Dancing in Dubrovnik’s Downpour

A sunset in Split, Croatia, 2025

One evening in Dubrovnik, when the horizon flashed with lightning and rain drizzled over the medieval buildings, I felt a spark of energy. I was dressed for the night — makeup done, black skirt and red lace top on, ready to join the young travellers drinking on the top deck — when something in me shifted. Instead of heading to pre-drinks, I leapt off the boat.

As my foot hit the concrete, a surge rushed. I paced along the golden-lit cobbled street, EDM building in my ears, arms stretched out wide. I skipped along puddles, the rippling dark sea to one side with rows of sailboats and yachts docked along the harbour. 

Soon the drizzle turned into rain. Like it was a cue, I started to run. Each step against the pavement gave me more energy. 

The rain came harder, and I welcomed it; I skipped, spun, danced. The EDM pulsed through my chest. Soon enough, I was soaked through. 

The song hit its climax, and I pushed faster, grinning, my face whipping against the rain. Strangers waved and laughed at the sight of a girl in a red lace top twirling in the downpour. 

The song ended, and I slowed, breath catching, smiling.

I blinked the rain from my eyes. My mascara ran, my Gazelles two shades darker. 

I’d felt the rush; I’d felt alive. More than the City Walls, the fortress clubs, the cliff jumps, the wine tastings, or the turquoise swim stops — this was the most fun I’d had all week.

I ran back to the boat, and slipped on, dripping, revived. My breaths were deep, slow. The moment was over, like credits rolling.

The night before, drinking had dulled my senses in search of fun. Tonight, I needed nothing. Where I’d once looked for joy in the noise, I found it instead falling from the sky.