Lament for Dubrovnik

I find Dubrovnik a depressing place nowadays.

I remember the first time I stepped through the Pile gate into the old city, all those years ago. The main street, Stradun unfolded before me, funnelling down to the clock tower at the far end. The shiny flagstones shimmered in the fading early evening light. The immense city walls towering up on either side. I had never seen a more impressive sight.

I was young then. I sat on the steps climbing up the narrow side streets, overflowing with greenery from the tall houses. The little bars supplied cushions for us youngsters to sit on as we wiled away the carefree nights. It was beautiful.

In daytime, exploring the streets, the palaces, the monasteries, the old harbour, all the little narrow streets, walking the walls, taking the cable car up the mountain above the city, marvelling at the view. The sea lapping at its walls, a blue sky overhead. A city built on the trade between Europe and the Ottoman Empire, one of the greatest summits of European civilisation.

Then there was the war, the destruction, the vandalism of one of Europe’s greatest treasures and the careless slaughter and terrorism of its people, by barbarians. Returning a few years later, Dubrovnik’s charms were no less. The crowds had gone, the city was struggling. But it was still beautiful, and the endurance of the war seemed to have given it an even greater nobility. Dubrovnik was lovely in winter as well. Evenings in the Trubador jazz club, the random punters joining in the jam sessions of Marko and the regulars. Lunches at Kamenica, the oyster bar on the main square, or at Rozarij.

Afternoons on Lokrum, swimming in the clear sea, wandering the island, alone like it was my kingdom, strolling up to the castle at the top, sitting in the botanical garden. Lunch at the restaurant in the ruined monastery, whatever fish had been caught that day, the recommendation of the waiter never failing, washed down with wine, looking out over the garden, with the peacocks, to the sea beyond.

Things started to go wrong when the Lokrum restaurant was taken over from the hotel Argentina by another, lesser hotel. All quality gone, the waiters clueless and uninterested, the beautiful ruin made gaudy.

But still visits to Dubrovnik were delightful. Buying fruit on the market and taking it off to Lokrum, to sit and reflect between dips.

But then the crowds started to increase. And not the exuberant youths, the excited backpackers of 20 years before, staying for a pittance in private accommodation. Now it was the cruise boats, two, four at a time, spewing forth thousands of people for a few hours each day, clogging up the streets, the cafes, not eating, going back to their boats for lunch. The antagonism of the locals, for whom the hoards became nothing more than money fodder, people to be filched, the lowest quality they could get away with, for the highest price. Even the wonderful Kamenica succumbed.

This year I arrived at Dubrovnik in a huge thunderstorm, massive cruise boats towering above the harbour, others standing off at sea. I got out, soaked, as soon as I could, down the coast to Cavtat, still charming, still delightful, the locals still friendly. Lounging on the rocks, soaking up sun, coffee at Zino’s. Evenings on the dreamy terrace, the sea lapping below, figs by the armful. Alas, even Cavtat had its disappointment though. The once wonderful Leut, now with higher prices, the quality gone to pieces. This was the second year it was so. I gave it a second chance, but I will not give it a third. The once beautifully dressed seafood salad now flat and dull. The fried squid, once so crisp and delicate, so perfect, now sloppy and tasting of nothing but the oil in which it was cooked. The house white, once pleasingly fresh and fruity, now lifeless and not even chilled. Perhaps they just don’t care anymore. Perhaps they don’t think they have to. A shame. They had a reputation once. Gerard Depardieu had eaten there, and Misha Saakashvili. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone now.

Dubrovnik has become little more than a commodity to be sold. But it is being devalued. Nevertheless, the walls, the palaces, and somewhere, no doubt, the spirit of the people, the troubadours, is still there. Maybe still in winter.

Partisans in Montenegro

What a pleasure it was to be in Montenegro. Perhaps it is mainly due to familiarity, but I am hugely fond of the place. This year there was a splendid event organised by the UK embassy and the Montenegrin defence ministry. At the village of Brezna, between Nikšić and Plužine, there was a ceremony and the unveiling of a monument to mark an operation in 1944 when the British and other allied air forces rescued around 1,000 wounded Partisans who would otherwise have been slaughtered by the approaching German army. A makeshift airfield was prepared and the wounded evacuated, all in 48 hours. The event included a wonderful exhibition of photographs of the airlift.

An old soldier remembers

The attention given in recent times to the last few, very old, First World War veterans made the presence of a few elderly men who had participated in the events at Brezna in 1944 seem especially poignant. The 88-year old British gentleman who had helped build the airfield was sprightly and clearly delighted to be back and to reminisce. Among those who made speeches was the head of Montenegro's World War II veterans' organisation. He had been not far away during the Brezna operation. Beginning his speech with the nostalgic "Drugovi i drugarice..." ("Comrades" - male and female). He spoke warmly of lasting Montenegrin-British friendship. There were other old partisans there as well. What they achieved was remarkable, and in the midst of a very brutal guerrilla war, this was a humanitarian mission, to save lives. Some other ambassadors were there, including those of Russia and the United States, whose air forces had also participated. The German ambassador was not present. Apparently he did not consider it had been organised in a spirit of reconciliation. It is hard not to conclude that his presence, more than anything, would have helped stress such a spirit. But it is difficult to escape the nature of what had happened. The German army would have killed all those wounded, if they had got the chance. They had already massacred hundreds of innocents in that very area. While appreciating that this event may not have been comfortable for the German ambassador, perhaps on this occasion it was not appropriate for him to criticise the lack of commitment of others to reconciliation. But it was a happy event, and a wonderful recognition of the heroism of those old men.

