Squawk Radio
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Connie visits the Croatian City of Dubrovnik and nearly strokes out.
This is a medieval walled city, the wall completely encircling the entire town (whose streets, btw, are paved in marble). David, Rachel and I walked in under the gate took one look up—700 feet up-- and decided that we needed to experience the romance of "walking the wall." So we climbed a five thousand step staircase where, by the time we reached the top, my ass muscles had seized up so badly you couldn’t have dinted the cellulite with a jackhammer. No problem. The initial assault behind us, we sallied forth, breezing pasty laggards and pathetic red-faced tourists like the stalwart Minnesotans we knew ourselves to be.
“There are more steps,” a few of them gasped as we shot by them, doling out sympathetic if condescending smiles.
Steps? pfft. What are steps to the heirs of lumberjacks?
%^%#$8ng hard work, that’s what!
It took us an hour to make it around and ever fifth of a mile or so was punctuated by more steps and they all went UP. It was freakish! Every bloody step went up! And there was no shade, none, miles of blistering white marble and pale granite, baking atop a cliff. There were only a few wider spots on the path where grinning Croatians (who I assume hadn't seen the bottom of all those bloody steps since birth) sold bottled water and Figs on a Rope. We bought five gallons. We found out later that they average six emergency episodes a week during tourist season.
It was well worth it, though. The views overlooking the Dalmatian Islands (populated by packs of indigenous spotted dog ?) were breathtaking. Here's one. Those ants climbing? People. One is probably me.
Still, by the time we finished and started down, I was snagging every fresh- faced passer-by trotting up and, using my best sybil voice, rasping out, “Pace yourself. There are a lot more steps. Alot. I mean this. There are a ^&%$ing million steps ahead of you.”
They shook off my sweaty hand and smiled. Kindly.
This is a medieval walled city, the wall completely encircling the entire town (whose streets, btw, are paved in marble). David, Rachel and I walked in under the gate took one look up—700 feet up-- and decided that we needed to experience the romance of "walking the wall." So we climbed a five thousand step staircase where, by the time we reached the top, my ass muscles had seized up so badly you couldn’t have dinted the cellulite with a jackhammer. No problem. The initial assault behind us, we sallied forth, breezing pasty laggards and pathetic red-faced tourists like the stalwart Minnesotans we knew ourselves to be.
“There are more steps,” a few of them gasped as we shot by them, doling out sympathetic if condescending smiles.
Steps? pfft. What are steps to the heirs of lumberjacks?
%^%#$8ng hard work, that’s what!
It took us an hour to make it around and ever fifth of a mile or so was punctuated by more steps and they all went UP. It was freakish! Every bloody step went up! And there was no shade, none, miles of blistering white marble and pale granite, baking atop a cliff. There were only a few wider spots on the path where grinning Croatians (who I assume hadn't seen the bottom of all those bloody steps since birth) sold bottled water and Figs on a Rope. We bought five gallons. We found out later that they average six emergency episodes a week during tourist season.
It was well worth it, though. The views overlooking the Dalmatian Islands (populated by packs of indigenous spotted dog ?) were breathtaking. Here's one. Those ants climbing? People. One is probably me.
Still, by the time we finished and started down, I was snagging every fresh- faced passer-by trotting up and, using my best sybil voice, rasping out, “Pace yourself. There are a lot more steps. Alot. I mean this. There are a ^&%$ing million steps ahead of you.”
They shook off my sweaty hand and smiled. Kindly.
Connie Brockway, 12:45 PM
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