Dalmatia: The Croatian Coast

Apparently, Lord Byron called Dubrovnik the pearl of the Adriatic. The ancient fortress rises like a sandstone behemoth out of the deep blue water. And after many wars and bombings and sieges it still stands tall and proud. It’s a beautiful place, and numerous old fishing villages along the Croatian coast follow suit. You just have to guess the right ones, not all of them live up to expectations and some are over-run with vacationers.

Dubrovnik from above. Note the pre-haircut hair.

Besides all the usual touristy stuff we got our hair cut in Dubrovnik. We were walking down one of the narrow cobblestone streets and we passed a barbershop that looked more like a dive bar or even a seedy adult shop – yes, a certain style of photography adorned the far wall. Four or five guys sat in the waiting chairs smoking and drinking. They argued loudly and the evening news blared from a small TV in the corner. Five bird cages were piled up on top of each other beside the TV. The sickly looking, passive smoking parrots chirped loudly as if they were having their own little argument on the side. Anyway, after walking past this cacophony we stopped and dared each other to have a haircut – if you do I will, kinda thing. We did it. The barber was old and overweight, he drank and sweated profusely as he snipped away in the oppressive evening heat. When he cut my fringe he made the experience even more uncomfortable than it already was by blowing a thick plume of smoke in my face. Having our haircuts in this environment was an interesting experience to say the least. What made it all the more interesting, however, was what we witnessed later that night… 

Post haircut comb-over

We were standing outside the old city walls waiting for our bus. It was kinda dark but we could make out the people on the other side of the street. And guess who shuffled past, in the same clothes and Hugh Hefner slippers he was wearing earlier in the day. Yes, the abominable barber. He dragged a large garbage bag and proceeded to collect bottles from the nearest bin to trade in for 5 cents or whatever meaningless amount it is. Obviously he doesn’t get all that much business as a barber! In hindsight, the shambolic state of his so-called barbershop did suggest this pretty loud and clear. 

The grainy late-night footage of the "barber"

However, chain-smoking homeless men parading as barbers are the least of your worries on the Dalmatian coast. A word of warning about the idyllic Adriatic waters: below the surface it’s like the rage at placid lake. Make sure it’s really deep wherever you swim. There can be no touching the bottom. I don’t know what’s down there but every time my skin so much as glanced the ocean floor I got cut. I was bleeding after every swim. 

Swimming outside the city walls

Oh, and if someone in Croatia says there’s a beach don’t believe it for a second. A beach means an ugly cement jetty and matching cement foreshore, or worse a shore of large uncomfortable pebbles. I now know why those ungainly unbecoming crocs where invented. They were made for the Croatian coast so swimmers could actually access the water without cutting all the skin off their feet.

Evening beverage beside a "beach"

Generally the seaside is a pretty pleasant place to be. But I have become a little disillusioned. Beware holiday makers! Venturing to the European seaside can cause simultaneous states of shock, awe, disbelief and temporary blindness. You will witness numerous Harry Highpants’ floundering in the shallows parading their tackle about in skin tight cyclist like lycra. You will witness varying levels of undress, the worst being the obese and the old letting everyone know what everything looks like “down there” when you are either obese or old or both. There are also the French couples - I swear they are always French. The women are always young, immaculately tanned and gorgeous. The men are all filthy rich fifty something George Clooney look-a-likes. And they love to parade their beautiful young brides like they parade their Ferrari’s down the Champs-Eleysees. But they don’t just parade, no that’s not enough, they play tonsil tennis and embrace and caress and frolic about on those unbearably uncomfortable foreshore pebbles, skin on rock and skin on skin, stark naked except for their matching fluro coloured crocs…