My friends and I play a travel game we call Swoon. The principles are simple: Choose a storied locale from your particular moment in the past half a century, and the place that earns essentially the most “aaah’s” wins. Someone invariably picks St.-Tropez circa 1955, or Ubud inside the seventies. Precharter flight Ibiza. Post-Cold War Prague. Such places will be the geographical equivalents of Truman Capote’s Monochrome Ball or Manchester’s Hacienda Club: that perfect confluence of location and time-before other world arrived, before the inevitable Wild On! specials on E! Think about Bahia in the sixties, Saigon in the nineties, or Tan-gier in Paul Bowles’s day.
Think about these and you’ll begin to view the Dalmatian Coast in 2005. Right this moment, the islands of southern Croatia are-among a certain group of people-the premier destination inside the Mediterranean region. They glimmer around the periphery enough to attract the trendy, yet hang enough off of the radar to elicit blank stares one of the rest. And the rest have no idea of it now, but they will be coming soon, too.
Europeans long favored Croatia’s coastal resorts like a low-key alternative-Greece, Italy, and Spain without the tourist junk or the exorbitant prices. (In the 1970′s and 80′s, Yugoslavia drew more British travelers than any other European country besides Spain; many were bound for Dalmatia.) When Yugoslavia erupted into civil war in 1991, the Dalmatian Coast wasn’t as hard hit since the inland regions of Bosnia and Serbia. But violence was widespread even here, and tourists-the backbone of Dalmatia’s economy-disappeared altogether.
Today the pockmarks of mortar fire are faintly visible in Dubrovnik’s ancient walls, grim reminders in the 1991?92 siege by Yugoslav forces. In many of Croatia, the war now feels ages, not only a decade, gone. And tourism is increasing by up to 50 percent a year. Europeans are again flocking here each summer-arriving by yacht, by sailboat, by car ferry, or by Gulfstream and collecting where they left off. Americans, too, are finally being clued in: lots of cruise lines and tour companies have added Dalmatia with their itineraries in recent years. And, for better or worse, Croatia was recently due to the Wild On! treatment on E! In the event that’s not a tipping point, I’m not sure what is.
So what’s the appeal?The landscape, to begin with. This is the most stunning coastline in Europe: a mix of limpid bays, craggy bluffs, hidden coves and beaches, vineyards, olive groves, and forests of cypress and pine. Remarkably in a good condition ancient towns hold vivid types of Greek, Roman, Venetian, and Slavic architecture. The sailing and yachting scene here rivals any other, with hundreds of ports and lots of marinas and countless natural inlets scattered across a lot of islands. Dalmatian cuisine-consisting of superb fish, shrimp, octopus, and oysters, along with increasingly renowned wines-compares favorably to Italian cooking, and borrows heavily from it: here risotto becomes rizot and prosciutto becomes the delectable pursuit. But Dalmatian meals is earthier and rougher than Italian, blending hints of Hungarian (paprika-laced goulash), Turkish (kebab-style raznjici, or meat skewers), and Slavic (sour dumplings). It is usually exceptionally affordable.
Finally, an exuberant nightlife dominates around the larger islands of Hvar and Brac, where revelers maintain the party going until sunrise. You will find there’s palpable urgency to the proceedings. This may be the most widespread consequence of the war: everyone-Croatians themselves, in addition to their blissed-out guests seems to be making up for lost time. In the meantime, it’s Croatia’s moment; who knows the length of time it will last?
DUBROVNIK
Dalmatia’s most famous city is touted as an unspoiled gem, though this really is a matter of degree. While it isn’t yet as overrun as, say, Prague or Positano (the two unlikely places that Dubrovnik most resembles), it’s well within the crosshairs of mass tourism. Dubrovnik’s Old Town looks after a precarious equilibrium between Then and after this, Here and Elsewhere. Menus in Italian, English, and German hang outside every traditional wooden-beamed konoba, or tavern. Benetton and Diesel boutiques line the medieval lanes. And pushcart vendors proffer not only handmade olive soaps but also Old Town mouse pads. Also, in Makarska you can view some old walls and monuments.
Such culture clashes form the essence of this city, and always have. In the Old Town, one feels a sense displacement, as if all of Europe had visit cluster within Dubrovnik’s fortified walls. At various points, almost all of Europe has. Witness the twisting staircase above Gundulic Square, an explicit homage for the Spanish Steps; the 16th-century Baroque cathedrals abutting Renaissance palaces and medieval fortresses; along with the Gradska Kavana, a café straight out of fin de siecle Vienna.
