Dubrovnik, Croatia

As I rode a bus and ferry from the archipelago to the main land of Croatia, I realized that this is where ancient gods must have come to retire. I imagined that Bachus rallied the troops and got the rest of the Roman gods to cross the Adriatic eastward once their religion went out of fashion and the Romans started to follow Jesus. Bachus must he told the others, "The hills of Croatia are secluded, great for growing grapes, drinking our wine and no one will know where we went". Since then, they could have hidden in the hillsides, behind the ruin walls of stone and in the spirit of the people as a well kept secret.

Before dawn I caught a bus from Cortula, watched the sunrise from a ferry and enjoyed the rest of the morning riding south toward Dubrovnik. The local women on the bus seemed unimpressed by the shear white cliffs, clear sky that allowed you see the violet mountains of Montenegro across the deep blue Adriatic Sea, or the castle walls that climbed small mountains like the Great Wall of China.

Inbetween cat naps I saw small villages of white houses with orange roofs snuggling close to the valleys.

Arriving in Dubrovnik I was biraged by locals pitching their rooms for rent in broken Engrish. A few squabled over who got to which tourist first. I agreed to rent a room from a large man with a small car. I put my bags into his car, got in and watched him squeeze himself in. The car was so small for him that he had trouble driving and turning the wheel.

Driving toward the old city, Nikolas introduced himself and explained that his "cousin" would meet me at the city gate, but had to leave church first. After a few switch backs down a steep hill, we were confronted with massive stone walls that drew a curtain of intimidation around the city. I thought to myself, "the gods must sleep there... in those walls".

Nikolas' "cousin", Theresa, met me, started taking me to her house and gave me a breif tour along the way. With her Sundays' best on, Gucci glasses, gold rings, hoop ear rings, and cotton ball poof hair, she would motion with her arm and unenthusiastically say single words to describe what we were looking at: "Tower. Shopping. My house". Simplied, she looked like a hunch back and an index finger that wore dark sun glasses.

She took me to the third floor of her house and pointed out a few things along the way, "Shower. Toilet. Room". I looked around and everything looked legit but the bathroom reeked of mildew and bleach. I thought about phrase I recently learned, "What you loose on swings you gain on the merry-go-round."

I heard there was a surreal hidden bar and beach sandwiched between the ocean and the cities' wall, so I grabbed a towel and put on my swim suit.

Walking inside the city wall along the perimeter I looked for any sign of the mythical bar. Through a stone doorway I heard sleazy jazz playing and peeked through. Once my eyes adjusted to the bright light I could see hand fulls of terraces with umbrella covered tables and tourists drinking. I went up to the bar and asked for a coffee. The bartender, a pale white man that was my age wearing a cowboy hat, a black band shirt, green shorts, tattoos on his arms and legs, long black straw like hair, black and white Converse shoes and a beer in his hand said, "This isea bar. We serve beer." "Oh." I looked at the selection, said, "I'll have what you are having.", and thought, to myself "This would never happen in the states". "You don't want this. This is shit. Do you want a local beer?" "Yeah". He grabbed one, popped the top, said softly, "This one is on me", handed it to me and it tasted just fine. "Where are you from?", he asked. "The US. Seattle." His eyes grew large, he lowered his brow, and groaned, "Oh! You like rock!" He put out his hand, gave me a man-shake, bumped fists and we were friends. He listed off a bunch of bands I have never heard of and was stunned when I shook my head, telling him, "I've not heard of those. That's metal, not rock." He wrote a list of metal bands and had me promise to look them up when I get home. I promised.

"I fucking hate your motherfucking president," he said slowly, to see what side I was on. "Yeah, he's a piece." We bumped fists again and knew we were brothers of different motherlands.

Cresho and I talked for over an hour about George Bush, paradise, god, family, children, his dog, Michael Vick, making fun of customers, hot Croatian women and crude jokes.

***so why are you so pale if you work on the bar beach***

He talked about Seattle, it's music and his love for Pearl Jam. He said they just played in Croatia and that at one point during the show, the band stopped playing and singing. Apparently the audience continued on without the band and sung the next few songs on that album. I shared with him that back home my girlfriend is a gardener for Eddie Vedder and Mike McCready. Cresho was speachless. He again lowered his brow and gave me yet another man-shake coupled with a fist jab. That was most man-love mileage I have ever gotten from a girlfriend story, thanks Kate!

