A Painful Landing in Dubrovnik and the Kindness I Didn’t Expect

It was around half past nine at night when the Vueling flight began its descent into Dubrovnik airport. This was yet another airline and yet another trip where I felt the same excruciating, prickly pain inside my ears—something I’ve been dealing with for decades whenever a plane begins its descent. In medical terms, it’s called ear barotrauma, or airplane ear, caused by sudden changes in air pressure.

The voices around me began to get muffled. I plugged my index fingers in both my ears and moved my arms back and forth, started swallowing repeatedly, forced a yawn, chewed gum, drank water—everything the internet has ever suggested. But nothing worked. Nothing ever really has for me. The only thing that felt like it would work in that moment was to chop off my ears entirely—that’s how bad the pain gets.

And yet, strangely, on some flights I don’t feel it at all. I’ve often wondered why. Is it the pilot’s approach to descent, the aircraft, or the destination? I don’t know. One thing I do know—the pain, when it comes, is unbearable.

By the time the plane came to a complete halt, the pain had eased slightly. I stepped into a small, quiet airport and followed the exit signs. The world started sounding clearer again. I opened and closed my mouth wide a couple of times, more out of habit than hope, trying to release the last bit of pressure. As usual, it didn’t work. So, I left it to time to do what it always does—bring things back to normal.

I stepped out into a cool breeze from the Adriatic Sea. Public transport had stopped for the night, so I took a cab to Villa Amfora, about 20 kms from the airport, where I would be staying for the next two nights.

The drive was quiet. I tried looking outside through the window, but the darkness had completely taken over, as if the city was deliberately holding itself back for a proper introduction in the morning.

After about thirty minutes, the driver slowed down, leaned forward slightly, and tilted his head to read the hotel signs lined along the street. He checked his mirror, flicked the indicator, and pulled over near a bus stop.

I was still getting used to cars with left-hand drive moving on the right side of the road—it’s something I’ve noticed in places like Jordan, Denmark, and Italy as well, but it always feels slightly unfamiliar.

———————-

Even at 11 p.m., the hotel was open. A couple nearby was finishing what looked like a candlelight dinner—except the candle was electric, a small detail that somehow stood out. There was a quiet calm in the air.

I went to the reception and asked where the rooms were. The gentleman pointed me to a staircase behind the reception and asked me to head up.

Nina, who would be my host, had assured me the previous day that the door upstairs would remain open and not to worry if I arrived late.

I messaged her on WhatsApp to let her know I had arrived, and within moments, she appeared.

You could tell it had been a long day. Her eyes carried that tiredness which comes from hours of work, almost asking for rest. But it didn’t take away from the warmth in her greeting. “Hello, Mr Sharma,” she said with a soft smile.

Being addressed as “Mr Sharma” is extremely rare for me. Even when it happens, it comes with a sense of responsibility—something I’ve always associated with my father back home in Dhemaji, who carries that name with quiet dignity. Hearing it here, thousands of miles away, felt oddly familiar. Back home, it’s usually Raja or Rajvikash. In Europe, it’s mostly just Raj.

Nina was probably in her mid-50s, with short whitish-golden hair that blended with her skin tone. She wore a pair of black trousers and a white shirt. Her accent was distinctly Slavic—something I had only heard in movies. I was always fascinated by it, but had never heard it in a real conversation.

“Is Sharma a common name in India?” she asked.

For a moment, my mind wandered—why that question, and why now? I said yes, but almost slipped into a detailed explanation about how the surname varies across regions in India, how my background is different, how I speak Nepalese while others don’t. Midway through, I realised she probably didn’t need a full breakdown of Indian surnames at nearly midnight, so I stopped and asked, “Why do you ask?”

She smiled, opened her phone, and showed me an online Ludo game she had been playing. Her opponent—Mr Sharma from India.

And there it was. Mr Sharma, looking at another Mr Sharma on her phone screen.

Ludo, a game I grew up playing with my sister and friends- not on a phone, but on a physical board with a small dice and four tokens racing to reach home first without getting knocked out by the rest- has its origins in India, evolving from the ancient game of Pachisi. It had travelled across continents and ended up here in an online version, connecting two strangers through something as simple as a name. I couldn’t help but smile at the coincidence and the way it genuinely amused her. And given that he shared my surname, I quietly hoped this Mr Sharma was doing what he should be doing—winning at a game that came from our part of the world and crushing his opponents.

Nina showed me to my room and wished me goodnight. Her kindness and warmth would be on display again the following day when she realised I had a very early-morning flight to Zagreb the day after. Despite not having to, she made sure to pack breakfast for me the night before, so I wouldn’t have to leave on an empty stomach.

When I think back on Dubrovnik, I’ll remember the bustling streets of Old Town, the majestic City Walls, a mouthwatering fried chicken burger at Du Smash food truck, and everything I had come to see, including the very unwelcome leg pain. But what stayed with me more was how I was treated.

Nina cared.

She went out of her way in a way that wasn’t expected. Packing that breakfast might seem like a small thing, but it changed how I experienced the place.

I drifted off to sleep soon after, with a gentle cool breeze wrapping around the room.