Hanging out in Dubrovnik

I caught the bus from Mostar to Dubrovnik. This city is as beautiful as ever… perhaps a little too beautiful, as I do love the grit of more flawed places. There’s not as much to do here at this time of year, when you can’t swim. I am here with SB, who I know through friends from Melbourne. We were planning to head directly to Montenegro today, but plans have been thwarted by British Airways, who managed to lose SB’s luggage, and were not able to return it until 5pm today. So we spent the day wandering, kind of killing time, really. It’s not that it is not lovely here – it is! But there is not a lot to do. Oh well. Nema veze, as they say here. No big deal. We are on holiday after all.

Tomorrow, we have decided to hire a car. We will drive into Bosnia, to Trebinje, and then to Montenegro, to Kotor, and its apparently stunning fjords  of the Mediterranean. Cool! We have been told we will be able to fit both places easily into a day, and driving ourselves will give us lots of flexibility to stop when and where we want. However, I have read some horror stories of corrupt, bribe-hungry Montenegren police stopping cars with foreign plates, claiming various unfounded misdemeanours, and demanding cash on-the-spot fines. I hope this doesn’t happen too often. We are thinking of keeping a few low Euro bank notes on hand, just in case. (Montengegro’s official currency is the Euro).

I have discoved SB shares my daggy love for constant singing – finding a song for every occasion. So today we played ‘Tags’, the game where one person sings a line from a song, and the next person needs to follow that with a line starting with the first letter of the last word of the line just sung. Bonus points if the next line starts with the last word of the previous line. Hours of hilarity and loud singing of dodgy pop songs of the eighties. We must apologise to the neighbours, I think.

SB is also vastly talented at ‘speaking Armenian’ (CP knows what I am talking about here). So we spend most of our conversations speaking in Armenian, and sometimes Russian, and sometimes even Irish. Our versions, of course.


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