In the time I sat there he gave me a few free drinks, made the other bartender do most of the work and he did as little work as he could. For his one act of work, he went around collecting empties, then as he set the tray of bottles on the bar, he droped everything. Most of them broke and glass was everywhere infront of the bar. He came back over and chatted me up before cleaning it up. "I'm so fucking drunk," he divulged. While he half heartedly cleaned up the peices and people walked around in flip flops, I thought to myself, "This guy is getting fired. Today. Or he owns this place." As it turns out, his family owns the bar.

Cresho realized his limits, told me he was going home to sleep and we made plans to hang out that night.

I slipped into the deep blue water and sat for spell on the craggy rocks in the afternoon sun. Three locals fished with string, hooks and bread. They gave every few catches to two lingering cats. I called to the orange and white one and put out my hand. It came over to see if my hand was the good kind that takes care of others. I rubbed it's rump and scratched it's head while it squermed around.

Just before sunset I scaled the city walls and walked the perimeter of the old city ontop of the walls. Lookouts and turrets sit on the cliffs with confidence despite the precarious heights. Colors were saturated at dusk; blue skies complimneted orange roofs. Aged homes and churchs are built right up to the the walls. I felt like a brief guest in some of their homes. From no particular direction, I heard a man cough. Through a house window I could hear a woman stirring a cup of tea. Was it possible that I was really hearing the gods during their daily routine? Did they know I was so close?

I went back to my room, washed of the salt from my skin, put on my cleanest clothes, grabbed a fresh bottle of red wine, asked a random outdoor restaurant waiter if he could pop the cork and went to meet Cresho. He wasn't at the bar like he said he would be. A waitress said he was at home sleeping and asked me to take my bottle out of the bar. I should have figured.

As the sun set, swallows flew around in groups while eating knats. Their songs sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks at high RPM. I looked up as they swarmed around the church spires back dropped by the gradiated blue sky.

Walking through the half lit walkways and alleys I encountered the patron saint of Dubrovni-kitties. A dozen cats circled the legs of a Croat woman with bread crumbs. "Dolce. Dolce. Dolce," she told the cats. I smiled at her and she at me. The woman, cats and I understood each other even though we spoke different languages.

I found a stone pier to stoll down and a black and white kitten found me. The little bugger climbed my leg and hid at my waste behind my jacket. I sat down and it laid down on my right thigh while crossing it's front legs. As I drank my red wine, the cat continuously sneezed. After sitting there for awhile, the kitten's sibling came over as sat between my legs with it's paws on my right thigh. They were casual and upfront with their affection.

Walking off the pier a familiar face got my attention and asked me to join him for dinner. It turned out we had ridden the same bus from Cortula to Dubrovnik. We got along great and the conversation was natural. We talked about travelling and where each has been and were going. What I thought was his Australian accent was actually South African. He was an ex cop from Cape Town in Croatia on vacation. He told me about a Brittish woman who went missing in Dubrovnik two weeks earlier and his interest in the case. Apparenly there were no leads. I began to imagine a sequel of Lethal Weapon playing out before me. Mel Gibson and Danny Glover could be dressed as waiters and they would work with the South African ex cop to solve the international crime.

I went back to my room and hit the hay. Periodically I awoke to a man snoring. After listening for awhile I realized he wasn't sleeping and snoring in the same house I was staying. It came from outside, through the window. Was he another god? Sleeping in the city walls?

I awoke early for my morning jog. Leaving town I ran in the opposite direction as the children going to elementary and middle school. They walked in groups through the old city with stiff shoulders and fifty yard stares.

While walking to the farmer's market I noticed the old city's dogs on patrol. Individual dogs walked around the town with purpose never stopping to be petted. They would sniff in wavey lines down stone roads, briefly head down an alley and come back to the road. Sometimes they would be running through the streets, diligently, but not after anything. What were they looking for with their unrelenting drive?

After eating breakfast I planned my departure while sipping an espresso in an outdoor cafe.

