Dubrovnik is burning? Let's eat!!!

Gregg and Nino took off on a Saturday from Dubrovnik, leaving just me and the undeterred, unflappable, unstoppable Jeff Jones to take apart Dubrovnik, and soon after, Budapest.

Jones and I moved that day to an apartment nearer the Old Town, on the X and Y axis, but much further away on the Z axis. So basically, instead of being about four km away, we were now about two, but they were straight up in the air. Awesome. One thing I really needed was more obstacles between the bars and the safety of my bed at night. Mission: accomplished.

One thing Dubrovnik is not short on, is stairs. There are stairs everywhere, to go anywhere. When I arrived, my calves were that of an average 180cm tall (I'm all metric now) 31 year old. Now, they are chiseled masterpieces right out of any Michaelangelo gallery. Johnnie Drama, eat your heart out.

Dubrovnik, the town, is striking. The sun strikes the roof tiles at dawn and dusk the way you'd imagine it would on the canvas of any of the old masters. The colors are brilliant, and the layout of the city is breathtaking. The Jewel of the Adriatic definitely earned its nickname, as far as I was concerned.

One thing Dubrovnik is short on, is good clubs. The nightlife there is shit. The clubs are jammed with sweating, heaving, misguided tourists lost on an eight hour land break from their enormous cruiseline eyesore before they go back two hours early and mark off Dubrovnik on their "Cities I've Visited" map on Facebook. They're all cunts.

Sick of that scene, Jones and I go back to the only club cruisline cunts don't go to, East/West, where I run into some Portuguese guy I had evidently entertained the night before. I'd heard about a big party at the Belvedere hotel, and East/West was pretty dead, so the Portuguese guy, his friend, the adventurous, expectant, slightly scary Jeff Jones and I all head to the Belvedere.

Fucking wow. This party was out. of. fucking. control. It's set into the mountainside in a tiered coliseum-type layout, with every tier jamming with people (all beautiful), pouring their energy onto a thumping dance floor in front of world-class DJs like Ian Pooley, among others, with the backdrop of Dubrovnik reflecting it's grandeur onto the small bay in between.

Mentally, and alcoholically speaking, I am horribly ill-prepared for this. It's about 12:30am, and I, along with the dumbstruck, dazed and bedazzled Jeff Jones head for the bar with the two Portuguese guys. One guy (the one I'd met the night before), Artur, is your typical suave, good-looking, fucking cheeseball. But in a really endearing, positive way, so he's fun to keep around. Their pace in drinking slips behind mine, as I make the solo decision to increase the slope of my time-over-drunk curve by putting down one tequila shot, chugging a red bull-vodka, and buying a beer to walk around, with each trip to the bar. Astonished gazes by onlookers notwithstanding, I felt rather strong in this environment.

Around 7am, the party closes down, I am sufficiently drunk and exhausted, and the determined, undeterred, and persistent Jeff Jones is busy trying to meet the last of the women remaining in the cavity that was once Dubrovnik's biggest party of the year. We endure a 5 km walk back to our apartment, feeling triumphant and fulfilled, if also exhausted and acutely suicidal. Hyperbole!!!

Next day, we walk around the wall of Dubrovnik, which is something people with an immense amount of patience and energy typically do. Those people, generally, are not coming off an 8 hour raving binge the night before. And if they are, they are probably still complaining about the experience, much as I am now. What else would I be doing?

The walk was sufficiently taxing, though still worthwhile. I bought the audio guide with the best of intentions, only to eventually come to the conclusion that I was only listening, and not hearing. Or hearing, and not listening. Either way, I was using it as a barrier between me and mankind to keep from speaking. I learned a few things, but most of them had more to do how not to spend a day with a brutal hangover.

That day, the overwhelming smell of a campfire filled the Old Town. Why? Because the hills behind the city were on fucking fire, that's why. Of all the things I was equipped to do on this day (sleep, eat greasy food, lay, sleep, drink liquids, roll over, sleep), outrunning a forest fire was not one of them. Nor was inhaling unhealthy levels of carbon monoxide while trying to scale a flight of stairs that go straight up in the air. So, you can imagine how welcoming my attitude was towards an advancing march of flickering death flares, as they approached the Old Town. Where, interestingly, they were already nearly devouring the apartment in which we were staying. One good thing is, imminent danger = great pictures!! Hope you enjoy!!!

Owners of nearby homes were dousing the trees behind their apartments to prevent them from catching ablaze, as the timid, tepid, yet somehow tempestuous Jeff Jones and I were passively suppressing our otherwise obvious concern. While the hills of Dubrovnik gradually burned off their beauty, we discussed plans to sleep on the polished marble grounds of the Old Town, (or, more likely, the floor of a friend I'd met who lives in the Old Town), as we dined on the most delicious seafood I'd had in years. Grilled baby squid, steamed shrimp, and the freshest other-seafood-crap-I-can't-remember known to man. Ahhh, memories!!

We fall asleep in the arms of the Lord, knowing that with 91% of Croatia being devout Catholic, he's watching over this land rather intently. Hopefully, there are really big churches nearby. We wake up the next morning, inspect our brush with danger (to the tune of about 200m) and are on our way to the airport.

The drive proves that literally every square inch of what was once natural beauty, is now ash. One would think the cause would be the intense heat and dry conditions, but no, no no.... locals most often blame the Serbians for setting time-release fires to scorch the countryside.

I personally blame the Jews. Clearly they were upset at the Croatia cash-only system and wanted to stunt their burgeoning tourist metropolis. It's true. An Albanian told me so. And if there's one thing I learned from Croatians while there, it's that Albanians are always right. Or was it that they were asshole cunts? Ya, that might actually be it. My bad.

By the way, I know it's been so long since I uploaded any pictures, that everyone has probably stopped checking for them. Well, you're in for a big surprise, because Croatia and Budapest are ready for your distracted inspection. Go for it.