The name “Dubrovnik” comes from the Croatian word “dubrava,” meaning “oak forest.” There aren’t many oaks around anymore, though. Big bending pine hulks heavy with cones are what the modern visitor will find for big trees on the rocky slopes of Dubrovnik nowadays. As one of the most significant seaports in history, those oak trees were long ago turned into ships to serve the trade legacy that has made Dubrovnik a city of enduring story and significance. An “oak forest” city. An “oak forest” turned “stone fortress.”
This city is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen from a purely aesthetic perspective. It’s pretty without being sterile. It’s powerful without being domineering. It’s cool but you are invited to the party- geeky tourists, like me, included. Me and the rest of the free-traveling, free-geeking world. And like most cool cities these days, the true natives have up and left, realising the gold mine their family home has become as accommodation for all the geeky and fashionable droves. Where once there would have been 7,000 residents, now only 800 true inhabitants remain in the Old Town. I guess we’re part of the problem. Then again, us travelers leave a lot of wealth in our wake. And, not too long ago, this place had some recovery to do.
The Old Town of Dubrovnik is a UNESCO World Heritage site, which is an international designation meaning its historical significance is so great that it does not belong to just this country but to all of humanity. The cultural value is deemed so important that it ought to be the responsibility of everyone to protect it – mostly from ourselves… silly, greedy creatures that we are.
The walls are the most obvious feature that wins the city its status. Built mostly between the 13th and 17th centuries, their capability and weight are unmissable. From the outside, the smooth, curving walls seem to grow directly out of the rugged limestone cliffs, like a clean strip of freakish machine-like lichen. This marriage of contrasting stone is man vs nature in a long-held truce of elegance and might.
As you enter the city from the gates, the walls close behind you, encircling you in an organised maze of medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque architecture that is only slightly undermined by the overgrowth of tourist wares but completely overrun by the tourists themselves, especially in July. Inside, you find that everything around you is a creamy grey- the heavy titan walls, the cobblestone pathways shined slippery by footfalls, the carved fountain faces streaming deliciously drinkable water, and the steep steps up to the two-hour ring-walk at the top of the wall. (It’s 40 Euros a pop to walk that strip of civilisation these days).
The unicolour surroundings give a sense of wholeness to the entire Old Town space. From the broad promenades that seemed to have anticipated present-day car sizes to the gridwork labyrinth of alley’s where an average adult arm-span could almost graze the stone on either side. It’s all a greyish cream. The walls, the buildings, the streets, the drain passages, the sidewalks, the fountains, the stoops of homes- rough, polished, etched in patterns, curved to purpose. There are animals fantastical and real, faces comical and dramatic. There are saints, cherubs, heroes and all sorts of elaborately-topped pillars exhumed from the coarse limestone rock. It’s a city of creamy grey. And all of this sun-bleached geo-beauty is capped by classic, orange-tiled rooftops and half-surrounded by the blazingly blue waters of the Adriatic Sea.
Ah, the sea. This sea. Laying eyes on this spell-casting spectrum of blue is like taking a deep breath from the soul. It’s so beautiful here that I feel like I’ve stolen something. Not something anyone will miss. But still, when my brain beholds these waters from the high vistas of our walks, I feel like I’m in possession of something that isn’t mine, something I haven’t earned, something I might get in trouble for trying to seize. It’s a painting, a photograph, a dream I wouldn’t dare.
Yet, I get to dive into that blue and spin in its sparkles. I get to float on my back in the cool aquamarine and watch the midnight blue of the deeper sea gently undulate to the horizon. I get to look up from this dreamy bowl of indigo, my arms spread wide like a holiday-maker on the cover of an airplane magazine. I get to bob and observe the craggy cliffs, spotted with neon-suited cliff-jumpers and stone arches of eras passed. I get to taste that salt and exorcise this July heat from my skin. I get to shepherd my boys through the briny blue and around the rocky outcroppings. I get to heave myself up those ancient stone faces, navigating the jagged crevices and prickly barnacle grip points by feel. I get to settle into a bum-shaped divot and watch as my boys do laps around and around me, cocooning me in a moment, the kind of moment that holds the metamorphosis of a spirit.
Their glistening wet limbs, taut with boyhood, move without need of thought. They scramble up the stone behind me, launch into air with bravado, break the Adriatic surface with a splash, and then, chatting gleefully, paddle back to the mossy foothold to emerge and do it all again. Shiny wet boys circling again and again. Scramble, launch, splash, paddle. Scramble, launch, splash, paddle. The expressions on their sparkling faces align with images of their best toddlerhood photos. They are expressions I hadn’t seen much ‘til this Gap Year. Our troubles melt away here. The joy of these moments is consuming and complete. Theirs and mine. Delight and adoration. The best pairing of parent and child. Being circled with these threads of exhilaration is like being swaddled in repayment for my mothering investments.
