly shone, the only yellowed edges and occasional chips betraying their age. I wonder how many men have peered into them, seated opposite, watching their reflections morph from the firmness of youth and prime, into the hardy, time-weathered present. Ardent concentration evident on the wrinkled faces of four elderly men, the barber and his age-old friends, who gather every other night to watch football on a technicolor box from the 1970s.
Saturday enters a crescendo, ironically in a quiet corner bordering the sea. As I stood there listening intently, within the door and glass-paneled windows of an ancient men’s club Domenica, the soar of tenors and basses reliving folk strains seems to be the icing on the cake that tops this night. But wait. Spotted. A random trail of children, benevolent fathers and popcorn. I follow them past a string of King’s Landing columns and into the unlikely cinema entrance hall. One discovers the Slobodna Kino showing The Penguins of Madagascar and The Hobbit. Ah! The lady at the ticket counter says “30 kunas each, but you come back 5 minutes before show to buy, ok?” – Yes, of course. It’s no problem. And just like that, a simple pleasure to end a Saturday in Dubrovnik.