Dubrovnik in Winter

It is late February. The off-season here. And gray winter clouds hang low over the Old City. It’s cold. Not so cold that you can’t stand it, but brisk enough that you take your blanket with you as you step out onto your balcony and into the morning light. 

The iconic red rooftops and limestone walls of Dubrovnik rise up to greet you. The cheerful shouts of fishermen echo from the harbor, mingling with the cries of hungry gulls. There’s the slightest hint of Spring warmth on the Southerly breeze, that carries with it the smell of freshly baked bread and the promise of a city that is all yours. 

There are no cruise ships looming on the horizon. No throngs of selfie-snapping tourists crowding the narrow, cobble-stone streets. The mighty curtain walls that surround the city are deserted now. The ghosts of their ancient defenders seem to call out to you, asking you to come and stand where they once stood. 

To be alone in such a place, free of all the modern sightseeing staples, is a rare and guilty privilege. It feels as if you have momentarily stepped back in time, or stolen the city from the past for a day. A light jacket, a sturdy pair of walking shoes, and you’re out the door – ready to inspect your prize. 

Coffee is first. Always first. And they do it right in Dubrovnik. The Old City seems to be half cafe, and the competition to sell the finest cappuccino is as fierce here as it is in Trieste, Naples or Milan. 

The barista who runs the cafe across the alley is a giant of a man, with twinkling green eyes and a friendly, satisfied smile. He waves at you from his window, calling you inside like an old friend. 

Steam hisses, milk froths. You sip your cappuccino standing up, leaning lightly against the bar. Outside, shopkeepers and students stroll past, nodding their hellos, laughing at passing jokes, gesticulating wildly as they weave tall tales about the previous night’s escapades. 

A few duck in to shout “good morning” (Dobro junto!) or to slam back an espresso before their work begins. There’s much to accomplish before Spring arrives. Repairs must be made, menus solidified, replacement parts ordered and stocks refilled. Each resident knows that they’ll be far too busy to play catchup when the horde of sightseers arrives at the gates – they have to take advantage now. 

Warm and well caffeinated, you step out of the cafe and into the budding sunshine. The ghosts on the walls are still calling, reminding you of your duty to climb and see. You relent to their bidding, and turn onto the Stradun – Dubrovnik’s main thoroughfare – nodding good day to the locals as they pass you by, smiling as they nod in turn – perhaps mistaking you for one of their own. 

The three and four story buildings on either side of the esplanade are neatly uniform, rebuilt to the exacting standards of the City’s fathers after a destructive earthquake in the mid 17th Century. Dubrovnik was called Ragusa then, the capital of an Italian colonial republic.

This old Italian connection is apparent still, and not just in the coffee and numerous restaurants serving penne arrabiata and black risotto (a must try). Dubrovnik is, before all else, a Renaissance town, replete with all the exquisite architecture and mercantile convenience that a Medici or Borgia would expect. The ground floor of every building along the Stradun contains a shop, restaurant, or pharmacy, while the floors above house the owners, their tenants, and offices of various sorts. 

Your Airbnb is on the fourth floor of one of these buildings. The old woman who let you in and immediately forced a bottle of wine into your hands has owned the apartment since the early 1990s. Before that, it was her mother’s, and before that, her’s. It is entirely possible that the place has been in her family for over three hundred years. Evenso, with typical Croatian hospitality, she seemed to imply that the apartment was now yours. 

The smell of something truly delicious halts your march towards the walls, and you find yourself turning off the Stradun, sniffing your way through Dubrovnik’s winding streets, hunting for the source. 

Two rights and a left and you find it. A charming off-alley patisserie, its window displays overflowing with steaming buns and glazed dough. Inside, the baker rejects your rudimentary attempt at ordering in Croatian. She won’t have it. You will both speak English. Her daughter has been teaching her at night and she needs to practice before Spring. 

You want breakfast, she knows. You want the best, she insists. Well then, there’s only one thing for you. 

It's not eggs and bacon – you could have stayed home for that. It’s not cantaloupe and cottage cheese – you didn’t fly fourteen hours to count calories. No! It’s burek. A savory pastry of thin, flaky dough filled with minced meat and spiced potatoes. 

She cuts you a slice and hands you a fork. The buttery sweetness of the filo dough gives way to rosemary, onion, and smoked paprika – the flavors and textures clashing, then blending, mutually elevating. Utterly satisfying. There are so many reasons to travel to Croatia, but few are as immediately fulfilling as a forkful of this heaven. 

The baker leaves you to your repast as another customer arrives – a fellow English speaker who immediately orders a slice of the same. You introduce yourselves and gush about the dish – the grinning baker eavesdropping from behind her stove. 

Your fellow traveler reveals that they have been in the city for a week, and that this is their last taste of Dubrovnik before the flight home. There is something you have to do, they tell you, their voice pitched low. A special hack for off-season adventurers like yourselves. 

You take hurried notes, finish your meal, give your thanks and bid your adieus. Out the door, you make for the harbor. The ghosts on the walls still call to you, but the walls will have to wait for now. 

Back to the Stradun you march, heading East, past the soaring clocktower and the glory of the Sponza Palace. Onwards, through an arched and shadowed portcullis, and into the sunlit Old Port.