Yet, this whole scene is so rewarding that a piece of me worries pleasure of this calibre will put me in the karmic red. I don’t know if I’m in credit or debt in this life, but these sessions in the Adriatic are generous withdrawals of goodness. Honestly though, I feel like most days I’m stocking the coffers with piles of karmic goodwill without extravagant spending. So, I’ll just soak up these days like I deserve them. We should all do that. When we get the chance, we shouldn’t fail to claim the sweetness that comes our way. We shouldn’t hesitate to feel worthy of splendour. One never knows what storms are brewing or how long it will be before the winds bless us again or whether they ever will. For this reason, I silence the worries. I banish the consideration of guilt. For this reason, I am stripping all the good I can from these days, like the 80s tv gameshow free-for-all in a toy store I used to watch as a kid. I’m making off with all the bliss I can carry, shopping cart/trolley at full tilt.
Our accommodation here is nice too, which is key to family sanity. Our second floor AirB&B is nice and airy, so airy that sometimes opening a door on one side of the apartment results in the slamming of a window or door on the opposite. It’s been fun to play with cross-breezes and, given the time of day, figure out the best combo of openings to create the best “wind-holes” of comfort. Makes you remember the origin of the word “window.”
The boys share a loft with each their own little cubby space of a bed and shelving, made cosy with a slanted wood ceiling and skylight. Downstairs, we have a well-equipped kitchen, including the luxury of a large bin, which was something we lacked in Ohrid (a plastic bag just hung on the door of the fridge). The parquet floors in the main rooms give off a warm wooden scent in this Croatian heat. The slim rectangle tiles are a bit loose in spots, and they knock together underfoot with the soft clacking of Jenga blocks being stacked. There is something heartening in that sound, like the unique laughter of an old friend. And… we have balconies. Which I love. And one even offers a slice of Adriatic. Like Ohrid, I begin each day alone on the lower balcony and end the day on the upper with my partner. Looting the pleasure in snatches.
We’ve had just a week here, but we quickly found our little groove. The heat decreed it so. Old Town is a searingly hot 30 minute walk that we have only marched the boys through a few times. It’s prohibitively hot. So, our place has been at the beach, which is really a misnomer if “beach” means sand for you. Bellevue Beach is just rocks, cement slabs, and cliffs. It’s all about the water, which fantastically carries the show.
And the company. We’ve met some very sweet people on these rocks. There is a band of bronze-tanned local boys that are happy to share their cliff-jumping intel with the tourists, and other travellers are often up for a chat too. We met a guy named Austin from Texas (ha-ha) who was fascinated with our Gap Year endeavour- a future world-schooling dad, for sure. We also met a couple beautiful Aussie girls from the Northern Beaches with whom the boys swapped stories of the road like a trio of travel veterans.
These encounters serve as precious mirrors for me. To see our trip and my three bright, charming boys through the eyes of these young travellers helps to clear the grit off my vision to see just how beautiful my life is. This is how I want to live. It’s not as easy as I’d hoped, but it is what I wanted, what I would have marvelled at in my earlier years, what I will miss when we return. I am living an enviable life. It’s so good to sit in these proud and peaceful moments and soak that in deep… cause you can bet good money it’s back to the gritty mothering trenches on the hot trudge home shortly after this moment of grandeur. Ransacking glory at full-tilt is prudent in these conditions.
In heat-adaptation mode, my partner and I have been running off on our own to do some of the more challenging tourism without a captive entourage. The boys have hit a saturation point on museums and tours for the moment. The little one even started chanting his revolt. And in this heat, there’s no point.
I managed to slip off for an excellent Game of Thrones & Old City Tour with a legend of a local guide, and my partner snuck off to do something similar (foregoing the GoT theme- Snob!). We split a Dubrovnik City Pass for the day to catch some of the other sights independently, and I managed to rope in the older boys for a ferry trip to Lokrum Island. We also did a morning of kayaking as a family- not to everyone’s delight. However, among all these classic Dubrovnik activities, my most enduring memory may have unfolded in an unexpected spot: The Church of Saint Blaise, the Patron Saint of Dubrovnik.
I had never heard of this guy before we came here. Saint Blaise? Totally new to me. We had seen many sculptures of him on the outer wall while kayaking, and he’s above Pile Gate and many other passageways. He even has his own flag. I also somehow remembered walking by his gold-adorned church our first hellish walk through Old Town, but my deeper interest in this saint began when my partner was reading a book on Dubrovnik found in our apartment bookcase.
