Here we sit at the eastern end of the Island of Hvar, in the Adriatic, waiting for the next ferry. Despite arriving two hours early for the 1 p.m. ferry, our bus was not allowed to load. Basically we got bumped for a group of private cars with greater clout. You might compare it to someone without frequent-flyer miles falling down the waitlist for standby.
The extra wait isn’t long—just two hours. Everyone has been relaxed about it, using the time to explore the tiny port or absorb the poetry of the whitecaps, foaming beneath a sky draped in clouds and fog. The colors before our eyes defy description: streaks of angry charcoal, hazy grey, and milky blue clouds blend into brown-pebbled beaches and olive trees boasting every shade of green, depending on how the light hits their wispy branches.
Our feisty Slovenian travel director Thamila, a petite gal, practically tackled the brawny pier workers to get them to load our bus. After all, we’d done everything right, arriving early, positioning ourselves properly, and showing our reservation made months ago. We should have been one of the first vehicles to load. But occasionally, even in stylish new Croatia, the ways of Tito’s Communism survive. The pier guys beckoned the other cars to bypass us, shrugging their shoulders as they filled up our space.
To be clear, there has been almost no waiting on this tour. The only other occasion was the fault of German Chancellor Angela Merkel. It was our second day in Zagreb and we were staying in the historic Esplanade, the same luxury hotel where she would dine following a busy day of political activity. Visits to the hotel by such dignitaries are not unusual in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia. Still, there was quite a buzz.
From my room, I had perfect views of the choreography as security prepared for Merkel’s arrival. Barricades gradually cut off both sides of the street. Groups of handsome security guards, clad in elegantly cut suits, positioned themselves along both sides of the street. Local police filled in, armed to the gills. Eventually the first of three motorcades arrived, each longer and more impressive than the one before. Finally, Merkel’s car pulled in, sporting a discrete German flag to distinguish her limousine.
Out she stepped, no-nonsense, briskly entering the lobby where others in our group had been detained along the side alcoves for a good thirty minutes. I suspect they were told “You can either return to your room, madam, or wait until Frau Merkel has passed.” Of course they waited, cameras out. And they got fabulous shots of Germany’s beleaguered star politician as she entered, turning sharply down the plush corridor towards the banquet.
My waiting spot for the next ferry is not quite as plush as the Esplanade Hotel. It’s the terrace of a ramshackle seaside cafe, with lime-green and orange plastic chairs (rather nice ones, though). I listen to the sound of the sea smashing against the black boulders that line the coast 50 feet away. Growing above these boulders is a scattering of patient Roman pines and frilly trees called tamaritas that dance in the wind, marking the passing of time measurable in millenia.
Meanwhile, we’re having fun. Another excuse for coffee and pastries! (Wait, we just finished a huge lunch of calamari so fresh, it seemed ready to swim out to sea!) A few folks decide to stretch out on the comfy seats of our huge Mercedes bus. Why not take a siesta while stopped? Truth be told, it’s hard to nap driving along the coastal roads of the Adriatic. Some spots are just seven meters wide, with hairpin turns so extreme I won’t look down.
In fact, Thamila did a marvelous thing right before one of these extreme turns. She had been telling us about Marco Polo who, in fact, was born on the nearby island of Korčula, then part of the Venetian empire. Consequently some sources misidentify him as having Italian birth. Seamlessly she continued her narrative. “Now look to the left, please. Do you see the trees above that hill? Right there, the three big trees high up, on left?” We all looked, expecting her to say something like, “That’s exactly where Marco Polo stood in whatever-year when he first looked out to sea and decided to become an explorer.” We kept staring, reverently, expectantly. After a 20-second pause, she said, “Well, there’s really nothing to see up there, but we’re past that curve now. That one, in particular, tends to scare Americans.” Brilliant!
So our glorious tour of the Adriatic Coast will go on. The Jugo wind that always brings storms promises more rain in the last days of our tour. But our group is tour-hardy and will take it in stride. How can you be thrown by rain in Dubrovnik where massive walls and stone buildings have endured not just five centuries of storms, but wars, fires, and earthquakes (the most devastating in 1667, after which they simply rebuilt everything).
The most recent disaster occurred just moments ago, historically speaking: the horrific shelling of Dubrovnik during the Homeland War of the 1990s. The stone walls absorbed direct hits. Most of the stone buildings held up, although about 80% of the roofs collapsed either immediately or as a consequence of fire. That’s why, surveying the city from the vantage point of the walls, you see mostly red-tiled roofs, the new color that replaced the sun-washed tiles of brown-gold that characterized pre-war Dubrovnik.
Invasion, war, earthquake, fire: that’s the story of almost everything along the Adriatic. Whatever it is, you try to survive, rebuild, and go forward. Under virtually every structure lie foundations built during the Roman Empire. And underneath those, plenty of artifacts remain from the Ancient Greeks who settled there. When homeowners discover these treasures while renovating or adding gardens and terraces, they often keep mum. There is too much risk that a significant find could result in losing one’s property due to the cultural importance of the discovery.
The ferry is coming, slowly. Soon we’ll be loading. There’s not much choice. Our bus is blocking the entire entry way and our driver Miro will refuse to move until we are safely onboard. Soon, other parties from the line of cars and buses not making the ferry will fill the yellow and green chairs on this terrace and absorb themselves in the view.
After reaching the mainland, we’ll drive 90 minutes until we cross the border of Bosnia-Herzegovina and enter the short stretch of 13 kilometers of coastal access belonging to that war-torn country. It’s the only sea access Bosnia-Herzegovina presently has, laid out by the Dayton Accords that ended the Homeland War. Nobody really thinks that, 50 or 100 years from now, the borders of today’s “former Yugoslavia” will still be drawn as we see them now. Another war could easily break out, despite the false sheen of security imposed by organizations like the EU or Schengen Pact. After all, the horrors of the Homeland War landed in our television news and headlines, but how much really was done to stop the slaughters and destruction? For the answer to that, come and talk to people here. Once the initial gestures of politeness pass, you’ll hear a different story.
But that is how war goes, isn’t it? That is how it always has been, especially in beautiful, desirable lands like today’s Croatia. Borders are drawn in back rooms, perhaps with the best intentions. Agreements are signed with glorious ceremony. But behind the scenes, blood continues to drip. New genocides are planned. Lands and peoples will again be decimated. And, after enough time passes, tourism will resume—at least the local people hope and pray it resumes, since so much of their economy depends on it in places like Croatia. Tourism, olives, grapes, and fishing. In that order.
So what do we take home from this visit? Dazzling views, a head stuffed full of history new to many among us. The smell of the sea. The taste of fresh olive oil. And the hope that what has been so painfully experienced here might bring a peace that lasts for the next half-century or longer. But if not, the walls of Dubrovnik are ready to withstand, yet again.