The existing Town is shaped like a cereal bowl; from its elevated rim you can gaze throughout the city’s orange roofs for the vividly blue Adriatic beyond. Down below, at the center of the bowl, lies the Stradun, Dubrovnik’s limestone main drag. Centuries of casual strollers have buffed the road to an icy gloss-you expect a Zamboni to arrive at any moment. Each evening the Stradun roars one’s for the nightly korso, or promenade. A motley crowd emerges: teenagers in sunbleached-blond dreadlocks, grizzled Croatian men smoking pipes, cruise-ship passengers in flip-flops, Italian men in Ferragamo loafers. A white-haired nun passes by, cocooned within an all-white habit. She’s trailed by a surfer dude in satin shorts, nothing at all. Both wear crucifixes.
The summer crowds might appear unavoidable down on the main streets, so strike up any lane into the higher areas of town. Here the only warning signs of life are alley cats dozing around the cool and shady stone. The environment carries the scent of jasmine and lemon trees, laundry soap, cat spray, and, occasionally, the buttery aroma of scampi frying in tiny kitchens. Climbing a deserted lane one afternoon, I heard, of other nutritional foods, faint strains of Dixieland echoing along the alleyways. I soon came upon a wide open doorway, inside which-barely visible inside the dim-sat a half-dozen young Croats in shorts, gleefully blowing jazz to have an audience of indifferent cats.
I became lucky enough to score a bed on the 19-room Pucic Palace, the Old Town’s first upmarket hotel, carved away from an 18th-century nobleman’s mansion. Even now, as tourism explodes, hotels in Dalmatia are generally Socialist-era holdovers with lackluster service and design. The Pucic Palace may be the glittering exception, a stylish mix of contemporary (gallery lighting, Bulgari bath products) and old-world (copper-shelled, claw-foot tubs; rustic beamed ceilings, olive-wood floors). Balconies review Gundulic Square, one of Dubrovnik’s prime social spots. During the night it’s filled with café tables and Cinzano-sippers, but by sunrise the complete piazza is transformed into a farmers’ market. Every morning I would step outside to buy a breakfast of figs, plums, and Charentais melons. The peach bins were swarming with honeybees, but the stall tender paid them no heed; she simply tossed a number of peaches into a paper sack, bees and many types of, then handed them over and done with a toothless smile. I closed the bag tight, tucked it within my backpack, and waited till noon to spread out it, by which time the bees had passed out. The peaches were sublime.
The existing Town has some compelling museums-the best of them focusing on 16th-century religious art-but they draw curiously few visitors, and quite a few of those seem to be merely seeking getting rid of the heat. You almost receive the sense that Dubrovnik’s tourists can’t wait to emerge from the city and into the surf, at least onto a chaise lounge. Browsing displays of medieval coins, muskets, and teacups on the Rector’s Palace were two barefoot Spanish girls in dripping wet swimsuits. The guards hardly noticed.
Despite its sober visage-stone battlements, stately Baroque façades-Dubrovnik in July feels as louche just like any Mediterranean beach resort. For every single Franciscan monastery, there’s a raucous café serving cocktails called Test Tube Baby and Blow Job. The bacchanal reaches its apex at Buza. Via a the perfect beach bar, I’ll have a honeybee. A literal hole-in-the-wall (reached via a tiny opening inside the Old Town ramparts, and marked by way of a sign reading COLD DRINKS), Buza unfolds across a series of terraces hewn to the cliffs. Nothing is but a narrow railing between you and the Adriatic. Plastic chairs and tables cluster with a thatch canopy; the bar is just a refrigerator and a stereo, both powered by an extension cord cord running up the cliffside. At sunset I joined the locals leaping off 20-foot-high bluffs to the green water below. Dean Martin was crooning “Cha Cha de Amor” while a 12-year-old girl waited tables, bringing chilly Ozujsko beer from your fridge. At some point, a yacht opened up and dropped anchor inside the cove below. We all watched since the bronzed pilot dove into the water, swam approximately the rocks, climbed the winding staircase, sat down at the table, and ordered a beer.
KORCULA
The sharp scent of pine resin mingles with salt air on Korcula, three hours by ferry from Dubrovnik. Forests of Aleppo pine, cypress, and holm oak choose this one of the Adriatic’s most verdant isles. It’s noted for top-notch wines and for being one of the many alleged birthplaces of Marco Polo.
