Villa Orsula, Dubrovnik, Croatia
I can best describe Croatians as being a rusty variety of
European.
They are tawny of hair and skin, and tend to look monochromatic
because the colour of tan skin is exactly the same shade as rusty hair.
In Dubrovnik, we stay at the 1939 Villa Orsula. The room,
which H and I are sharing, feels claustrophobic. But it is tenderly pretty, with
rambling roses on the right of the verandah, and a stunning view of the
Adriatic Sea framed by cypress trees.
The bathroom has a bidet.
The medieval town of Dubrovnik, which we can see from the window, is said to be 15 minutes’ walk
from the villa seems farther in the summer heat. In fact, it proved a tedious
hike, but we forget everything once we get within the walled city, which is
abuzz with interesting people, rich history, and beautiful squares all
connected by vast glossy-smooth marble streets and dotted with mysterious dark cafes that
make H smoke non-stop, in the manner of Maggie Cheung.
We go on a tour in a taxi, which is USD 70.
Breakfast at the Villa Orsula is quite the thing to do and the
guests are out in full force, bright and early, eating under grape vines
hanging with grapes. Stern ancient men serve yogurt and honey silently. H is thrilled by the view of the violently blue cove and sickle moon of white
pebble, where later I collect vari-coloured stones in my Pleats Please pouch,
watched by an old lady in a bikini, who sits there every day with her mutt until the last light
fades.
The luggage boy wears tennis shorts, and is as cute as a porn
actor.
The blonde towel boy is a trouble-maker who causes the lady at
the front desk to lose her cool neatness and I’m sure she goes off work each
day with a headache.
Blonde towel boy has a friend, a young teen, who throws mussels at
the girls on the beach, causing them to shriek.
The boat man from the Villa Orsula is a white-haired mariner
with white deck-shoes, who tirelessly ferries us in his boat to and from the
little island of Lokrum every day.
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