The Lady is a Tramp

To be honest, Lady PiPi is grotesque.

Head thrown back like her throat's been cut, face frozen in a grimace, breasts pointed disjointedly at the sky, the seated figure's hands encircle her, uh, girl parts, from which a metal tube provides the flow of water. Lady Pipi, you see, is a sculpture.

And just to be clear, that's pronounced lady Pee-pee.

I'm not sure I'd have ever known about her or her namesake restaurant if I hadn't seen that the owner of Note Bene had been in Dubrovnik over the summer. Knowing I'd be en route myself in a couple months, the next time I'd been in for dinner, I'd made sure to pick her brain about must-dos.

The first words out of her mouth after, "You're going to have a ball in Dubrovnik," was, "Lady Pipi, you have to go! Fabulous food, amazing views." And no question about it, she's someone I'd trust completely when it comes to food recommendations.

And no surprise about that because the outdoor restaurant has the feel of a treehouse perched above the city, with a grapevine-draped pergola overhead and plants for "walls." On the street level is a small area with a few tables, while upstairs is an open air grill (ah, now I se the Note Bene connection) with wooden tables and a postcard-worthy view.

And while some visitors might be put off by a restaurant all the way at the top of the walled city or by their no reservation policy, we had issues with neither. So after a couple hours spent walking the side of the city we hadn't walked the day before, we came to Lady Pipi's.

Funny part was, we didn't even notice the sculpture out front, despite that I knew enough from my research online to have looked for it. That may have been because when we inquired about a table for two, the server pointed to the young Japanese woman standing nearby and informed her she'd be eating with us.

Lady Pipi is apparently too desirable a place to eat to waste a table on single diners.

But it worked out well for us because Shiho, our third, turned out to be delightful company whose English far surpassed our Japanese. Turns out she was on a two week solo holiday from her job with a film company and had come to Lady Pipi solely because her hotel concierge had recommended it.

Without, by the way, mentioning the Lady's namesake sculpture or its bared body parts.

The views were astonishing, covering the entire walled city and beyond to the Adriatic, and the couple behind us shared that they'd waited half an hour for their prime table. We were three feet away and had done nothing more than walk up and luck into our table.

To quote Rod Stewart, some guys have all the luck.

It was interesting, Himself and I naturally ordered seafood (hello, blue-green sea and its bounty), but the representative from Japan went straight for sausages and potatoes. I guess when sushi is a mainstay, it's animal parts that seem exotic on vacation.

My Buza shrimps (no menu here uses the plural without an "s") were actually head-on prawns in a creamy tomato sauce perfect for sopping with crusty bread. But opening and eating them was one step removed from eating crabs, with the added challenge of being immersed in a hot sauce. I cut my thumb on a claw and bled a little on one bite, but who's keeping track? Himself made do with a large plate of onion-filled octopus salad, a staple in these parts except breakfast.

At least so far, but the trip's far from over.

Because she was wearing a black baseball cap from "The Met," we asked how she'd liked New York City. But she'd never been and the hat was a gift from a friend who had. "And it looks very good," she insisted with a smile.

Chatting about our respective vacations as we ate, Himself, ever the planner, inquired of Shiho - mind you, she was only on day four of her trip - what her next vacation was going to be. When she looked surprised at the question, I couldn't resist explaining that this is a man who already has vacations planned through Fall 2019.

And that's just what I know of.

Shiho's mouth dropped open and her eyes crinkled as she laid her head on her hand atop the table to laugh. "Next year?" she asked, amazed and perhaps making generalizations about Americans in her head, but never spoken aloud.

Yup, you heard right. And that's only the stuff that's been nailed down.

She told us how difficult it was to find someone to travel with now that her friends are all married and knocking out kids, but also that few of her peers got two weeks vacation yet. And when you're talking about a trip that took her 30 hours to get here (and I thought South Africa was bad at 20-some), a fair amount of commitment is involved.

When I found out that Shiho knew nothing of Lady Pipi or her exhibitionist tendencies, I insisted the three of us lay eyes upon her together. I didn't give anything away, just led her and Himself downstairs and made an abrupt U-turn.