Without any sense of irony, casually looking up from his book, my partner said something like, “Saint Blaise, you know, the one who’s all over the city. He’s actually the patron saint of throat conditions and Strep.” My head snapped up. Full attention. “What did you say?” He repeated, “Saint Blaise is the patron saint of throat infections, and there are people who talk about going to the church to have their throats blessed when they had Strep as kids.” “Are you serious?” I said. “Yes….” Confused expression. I started laughing. Doubled over on the sofa. Tears. Full-body convulsions. Gut-busting laughter. “Are you serious?” I blurted out again. “Yes,” my partner said uncertainly. The boys stared at me like I was a loony. No dawn of understanding on anyone’s face.
“You don’t get it?” [Pause] “Really?” I said. “Are you telling me we’ve come to the city of the Patron Saint of PANDAS?…. By chance?” I said with a cackle. They then joined me in laughter… but maybe not as maniacal as mine. (It’s been a long trip.)
For those out of the loop, our family is currently serving a hard sentence with more than one child (I think) who is suffering from an autoimmune neuropsychiatric condition (strong emphasis on “psychiatric”) caused by the Strep bacteria: PANDAS. To arrive in a city that actually has a patron saint of sore throats is hilarious news. Totally hilarious. And, also, totally not to be brushed aside. This was an opportunity not to be missed.
I went to The Church of Saint Blaise. I went in full reverence. And although I am not Christian, I bought and lit four candles and prayed. Ardently. I prayed and talked as I do to the trees and the sea. And, as I did, something very special happened. And I won’t be sharing it with you.
I don’t mean to be rude. Take no offence. As an amends for this slight, I’ll share two guiding quotations that capture my reasons for withholding this story. I think you’ll agree they are good concepts to spread in the world.
One is a quote I cannot locate, but I think it is from the book Vagabonding by Tim Ferriss. It says something to the effect of “Keep the best pieces of your travels to yourself.” I found this advice interesting when I read it last year because I’ve given a version of it myself to new travellers. One of the greatest challenges I had traveling alone as a young person was returning home to find that no one ever had much interest in my travels, and I realised too that I probably felt the same about hearing the stories of theirs. It actually made me very hesitant to start this blog. “Just the facts, ma’am” is often how post-travel conversations go. This experience stung the first few times I felt it. It was a bit isolating as a young solo traveller, but I soon learned not to share what was of value to me, not to cast my great pearls among an unseeing audience. I learned to hold these experiences within myself, and I found my inner world expanded when I did.
The special moments one has in life are often diluted in the sharing. They become weakened by words and flimsy in the light of others’ inspection. Often it is best to keep the sacred to ourselves. We all practice this in our own way. I do it a lot. I believe it’s in these private experiences (which can take many forms) that we meet our concept of the divine. And this is no small thing. It’s where we find we are never really alone. It’s where we are connected in ways humanity shouldn’t fully understand. It’s sacrosanct and private. It would be disrespectful to broadcast it. These moments happen often in travel, but that doesn’t mean they belong on a blog.
The other quotation that has woven its way into my spiritual modus operandi is from one of my heroes, Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way. “The first rule of magic is containment,” she says. Speaking from an artistic standpoint, she means that it is initially not good to share one’s most precious ideas, the tiny fledgelings of creation we are caretaking. Lest such sharing dispels their potential or malforms their development. Taken to a travel perspective, the most special experiences we have should not be “published” or “posted” for all to feast on as content. We give others the power to change them when we do. What is truly meaningful and quietly moving should not be offered for the approval, encouragement, or weighing in of others. Sometimes this disclosure zaps the magic. It can actually castrate the genius at work in one’s life. Magic lies in many things, and its potency is dispersed when the wonder is spread too promiscuously.
A sort of magic happened beneath the statue of Saint Blaise, and I wouldn’t dare dispel it in the sharing. It’s between me and my divine. Sorry, folks. Containment must be maintained. It’s an honour thing. Held within, the power is preserved in full potency. And I’m angling for some miracles here. I’m sure you understand.
Anyway, perhaps it’s nice to know, dear reader, that while you probably suspect there are many struggles of ugliness that go undisclosed on this blog, there is also great beauty kept private behind the scenes… despite my verbose and open prose. Luckily, even with all this withholding, there is always a gluttonous feast of happenings to share, especially with this plunderer of wonder on duty. This week in Dubrovnik has offered quite the spread of goodness. The Gap Year free-for-all ain’t over yet. Check out this week’s haul of gems….
Mapping the Gap 
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