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| Hey Emperor, you may have forgotten a roof. |
No, it was not a puppy choir.
The seven tuxedo-clad men were performing the traditional klapa, and their harmonies were as beautiful as our venue. It was easy to be carried away to a distant time as the notes danced within the room's acoustics.
The centuries have literally grown on the palace, with residents building in, over and around the ancient walls. A series of narrow alleyways carried us through the former Jewish ghetto, and archways beckoned us to the birthplace of the father of Croatian literature.
The most intimate of apparel hung limply across vast courtyards.
Smells of lavender, roasted chestnuts and fresh produce rose from the local market, while a vendor's snails clung to the rim of a red milk crate – their antennae twitching at the thought of their impending demise. At least they'd be considered a delicacy.
Well-dressed locals sat under stippled skies at some of the many cafes that line the waterfront. The busy boardwalk offered espresso, nutty-toned lagers and ample opportunities for people watching.
And, from the brief time we spent in the city, it's plain to see the women are, well – to put it politely – not.
Simply stunning.
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