One does not simply wander into King’s Landing.
Unprepared, that is.
I may be an impulsive solo traveler but I’m not dumb. So I’d booked a flat that was outside the Old City (which meant it wasn’t ruinously expensive), but in the bustling neighborhood of Gruz, with supermarkets, shops and cafe within walking distance, right next to the port and main bus station.
And I’d gotten in touch with my landlady, securing instructions on how to get myself to Gruz from the airport. She said she would meet me at the station for the two-minute walk. All good.
I literally spent the entire day traveling. Six hours’ flight to Zurich, a quick layover, then another two to Dubrovnik.
I didn’t step out of Zurich Airport but I am already in love with the country. People were so friendly and polite, the airport was idiot-proof even for first-time transfer passengers stressing about catching their next flight and whether their checked-through baggage was going to catch it with them.
And on the train they play COW BELLS and other fun Alpine sounds.
Aboard the Croatia Airlines flight I had a glass of red (Dobar tek– Enjoy- as the red-and-white snack bag told me) while craning my neck to catch glimpses of the coastline. When Dubrovnik appeared, looking every inch the mighty seaward fortress it had once been, I had to catch my breath. Even from thousands of feet in the air it was magnificent.
At Dubrovnik Airport, I grabbed a couple of maps and changed a few euros to kunas. Only enough for for the bus and some groceries, though, I would save the rest for a proper bank transaction. Croatia is part of the EU but most establishments deal in the local currency.
70 kunas bought a return ticket, and I settled in for the scenic 40-minute journey.
When stari grad Dubrovnik’s walls suddenly loomed up in front I had to suppress a squeal. King’s Landing at last! Then I hurriedly snapped some photos and dispatched them to the family group chat.
The bus took a tight turn, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed some very cute firemen hanging out in front of the fire station.
If the locals looked like that, this was going to be a very pleasant holiday indeed!
My lovely redheaded landlady Ana met me at the station as promised, and bundled me and my luggage into her car for the extremely short trip to the hillside flat. We really could have walked, but it was nice not to have to haul my luggage up several flights of steps after such a long day.
And the flat. Wow.
Spacious, comfortable and impeccably clean, designed with a slightly Scandinavian aesthetic, with a fully furnished kitchenette and a balcony that looked out over the harbor, it looked just like it did online (a rarity, as we all know), and I silently blessed the gods of the Internet and Booking.com who had led me here.
But it wasn’t over yet.
7 pm and the sun was still high in the sky- did it never want to set on the ageless beauty that was going to be my home for a week? I wouldn’t, either.
So I ambled down the many, many steps and down the quiet street, breathing in the cold, crisp breeze, until I found a little Pemo supermarket.
The week’s worth of groceries I got for the equivalent of 20 riyals would make you cry. I will never shop in Doha the same way again.
Thus well-provisioned, I huffed and puffed my way back up to my flat and spent the rest of the evening on the balcony with a glass of Croatian zinfandel made by Ana’s cousin in the family vineyard, watching the sun go down (finally) in a blaze of mauve and coral.
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