If you've never seen a young Japanese woman agog, allow me to tell you abut it. Her eyes bugged out, her face went a little pale and her mouth dropped open. Shocked as she was, she obligingly took a photo of Lady Pipi, Himself and me when he handed her his phone and asked her to. In fact, she was gracious enough to snap several.

He went on to insist on taking her picture with the Lady, fully aware that no one back in Japan was going to fully comprehend the glory of Pipi without a picture to prove it. She promptly insisted that I be in the photo with her, because what makes more sense than a crass sculpture paired with an American and a Japanese in a Met hat?

My work in Dubrovnik is finished now. I can move on, knowing my legacy here will live on in Tokyo. Godspeed, Lady Pipi.

Eat Me, Drink Me

The way to a man's this woman's heart is through her stomach.

Knowing that, Himself had booked a Dubrovnik food tour for late Saturday afternoon, requiring us to be at the bell tower promptly  at 4 to meet our guide, Tea. A native Croatian full of facts, lore and high dramatic ability, she was not the original guide slated to lead the two Americans and two Aussies, but a last minute fill-in.

Lucky us.

Her first order of business was asking each of our professions  - banker, counselor, writer, architect - so she could work pertinent information into her spiel whether it related to food or not. And this was after she delivered the entire military and political history of Croatia to us (to the complete and utter boredom of the banker who rolled his eyes repeatedly) before we even moved from the under the tower.

If she brought up Tito one more time, I think the counselor would have choked her.

At our first stop for antipasto (local goat, sheep and cow cheeses, Dalmatian ham, octopus salad, olives, crusty bread) and wine, she regaled us with viticulture facts and her life history as the music from a  nearby wedding blasted through the streets. Seems she lived a few blocks away, so the fact that multiple weddings are held every Saturday was a terrible inconvenience to her.

"That's why I need these," she said with disdain, lifting up the pair of ear plugs that hung around her neck. Not long after, she pointed out the wedding party, visible at the end of the street, making their way toward the church.

When I asked if she was going to eat and drink with us, she pooh-poohed the idea, saying that she couldn't possibly because she was on duty. Please, Tea is a professional.

Explaining what a Roman Catholic country she and Croatia are, she inquired about our religion, or, more accurately, she asked about the religion of the banker - Anglican, resulting in a discussion of her thoughts on the Anglican church - and the architect.

For the record, absolutely no inquiries whatsoever were made about the religion of either woman.

Even better, when the architect mentioned he was a Polish Jew, she looked right at him and announced with a coy smile, "That's why you are so beautiful." Her charm offensive was only beginning at that point.

When music began for the second time, we were just finishing up our starters and barely beginning to feel the wine.

"Let's go see the bride and groom," she instructed and we were off. Walking between buildings, she pointed to a ledge on the wall about three feet off the ground. "You see these thick legs of mine?" she asked, pointing our her cankles. "When we were children, we walked along this ledge and you couldn't fall off, so we got sturdy legs."

I didn't have the heart to tell her those ankles were pure Croatian DNA.

Once at the end of the street, she had nothing but disdain upon realizing that it was a Zumba competition, not the nuptials of soul mates that was responsible for the blaring music and her pace picked up noticeably.

At the miniscule restaurant tucked away on a side street that was destination #2, we settled into a long table with Tea holding court at the end. Everyone crowded into the far end of the table, leaving me to sit next to our voluble guide.

Wine was delivered just before the open kitchen began delivering course after course of food. Tuna tartare, fish pate, squid risotto made black with squid ink and a local specialty involving pasta and long-braised beef that showed clear ties to nearby Italy quickly covered the table top.

The difference with our second stop was that when I offered Tea some of our leftover tartare, she smiled demurely and said, "Well, I can have just one bite" and proceeded to polish it off. When I suggested she try the fish pate, again her "just one bite" became multiples. Pretty soon she was demolishing the rest of our risotto and pecking at the pasta.

Stuffed already and it was only stop two, she announced that our next stop was at La Dolce Vita for the best gelato in Dubrovnik. But rather than ramble on about gelato, she took a tangent about Anita Eckberg's breasts spilling out of her white bathing suit in the Fellini film by that name.

