And then the Bastard shot me, in Dubrovnik
The first one hit me in the thigh; the second ricocheted off my wrist (it’s a little painful to type at the moment). It’s not like I wasn’t hiding behind a low wall, keeping myself as far out of direct fire as possible. But I didn’t see him sneak up on the left, and he had a clear shot. So the bastard fired at will, and here I am, in pain. At least I got him several times myself, earlier in the day, including a terrific shot right on the noggin. Let me tell you, the bruises from paintball are no laughing matter.
Debrovnik was hit by a flash flood an hour before my ferry arrived from Hvar. Rain had been forecast, but not the deluge that flooded dozens of shops throughout the town’s lower streets. As a result, my first impression of Byron’s “Pearl of the Adriatic” was one of shell shock, which, thanks to relentless bombing by the Serbs in the early 90’s, might be your current impression too. Unlike shells falling from the sky, this time it was only rain, which quickly washed away into the sea, leaving a big mess and a lot of locals standing around wondering what the hell just happened. As soon as the army of backpackers exited the ferry, we were attacked by old ladies with breast-sized facial moles, aggressively waving papers saying “Sobe, Zimmer, Apartments”. It is said that in womens tennis, you always bet on the lesbian, and I say, when accosted by old ladies offering rooms, always bet on the youngest, most attractive one. Margherita waited for us patiently as we trooped off to the Tourist Info only to find it underwater. In the meantime, we had picked up a squadron of Chilean girls who were keen to share an apartment, and an hour later, as I watched a glorious sunset over the sea from our 6th floor window, I knew that in the war to come, I had victoriously overcome my first battle.
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