Beauty on the Dalmatian Coast - Dubrovnik

This is the third time I write about Dubrovnik, but I just can't help myself, because it is always at the top of my list of the most beautiful cities in the world.

"Dalmatia's most famous city is touted as an unspoiled gem, though this is really a matter of degree. While it's not 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 maintains a precarious equilibrium between Then and Now, Here and Elsewhere. Menus in Italian, English, and German hang outside every tra-ditional wooden-beamed konoba, or tavern. Benetton and Diesel boutiques line the medieval lanes. And pushcart vendors proffer not just handmade olive soaps but also Old Town mouse pads.

Such culture clashes form the essence of this city, and always have. In the Old Town, one feels a sense of displacement, as if all of Europe had come to cluster within Dubrovnik's fortified walls. At various points, most of Europe has. Witness the twisting staircase above Gundulic Square, an explicit homage to the Spanish Steps; the 16th-century Baroque cathedrals abutting Renaissance palaces and medieval fortresses; and the Gradska Kavana, a café straight out of fin de sičcle Vienna.

The Old Town is shaped like a cereal bowl; from its elevated rim you can gaze across the city's orange roofs to 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 street to an icy gloss—you expect a Zamboni to arrive at any moment. Each evening the Stradun roars to life 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 in an all-white habit. She's trailed by a surfer dude in satin shorts, nothing more. Both wear crucifixes.

The summer crowds may seem unavoidable down on the main streets, so strike up any lane into the higher parts of town. Here the only signs of life are alley cats dozing on the cool and shady stone. The air 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 all things, faint strains of Dixieland echoing down the alleyways. I soon came upon an open doorway, inside which—barely visible in the dim—sat a half-dozen young Croats in shorts, gleefully blowing jazz for an audience of indifferent cats."

Text from: travelandleisure.com