No one gets to derail Tea when she's on a tear,

Walking down the cobblestone streets behind her like we were playing Follow the Leader, she heard music playing and began swaying her hips suggestively, looking coyly over her shoulder to see if anyone noticed.

The banker was aghast, but the two glasses of red wine at stop #2 had mellowed him enough not to grab his wife and make a break for their hotel. It was about at this point that I began to wonder if Tea wasn't taking a nip in between stops.

After we'd each gotten our gelato, she looked at us and said, "Let's go somewhere forbidden!" and led us into an adjacent coral workshop  where the shopkeeper explained Croatia's long history with coral. Seems there are only 12 coral diver positions available in Croatia and when someone dies or tires of  plunging to the depths of the Adriatic, their position is passed on to a family member.

That said, there were some incredibly beautiful pieces of coral fashioned into jewelry, including those set into Star Wars-related pieces. No kidding, the storekeeper had a coral light saber pinned to his lapel. A Storm Trooper figure modeled a magnificent  necklace.

Clearly the Croatians are still reveling in "The Last Jedi" having been filmed here.

Next came Tea's art gallery, a narrow space filled with sculpture and paintings, where her assistant proceeded to pour us shot glasses of Orahovac, a green walnut liqueur of the deepest brown. Never one to miss an opportunity, she delayed our departure by explaining first how it was made and then about the two artists being shown on the gallery walls.

Needless to say, Tea had no problem sipping Orahovac with us.

On the way to the next stop, we lost track of Tea, who showed up in time to lead us through the kitchen of a bustling restaurant during dinner service, to the obvious amazement of seated guests outside.

I could only imagine how much the kitchen staff hated us.

The only problem was that as she went sashaying through the kitchen, a server carrying a tray came through the door to the patio, resulting in a collision, broken plates and a whole lot of noise.

"It wasn't my fault!" Tea proclaimed to her followers as we walked around shards of broken china into the warm night air. Again, her walking became dancing and I was convinced she was nipping every chance she got, regardless of her claims to refrain while on duty.

Hey, no judgment here. Drink away, honey, and we'll all get along better.

As we made our way to a pastry shop to savor a dessert of four kinds of cake - orange (my favorite), carrot, almond (proclaimed by Tea as "This one is the best!") and chocolate, the subject of YouTube came up and how difficult it was for her to find specific videos. The Aussies mentioned their YouTube videos, but it was when the architect mentioned he had videos that she lit up. "I want to find you!" she enthused.

Clearly, someone needed to hose Tea down.

When the proprietor asked what we wanted to drink with our pastries, I had the unmitigated gall to ask for water, further arousing Tea's disdain. The architect tried to save me by ordering the local plum brandy (45 proof, leading to a discussion of, yuck, vodka) for me, although no one else could stomach it. At least it got me back in Tea's tolerant graces.

I tell you, it wasn't easy being a woman on Tea's tour.

Our final stop took us to Wine Bar Matusko, located in one of the many caves built into the basements of Dubrovnik houses that she'd told us about.  Down below was the wine cellar. Settling into couches in the back of the dimly lit bar, generous pours of their best white and red wines showed up on the tables in front of us.

And, just like that, Tea cut bait. This woman who'd overshared that her husband wants her to stop working and stay home (granted, she had to be of a retirement age), who'd told us about her second home on a nearby island where she goes to escape the hustle and bustle of Dubrovnik, who'd ranted about the cruise ships charging no fare for children and thus inundating Dubrovnik with squalling children, now had places to be. Immediately.

And like a ship in the night, Tea walked out of our lives, leaving us stuffed and loopy.

We lingered with the Aussies, sipping wine and reliving all the hilarious and inappropriate things Tea had said over the course of four hours. When they decided to call it a day, we were left to finish their untouched second glasses and talk to our heart's content.

Occasionally a couple or small group would take over one of the couches, glasses in hand, but we barely looked up and outlasted them all. Only servers remained when we said goodnight.

And somewhere, Tea the tour guide was probably breaking dishes and dancing at the silent disco. You know, like native Croatian woman with thick ankles do on a Saturday night.

Me, I was enjoying walking Dubrovnik's main drag full and happy in the moonlight. You know, like women who travel on their stomachs do.

Lost in Dubrovnik

Yes, sir, I will happily travel 4,000 miles to eat fried chicken with the right person.

