Walking like a Balkan

In postcard perfect unseasonal October weather the Croatian coastline provides a vista of singular and nigh incomparable beauty. Of elegantly savage rock cliffs and stucco houses. Vine riddled alcoves and weathered plastic chairs. A vista on which the blight of the cruise ship, curiously dormant in the harbour as it ferries geriatric tourists to-and-fro, is stark and ruinous.

Ruinous of a perfectly pleasant stroll around, say, the Old Town of Dubrovnik, and also of every attempt to capture through photograph a scant image of the coast winding crystalline before.

I was in Dubrovnik after finally making my way out of the world of its own that is Berlin to meet my parents, quasi pilgrims through the land of my mother’s father. Attempting to escape the seething masses squeezed into the Old Town we went in search of the abandoned Hotel Belvedere, a beautiful relic of the destruction wrought by the war, pockmarked and savaged on the outside by the Yugoslavian army and pillaged on the inside by the Croatian. On perhaps the most ideal promontory of the coast, the hotel has almost the perfect view of the surrounding land, yet has remained unrepaired over the years, something which our surly lunchtime waiter put down to the difficulty of access and price of restoration.

Hotel Belvedere

Speaking of whom, the purveyor of Restaurant San Jacob, a tiny pebble-beachside eatery in the shadow of San Jacob’s Monastery—or the Hotel Belvedere depending on the time of day—displayed that churlish countenance typical of those local Croats fatigued by a long tourist season.

In this otherwise empty and removed spot we were served one of those meals that align so elegantly the desires of time and place. Of warm sun and gently breaking Mediterranean. Of charcoal roasted seafood, summer vegetables and crusty bread.

The perfect lunch

The following day of transit to Hvar was less glamorous.

A four hour drive through winding inlets gave way to a tedious ferry trip at the end of which we were decamped on a drizzly Croatian island where, due to an oversight in my calculations, I spent the afternoon doing an extensive collection of laundry in my swimmers in the wake of a dearth of underpants.

Blessedly the following day was again one of unseasonal warmth. I used the opportunity to hike around a sizeable portion of the island up through wandering streets and along residential roads and to see widely from the Spanish Fort. In the steep roads of the old town, surrounded by terracotta tiled roofs and tiny alcoves with white laundry shading patches of the street below, the silence is gentle. A therapeutic quiet, it fills me with a desire to summer lazily in the shade and do little more than eat Mediterranean fish and vegetables, periodically pausing to drink espressos on a small and shaded veranda from which I could recline and watch the world passing by.

The view from the Spanish Fort, Hvar

The last stop along the coast was at Split, a city that plays out the same tale as Dubrovnik and Hvar; of a fantastically pretty old town of white cobbles and pristine water that is riddled with tourists, and of a city behind that is relatively barren and looks designed by a blind communist.

It was in Split, however, that I came upon the best Burek I was to eat in Croatia. Savoury and chewy yet crisp on the outside, it was reminiscient of a fried gyoza and was sold by the kilogram. Speaking of which, my rule of thumb for burek purchase is now only buy it from places that sell by the kilogram. From Split we day tripped to Trogir, another pretty yet tourist filled town, and roamed the hotel studded coastline nearby for pebbly beaches at which to swim.

I have some issue with the pebbled beach, however, as while I do enjoy not having to extricate sand from my every orifice after a relaxing swim, the sensation when one emerges from water to land and must limp over the beach in a shuffle of discomfort is such that it renders the pleasures of the swim almost forgotten.

Euro-TV

The final stop with the parents was at the Plitvica Lakes. I cannot really do justice to them in words, so here are a couple of photos. 

Plitvica Lakes

Finally it was to Zagreb where we would part ways. It was an experience to travel with my parents for several days after not having done so for some years. While at times it was a little frustrating due to the different pace and style of travelling compared to that I’d do by myself or with friends, it was also nice to have some different and familiar company. It was particularly nice to be able to eat to excess, also, with fine dining very much the repeated order of business. Fancy wine and fancier food were du jour and very much appreciated. Most delicious perhaps were the amply sourced marinated white anchovies, a favourite of my father’s and mine.

Fine dining in Split

We parted ways Saturday eve and so I checked into my hostel with a few days of reckless boozing to catch up on. With the hostel organising a pub crawl I needed to look no further than the downstairs bar for some delicious liquor and under the watchful eye of the garrulous Borna we sallied forth around 11pm, fuelled by walnut rakija and with a posse 20 strong.

It was here I met two American army gents, Gabriel and Tyler, vehicle operators stationed in Italy who’d driven to Zagreb for the weekend. In true American style, the two had become far too drunk far too early, such that Tyler fell down the stairs at the first pub we went to, spraining his ankle, but still liquored up enough that he had the will to soldier on and slam down more rakija. 