A limestone breakwater cuts the blue sea ahead, as bright green palms and deeper green cypress trees cling to the distant white rock shoreline. St. John’s Fortress, an imposing slab-like edifice, dominates the small mouth of the harbor, looming over the dozen or so motor boats and sailing yachts bobbing gently in their slips. The sight of it all stops you in your tracks. You 

consider taking a picture, but you know that no photograph can ever truly capture the beautiful serenity of the experience. 

You manage to propel yourself forward, onto the docks, spying the chalk sign that your fellow traveler sent you to find. 

“Rent Boat?”, the sign asks. 

Why not? 

A cooler is provided. Inside is ice, a bottle of beer and two tupperware containers. One holds a generous helping of octopus salad (a local delicacy) caught fresh and made this morning by the boatman’s wife. The other is full of bait. 

You leave that one behind. 

There are papers to sign, a credit card to hand over, a swift tutorial in broken English given and received. But soon enough you are on your way, cheerfully chugging through the harbor on your own, trying your best to stay calm and master the basic elements of seamanship before you hit the open ocean. 

It’s really not that difficult, and by the time you’re motoring out of the shadow of the fortress you feel like an old hand – a true sailor. 

This illusion is shattered when you pass the breakwater. and the swell of the Adriatic rocks you back in your seat. There’s a moment of panic. A fear-filled instant where you’re sure that this small, metal-hulled motor boat will be turned over and dashed against the rocks. You even fancy that you can hear the ghosts on the walls laughing at your misfortune over the roar of the wind and waves. 

Not today! You right yourself. Reject your unreasonable fear. A firm hand on the tiller is all that’s needed. Throttle it back. Full speed ahead. The sea here can be a temperamental beast, but today it’s calm, clear, predictable – they boatman would never let you out on your own otherwise. You quickly get used to the swell, swaying along, rising and falling in an almost hypnotic rhythm as your little boat chugs on. 

Around the rocks of St. John’s Fortress you turn into calmer waters, and get your first glimpse of the City from the sea. It is an imposing sight. The walls, the fortress, the red roofs and church spires, all rising impossibly from the inhospitable rock. 

People built this. The idea hits you like a tidal wave. 

Before there were motors or complex machines, before calculators, bulldozers, and hydraulic cranes, human beings bent their wills and bodies to this monumental task and somehow accomplished it. 

It’s humbling. And as you crack your beer (noon being as good a time as any when you’re on vacation) and take your first bites of the cold octopus salad (a delicacy in any locale),

you can’t help but throw yourself back in time and imagine what you life would have looked like in those elder days. 

You are not the first to do so. Hollywood has long taken advantage of Dubrovnik’s time-traveling properties, casting the city in countless films and television shows, set in all manner of time periods – it has even made a cameo as a spaceport in a galaxy far, far away. 

The Force is with you as you motor on through the placid waters, approaching the island fortress of St. Lawrence. During the tourist season, this impregnable keep plays host to stage festivals, catered events and swanky parties. Today it is silent, its cannon ports glowering out from its walls, protecting the Pearl of the Adriatic (as Dubrovnik has come to be known) from non-existent raiding fleets and long extinct pirates. 

“Well,” you smile roguishly as you take your last sip of beer. “Not entirely extinct.” Above the fortress's gate, an inscription has been carved. The motto of Dubrovnik, A centuries old testament to the spirit of this city and its independently minded citizens. “It is not good that liberty is sold for gold.” 

The forts, the walls, the inscription, they tell two stories. The one, of human ingenuity and tenacity. The other, more easily ignored, of the horrors of war. 

Dubrovnik has withstood its fair share of the latter. And as you chug back towards the Old Port, you cannot help but quietly reflect on the unkind history of this magical city. It has known warfare on and off forever. Most recently in the early 1990’s when the Yugoslav army held it under siege for seven grueling months. 

The older citizens – your kind Airbnb host, the welcoming barista, the baker eavesdropping on your praise – they would have been here then. Ducking at the scream of artillery shells. Running for cover as gunfire streaked through the night. 

You toss a rope to the waiting boatman, and he pulls you into the slip. As he takes your hand and helps you onto dryland, his wizened face creases with a smile. 

"Jesi li vidio sve?" he asks. Did you see everything? 

You nod and smile sadly back, knowing that he would have been here too. Somber then, you retrace your steps into the city. The streets are empty now. The sun is getting low in the sky. The glory of this morning has given way to the haunting of oncoming dusk. You can feel the ghosts crowding closer, calling you up to their walls. You won’t be stopped this time. The ascent is sharp, the stairs steep and narrow. Yet each step seems to lighten your mood. As you reach the top and stare out over the battlements, your breath stops, your heart soars. The sea, the sky, the limestone walls and red roofs, the sun dipping down, shining through the red and white checkers of a billowing Croatian flag. The city is still here. Its people are still here. They have survived the wars, weathered the disasters, and maintained this beauty for so many centuries. The ghosts on the walls are silent now. You have seen what they saw. Understood what they defended. Dubrovnik. The Pearl of the Adriatic. 

The tourists are all gone. The cold of night is coming on. It’s time for dinner. For drinks. For an evening in a city that is still all yours.