And if that means a two hour delay at Dulles (after Mac delivered me with her usual sunny kindness) while waiting for thunderstorms to move through, so be it. If it means my 2 1/2 hour layover in Dublin (the mother country, finally!) is reduced to a power walk from gate to gate, that's fine, too.

And, horrors, even if it means I get up from lunch on the first day and completely forget my purse - passport and all - and don't discover my stupidity or recover it for five hours, well, that's just the way it goes.

Let's just say I couldn't help but spontaneously hug the guy at the restaurant when he brought it to me that night, a big smile on his face. For that matter, I hugged him again the next morning when I ran into after breakfast. It took until today to just smile and greet him without wantonly showing my gratitude.

Because now that I've been here three days and come out of my jet lag coma, I'm here to say that Dubrovnik is a pretty spectacular place any way you look at it. And I'm looking at it every way I can, from the centuries-old limestone walls to the red tiled rooves of the walled city, from the narrow winding streets overlooking the Adriatic to the view from our hotel room through green shutters overlooking the café-filled cobblestone streets.

Every day begins with breakfast at Alcove 5, the hotel's rooftop restaurant with a view of the impossibly blue sea, a weather vane-topped bell tower and scores of red rooves, the car-less streets not even visible from on high.

Breakfast itself is just as delightful. So far, I haven't been able to tear myself away from a thick round of housemade brioche topped with avocado chunks, radishes, sundried tomatoes, fresh radishes and cherry tomatoes under a flurry of Feta accompanied by fresh-squeezed orange juice, loving how decidedly un-American a breakfast it is. Himself has moved between an equally unusual bowl of salmon, avocado, quinoa, soft boiled egg and arugula and a more standard yogurt and fruit bowl, but he doesn't turn down bites of my brioche, either.

Part of the breakfast view is the line of tourists walking the wall, but we assume those must be people from the cruise ships anchored at the port, because who else is out and about at 10:30 when we're just having our first meal of the day? German tourist with black socks and brown shoes, that's who. Ahem.

I'm charmed by the everyday here. Even something as simple as lines of laundry - we've seen everything from white sheets to a black bra - hanging outside so many houses in the September sunlight catches my eye. Laundry never looked so charming in our country.

Walking along the waterfront, we're amazed at how clear the water is and how tiny some of the boats are. Young men in the tightest and briefest of swim trunks (or maybe it's their underwear, I couldn't really say) jump off the edge of the point near the fort and then stretch out spread eagle to dry off in the sun, while Japanese tourists snap their picture.

Dinner last night meant meeting the Australian couple I've been hearing about for a while now and they were not only as delightful as I'd heard, but funnier than I could have hoped for. Seeing a part of the world that's completely new to me is wonderful, but the satisfaction of dishing with people who've known Himself longer than I have and chose to share some riotous stories involving red wine fountains and gin-soaked nights? Priceless.

I know many of the visitors to Dubrovnik were attracted to it because it's where "Game of Thrones" is filmed, but it turns out that "The Last Jedi" was also made here and there are enough Star Wars t-shirts walking around to prove it.

We, of course, care about neither.

After hours of walking around, past hostels and apartments, into a museum devoted to olive oil, inside dark churches smelling of incense and old wood, we paused for a snack at Ding Dong for one main reason: the three slender wooden tables for two that rested on the narrow, steep steps between streets.

As if by plan, the front one vacated just as we arrived and we sat down without knowing what we were getting. Turns out there was one thing and one thing only on the menu - Korean fried chicken in a variety of sauces from mildly hot to maddeningly hot - and that was just fine by us.

After taking our order, our server Pavo looked at Himself quizzically and asked, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like...?" and we both knew what was coming. Picture-taking ensued (it always does because no one believes he really isn't Richard Gere), as did Pavo's recommendation that we eat with our fingers, not utensils.

Not to worry, I assured Pavo that if we were going to have our first meal on tables bolted to cobblestone steps, he could be damn sure we were going to do it finger-lickin' good-style.

I may be in Dubrovnik for the first time and I may have been brain dead for a while, but no one needs to tell this girl how to eat fried chicken.

Much less how to enjoy every bit of this with the right person. The right person.