Rucola or not

I love Rucola (Rocket). One of my favourite things to eat. In Albania recently, I ate it (with parmesan, olive oil and balsamico) until I was almost tired of it. That bitter, peppery taste is delicious. Quite a luxury in England, in the Balkans it is almost as readily available as lettuce.

So it was with pleasure that I awaited my Rucola and parmesan salad at the restaurant Opera, just off the Trg Republike (the main square) in Belgrade, next to the Hotel Majestic, the favoured haunt of British spies in the Yugoslav capital in the couple of years before the Germans invaded the country in 1941. The Opera is supposed to be a good place, but today there was a problem. The Rucola was not Rucola. I noticed at once that the leaves were completely the wrong shape, too wide and rounded. I had a taste to confirm, and indeed, there was none of the trademark herby pepperiness. I signalled to the waiter. I am afraid this is not Rucola. Not Rucola? Yes it is. Our Rucola is like that. What? So Rucola at that restaurant is different from Rucola everywhere else? No, I insisted, it is not. He took the plate away. Moments later the manager came over with the plate. She agreed that it looked unusual for Rucola, and that it did not taste like Rucola. But, she insisted, it was Rucola. They had been buying it from the same man for five years, and he had sold it to them as Rucola. Very patronising. When I still maintained it was not Rucola, she raised her eyebrows and grimaced impatiently, as if I were an idiot. At this point I got cross. This was not Rucola. Whatever her man said, she should know it was not Rucola. I had proper Rucola at that restaurant on a previous occasion. This was something else, possibly spinach. She agreed to take the plate away. At least my pasta dish was OK, but the dessert was a disappointment, a soggy cherry pie with not very good ice cream and, worst of all, they put on the plate some of that sweet, sickly red stuff from a tube, that is supposed to taste like strawberry, and is meant to make ice cream look more colourful for children. Awful.

I had a Rucola salad at Trebeca, near Kalamegdan, the next day, just to check I was not crazy. Hooray! Real Rucola. Confidence restored a little.

Archives in Belgrade

I have been having a nostalgia trip, going back to my old days as a graduate student, working in musty archives, poring through documents of times gone by. The last time I worked in archives in Belgrade was in 1994. Ultimately, it was a reasonably fruitful stay, but my word it didn't come easily. At the Arhiv Jugoslavije (Archive of Yugoslavia) the lady in the reading room was appalled that I had entered the building without handing over my passport (the guard at the entrance had waved me through without asking for it). How could they know who I was? I might be a terrorist. I might have a bomb in my bag. I kept a straight face and offered to let her see the contents of my bag.

But those were not normal times in Belgrade. Walking back to the flat where I was staying, in the elite district of Dedinje, I regularly passed the headquarters of the notorious Arkan, the football hooligan turned secret police agent turned gangster and war criminal, who nevertheless never lost his baby-face. It was scary just to pass the place on the street, with the menacing black-clad security guards standing outside. I just looked straight ahead up the street, avoiding looking directly at them or the building, lengthening my stride and hurrying past. One morning there was the news that one of the guards had shot a man dead in the street as he walked past the building. Apparently he had walked back and forth in front of the building, arousing suspicion. The headline was not that Arkan's men had shot a passer-by (who may well have just been trying to find his way, or else had a fatal curiosity), but rather who was this man? It was a warped country at that time.

I eventually got permission to work in the Arhiv Jugoslavije, with the help of a reference from a local historian. Help from a local contact was also crucial to getting into the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita (Archive of Josip Broz Tito). Initially I was refused permission. But then a friendly local historian who I had earlier met in London, visiting the archive himself, asked if I had been there. They phoned me to tell me I could use the archive after all. Connections mean everything in the Balkans. At the military archive the junior officer who dealt with me was very friendly, and I received a signed and stamped document confirming that "Comrade Palmer" was granted permission to use the archive.

Fifteen years later, this time things were easier at the Arhiv Jugoslavije (I handed my passport in at the gate, as requested), which had by now taken over the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita as well. All very friendly, the staff helped me find the documents I was looking for. At the Diplomatic Archive, at the foreign ministry, it was another matter. I should have applied to use the archive well in advance, as the approval of the foreign minister himself was required - excessive, surely.

Researching a visit to Yugoslavia by Brezhnev in 1976, I did not find exactly what I was hoping for. But it was fascinating to see the dynamic between these two "brotherly", yet long-estranged and deeply suspicious old dictators, Brezhnev and Tito. Behind the diplomatic niceties, the talking was tough. The Soviets were upset by the criticisms of the Soviet Union by Yugoslav politicians, writers and journalists. They wanted the use of the Adriatic ports and Yugoslav airports. They were reserved about Yugoslavia's prominent role in the non-aligned movement, with its many non-communist members - hob-knobbing with capitalists. They pressed for direct social contacts between Soviet and Yugoslav organisations, bypassing state and party (an opportunity for infiltration, the Yugoslav side clearly thought). The Yugoslavs, who had a good idea what was coming, rejected the requests and reacted defensively to the complaints about anti-Soviet writings. Tito, who talked happily with Brezhnev about hunting, was short and to the point on substantive matters: this is completely unacceptable; we do not work like that. The middle of the Cold War, Tito played Yugoslavia's hand between East and West firmly and skilfully, but communist or no, he knew that his regime's financial backers were in the West.