I went back to my room, packed my bags, dropped my key in a box at the door, grabbed a bus and headed to the ferry ticket office. On the bus I befriended a family of Australians: a father, mother, daughter and son-in-law. In no time, we figured out that we had been on the same intinerary and were headed in the same direction. We even realized that we bought cheese from the same pushy old woman in a farmer's market on an island few days prior. Apparently the old woman tried to have her way with them by crying, pointing to her arm in a sling and asking for more money.

I decided I would join them on the next night's ferry, which meant that I would have to stay another night. We made plans to meet for dinner and split up.

Heading back to town, the blisters on my toes started to hurt. Thoughout the old city there was a buzz of activity with reporters and cameramen. After the morning tourist rush, men push and pull carts through the cobbled streets to restock the old city. No cars can make it onto the town, only as few small motorized vehicles, so it tales a lot of effort to keep the town stocked.

I needed to find a new room, so I stood expectantly at the city gates. Quickly, a Croatian woman in large dark sun glasses and a puffy winter coat, sporting a short, coarse brown hair-do approached to rent me a room. She looked shady like a card shark. Despite the poor first impression, I went with her to see her room. While we walked, she spoke in broken Engrish about "the bandit" repeatedly, trying to communicate that some people are scammers. Though, at one point she tried to increase the price of the room. Finally, when we got to her home, I realized that she was just a nervous sweet heart; her thick skin was defensiveness. The room was great: balcony, free coffee, a large bed, and table and chairs. She shared the home with her sisters.

Before leaving for the night, she tried to make me coffee, sell me a pair of extra large blue jeans and give two pairs of her brother's extra dress socks.

As I left I noticed a photograph of the home with a man covered in a blanket, using a pot as a helmet running from the building. The floor above my room was on fire. Dated 1991, this was taken during the shelling of the old city by the Yugoslav military.

On my way to dinner with the Australians I stopped to buy a few knitted stuffs from old, weathered women wearing scarfs and sweaters while sitting in the shade of churches. One lady had thick eyes glasses and wanted to show each thing she had on display. I had stop her before she unfolded everything on her table. I found a knit cap, tried it on and the lady selling it held up a heart shaped mirror with a large crack in the glass splitting the mirror. Checking my look and making a pose, I asked, "How do I look?" Soft and slowly she replied, "Dobro", which means "good".

I met up with the Australians and they told me that the cameras and reporters that I had seen throughout the day were here to cover the missing persons case. Apparently, that day, authorities had found a body in the bay off the stone pier I was sitting on drinking wine with the kittens in my lap the night before. However, this wasn't the body they were looking for, this one was badly decomposed and had been dead longer than the woman had been missing. There was a silence at table as we thought of our loved ones.

We started off dinner with a full course of beer. Politics seemed to be on the father's mind, so that's what discussed. Through the entire family's questions it was apparent that they had studied our government at some point during their education. They also knew the details of our current politics, electoral college and lack of health care. They knew their world history but they also know our history too. After awhile the daughter started to fade with lack of interest, or perhaps she wanted to discuss something less heated.

We migrated to a cheap but decent restaurant. We ordered and again politics was the topic of discussion. They wanted to know about our elections, Huricane Katrina, our educational system, the war, and why we can't pass legislation. It was clear they knew a lot about the US and wanted to know more. I tried to field as many questions and shared their confusion. I could tell the father was getting frustrated by groping his shaved head. While other others would talk about controversial politics topics he would sink his head and rub it with both hands. Then, when there was a break, he would lean forward, put an elbow on the table, a vein would pop out on his scalp, and with a hand at his temple and a penetrating stare he would say slowly, "It's just insane". He clearly was confused by American politics.

The best points of the conversation came when the father pointed out that he doesn't think there could be a person that represented all of America, it is too varied and extreme. So why do people want to relate with those they elect? He also didn't understand that only around 50% of Americans voted and less than 50% of those votes elected our president. So, 25% of Americans voted in the most power man in the world who affects everone.

After a 5 hour dinner, a personal record, we split up and decided to meet at the beach the next day. I felt apart of their family, their vacationing family.

It was clear as I walked back to my room that the entire world has been watching patiently and quietly. Are we listening to them? Are we listening to those that live around us? In our own country? How long will it be until we live again in seemless harmony with those around us, the animals that rub and inspect our hands and the spirits of our tradition that sleep in our walls?