Markets, Split

Also staying at the hostel was a group of 10 uni students organising some union transition, and they celebrated the success of the day’s tabling by coming out with us. So I met Borgo who taught me the subtleties of walking like a Balkan. Having inquired after a local the correct etiquette for walking on the street with regards to sides of the footpath, Borgo insisted that it is merely a case of might is right, and that one ought to walk where one dares to walk and to maintain a constant line and bearing. Walking like a Balkan.

Similarly I met Marina, Fabienne from Pulp Fiction’s doppelganger. A chain swearing, chain smoking  bob-cut of a lady. After the pub crawl finished at an altogether too salubrious klub, she took me to Medika, a factory used until recently as a squat but which  has been revamped as an art, culture and music free space at which they have some rather eccentric weekend gatherings. Here we met up with her friends and drank red wine and coke from 2L bottles and smoked and chatted the night away.

Medika with the back of Marina's head

Sunday I learned the Croatian weekend pastime of putting on your largest designer sunglasses and sitting in squares around the city for the entire day drinking coffee and watching people. Streets are deserted with shops closed everywhere, but as soon as you hit a square it is packed and everyone is watching everyone while pretending not to be watching anyone. All of which is surrounded by a dense aura of nonchalant, Balkan cool.

The streets of Zagreb also appear quite claustrophobic, with the buildings encroaching on narrow footpaths already staggered over by parked cars. But on closer inspection one can discover behind these doorways squares protected from the traffic and noise and home to all sorts of interesting houses and stores.

At the hostel I also met another Australian, Aaron, and a Dutch geologist Anouk, whose lofty travel idealism and excellent company have me contemplating a detour via Oman for a bit of Middle Eastern dune driving. Similarly, Ziv the Israeli told tales of hitchhiking through Africa with little more than a tent and a 3kg bag of rice that were about as exotic as anything I could imagine. Indeed, with these three and Kevin the German graphic designer there was ample late night drinking of beer in its regular, lemon and grape forms, as well as extended conversations with Bob the 75 year old retiree from Florida who would endlessly talk until there was no one left to listen and he’d rumble off to bed in the wee hours of the morning. 

Anouk, Aaron and Bob

 Despite having an excellent time in Zagreb, I decided to overnight in Ljubljana to briefly poke around. The capital and biggest city in Slovenia, it is a student town where those studying get big discounts and the streets are modern, winding and beautiful. The view from the castle—renovated and with a café dominating its fore—is quite something, as is the hike to get up there. At the hostel here I met some rather affable Americans and Canadians with whom that essential element of US culture—the drinking game—was partaken in to the extreme before we went off in search of some weirdness.

Castle view, Slovenia

Appropriately we found another squat of graffiti’d walls and tiny bars with hidden clubs blasting some pretty brutal metal. A pub that barely housed the six of us served blueberry rakija before we went and found somewhere a bit more hospitable. When we arrived it seemed fairly quiet, but at some unordained signal it was suddenly packed with Slovenians dancing to some spectacularly cheesy Eurotrash. 

Squat, Ljubljana

The next day Steve, a New York investment banker with a bad case of ennui, and I decided we’d celebrate our coincidental shared last morning in Slovenia by dining out on some horse burgers at Hot’ Horse. Surprisingly delicious.

Horse burgers with Steve 

Back in Zagreb I went out to meet up with Marina and her friend Barbara, and then with Aaron and Anouk at an Erasmus party some people at the hostel had tipped me off about. Cue some more Eurotrash dancing and staying out until 5am when I had to be up at 7.30 the next day to catch my train.

I didn’t think this would be that bad of a decision the night before as the 9 hour train ride to Sarajevo should have provided ample time for sleeping. Sadly, the train I was in seemed to have had its heating system broken and left at full-tilt thereby turning my little carriage into something partway between Sauna and inferno. Already suffering from dehydration and sweating what seemed to be pure liquor, I was unimpressed by this situation since I was unable to alleviate it by putting down the window as it would automatically slide back up. My genius solution of weighing it down with my boots was working a charm until the stern instructor warned me to take them down while he had in his hand my passport. I obliged.

Air conditioning, Balkan style

Thankfully I managed to tie down the window with some inventive shoelace technology before after about 4 hours the heating was blessedly turned off.

So I arrived in Sarajevo and caught the tram to where I thought my hostel was, narrowly avoiding the tram police who were determined to slap some tourists with a fine. For once I actually bought a ticket, despite having had to wander for some distance to find an ATM to equip myself with some Bosnian Marks, something usually altogether of too much effort. Instead of catching me they caught two girls who as it turned out were en route to the same hostel as me.

Getting off the tram at Pigeon Square in the Old Town of Sarajevo I had no idea where on earth my hostel was, and a strange old man I’d met at the station also got off and decided he’d guide me. Despite some fears of decrepit old man crime, I followed him, and within 10 minutes I was at my hostel.

My guide to my hostel in Sarajevo

So now I await Aaron to join me in Sarajevo, a city whose cobbled streets are echoed in the cobbled skyline of mismatched roofs with distant mountains blue on blue pierced hither and yon by delicate minarets, fingers of penitents extended in search of grace.