Korcula’s primary draw, however, may be the town of the same name. A snow-globe version of Dubrovnik, having a compact historic quarter encased within stone walls, Korcula took shape under Venetian rule between your 10th and 18th centuries. An italian man , influence lingers in Renaissance-era loggias, arched bridges linking the top stories of palaces, and myriad statues of St. Mark. As opposed to Dubrovnik’s, the architecture is quite rough-hewn-all of Korcula looks to get carved from a single piece of stone, as an Adriatic Petra-and is on a decidedly smaller scale, with squat fluted windows and minuscule doorways rimmed with green shutters. The 30-odd lanes wending through the old quarter are so narrow that you might leap from rooftop to rooftop clear locally.
The English writer Rebecca West, visiting in 1937, likened Korcula to “a goldsmith’s toy, a tortoise created from precious metals, sitting on its peninsula as on the show-stand.” Not much has changed. Days start out with ink-black espresso at one of Korcula’s ubiquitous cafés, followed perhaps by way of a circuit around the pine-fringed promenade just outside the city walls. The Old Town’s promontory juts like a thumb into the shimmering bay, lapped by waves on three sides. Within your walls, however, you’d have little idea you were on the sea; the crooked passageways huddle in shadow for most of the day. I alternated stints at the sun-drenched town beach with cooling strolls along the old quarter’s lanes. Peering into darkened ground-floor kitchens I really could glimpse the dim figures of housewives preparing lunch: grilled squid, sautéed shrimp, wine-braised octopus. At Korcula’s jumbled Abbey Treasury museum, an enthralling old docent followed me from area to area, pointing out Titians and Tintorettos and switching lights off and on as we went.
In the afternoons I’d personally bike out for a bracing swim at Przina beach, a pebbly strand on Korcula’s southern peninsula, close to the town of Lumbarda. Lumbarda is famous for Grk wine (wonderful name, that), a pungent white with all the sweet character of liqueur. Vineyards crept over the roadside here; wheel-crushed grapes stained the asphalt. The path wound past olive, lime, and almond groves, past stalks of blood-red sunflowers, past a medieval chapel dropped in the center of a vineyard. With slices of prsut and sharp paski sir cheese procured from your butcher, I stopped to picnic next to the shell of a stone farmhouse; a copse of trees poked up through what remained in the roof.
I returned to Korcula Town right before sunset, the evening air soft like a silk shirt. The passageways were bathed inside the glow of amber lamps; moonlight cast a blue aura on ship masts and church steeples. Several women were grilling garlicky dorado on the barbecue while their children squeezed in a game of soccer. I assumed these were Korculan, but upon closer inspection, I realized these were all speaking French. (Foreigners-particularly French and Italian-are buying up property right here at a dizzying pace.)
Just beyond the medieval walls, Vespas were honking their way through the crowds by the marina. Beck’s “Sexx Laws” thumped from your harborfront disco. At the Internet café, Croatian teenagers were playing Grand Theft Auto. But along the musty, catacomb-like corridors of the Old Town, the evening slipped back 100, 500, 750 years, and Korcula looked up to it must have in Marco Polo’s day. The wine, of course, helped.
HVAR
By far the most glamorous in the Adriatic islands, Hvar is heir to that noble lineage running from Cannes and Capri through St. Bart’s and South Beach: the most up-to-date of the famous international playgrounds. On the height of summer, Hvar Town is really relentlessly gorgeous it makes up your eyes ache. Everything screams, Ogle me: the harbor edged with bougainvillea, the perfectly aged Renaissance façades, the absurdly huge yachts and sailboats, as well as a nonstop parade of caramelized torsos. Like the cast and setting didn’t already suggest a perfume ad, Hvar’s entire waterfront is redolent of lavender, which proliferates around the island and is sold in satchels by sidewalk vendors.
Each afternoon in summer, another dozen yachts glide into Hvar’s mandrac-the marine equal of the driveway at Monte Carlo’s casino. Here come the modern arrivals, in their brushed-steel cleats and finery: the Pescatore from Tuscany, the Commitment from London, the Aerie from Cap d’Ail, the Coup de Grace from Barbados. And here come their occupants, strutting insouciantly down gangways to alight around the pier: men in cream linen suits and Gucci sandals, divas in sheer silk wraps and Michael Kors bikinis. These folks can make an ATM withdrawal look sexy, writes tagza.com.