Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Pero uncorked a bottle of
orahovica
(the local grappa-like firewater) and told me his
story. He got a monthly retirement check for being wounded in the war, but was bored and
didn't want to live on the tiny government stipend—so he went to work and turned the
remains of his Old Town home into a fine guest house.
Hoping to write that evening with a clear head, I tried to refuse Pero's drink. But
this is a Slavic land. Remembering times when I was force-fed vodka in Russia by new
friends, I knew it was hopeless. Pero made this hooch himself, with green walnuts. As he
slugged down a shot, he handed me a glass, wheezing, “Walnut grappa—it recovers your
energy.”
Pero, whose war injury will be with him for the rest of his life, held up the mangled
tail of a mortar shell he pulled out from under his kitchen counter and described how the
gorgeous stone and knotty-wood building he grew up in suffered a direct hit in the 1991
siege of Dubrovnik. He put the mortar in my hands. Just as I don't enjoy holding a gun, I
didn't enjoy touching the twisted remains of that mortar.
