Croatia

The soldiers didn't invade with knives, but the bombardment had begun. Local residents say the troops rained explosives down on the city from October until May, from sunrise until dark. Most people, like Darija's family, lived like rats in basement shelters during the day. The moment they stopped hearing the "thunder," they'd surface and head for the marina and bathe in the winter sea, using kerosene lanterns to guide them. They didn't have electricity or running water until the siege ended.

We stroll down the smooth limestone cobblestones of the Stradun, which is like a walkway of polished ivory tiles. This is the main promenade, lined with shops and cafes all shaded by blue awnings and crowded with young Croatians who look gorgeous and trendy and thin. Darija turns down a narrow alley and we follow her past art galleries and shops into the market square. Local farmers sell garlands of dried figs and bay leaves, and they pile tomatoes and peaches and baby arugula on rickety tables under striped umbrellas. By evening, the vendors will have disappeared and the square will be filled with tables, and we'll be feasting on platters of briny oysters that a fisherman just lugged in from his boat.

But now it's time for lunch, and Darija motions us to sit in the shade outside Buffet Skola, her favorite sandwich shop. She's right: Who could believe that much of this glorious town was rubble? The moment the siege ended, the Croatian government and United Nations began raising tens of millions of dollars to repair the damage. They ordered a city's-worth of clay roof tiles from European factories; the new replacements are a bit too orange next to the muted tiles that survived the war, but hardly anyone's complaining. They hired stonemasons to replace every pulverized cobblestone and rebuild every collapsed wall. They imported sculptors from other nations to heal every statue that was missing a hand or nose.

Darija gives a gracious, fake little laugh and says she's tired of talking about the war. The waitress has just brought thick, crusty slabs of yeasty sourdough bread, topped with local sheep's cheese and smoky ham. The bread is still warm, and we ask if we can buy a few slices to take home for dinner. The waitress says no -- and then wraps two hot loaves as a gift.

"I'm sorry, I have to go soon," Darija says. "I'm working tonight as an usher at the festival concert." The Dubrovnik festival was one of Europe's great summer attractions before the war. Actors like Daniel Day-Lewis would perform Hamlet in the ruins of a 16th-century fort and world-class musicians would make a pilgrimage to perform here.

The festival is finally reviving after years of forced intermission, although it's still not back to its former glory -- which is the only reason we can get tickets on short notice to hear Bach and Mozart in the Rector's Palace. The music is magical, but the setting transcends it: The orchestra performs in an intimate courtyard, with balconies rising above us like tiers on a wedding cake. The overflow audience hangs over the balustrade and pigeons swoop among the arches.

As the ovation fades, we exchange smiles with the stranger sitting next to us. "What a beautiful concert," we murmur. "Do you know, by any chance, which countries the musicians in the orchestra come from?"

"But they all live here," she says, looking surprised. "This is the Dubrovnik Symphony."

Berta Dragicevic introduces herself. She says she just stepped down as deputy mayor, and she cites an astonishing figure: The local government spends 20 percent of its budget on culture. Think about it: Dubrovnik is still recovering from the war. Some of the biggest (and ugliest) hotels are still abandoned. The unemployment rate tops 20 percent. Yet the city spends a huge chunk of its budget to support a full-time symphony and professional theater, a folk ensemble and choir, plus a gallery and museum -- all for a community that has at most 50,000 residents. "We have traditions," Dragicevic explains.

A Mouthful of Mussels

When we were planning our trip, we planned to use Dubrovnik as a base to tour the Balkans. We were going to venture over the mountains and visit Sarajevo. We were going to take ferries to islands like Korcula and Kvar, where hot young Europeans hang out. We would drive three hours south into Montenegro, which by all accounts is shabby and spectacularly beautiful.

We never made it. We'd start sipping coffee most mornings on our terrace, then watch, mesmerized, as the sun spilled onto the islands and mountains and our little bay woke up: first, a lone fishermen in a puttering skiff, then a freighter moving down the channel, then a sailboat or two. If one of us felt energetic, he or she would cover their coffee with a saucer and run down the steps past our swimming pool, returning five minutes later with, say, a handful of figs.

"Okay," someone would finally say, "does anybody feel like taking an expedition?" And we'd just sit there -- happy and inert.