TRAVELOGUE: ZAGREB

Cuter and more picturesque than its sister sister Belgrade, Zagreb, Croatia feels as if it was designed by a balkan version of Walt Disney. The restaurants, stores, and market areas are cheap, colorful, full of things that are different enough to be distinct, but not too different to feel threatening. In comparison to Serbia, Croatia was supposed to be more liberal. And at first glance that proved to be the case. The empty airport was surrounded by lush greenery that made things feel almost Scandinavian. Our uber pulled up and the young driver was blasting Serbian pop music. He preferred it to the more 'hokey' sounding Croatian tunes. Of course, the driver eventually recognized Ron and they excited talked in Croatian. Ron asked for and received the small corrections in some words that separate Serbian from the native dialect. When we pulled up to the airbnb, I looked across the street and saw two young girls passionately kissing in a building alcove. I can't recall any public displays of gay affection in Serbia. 

Inside the building, we climbed up four aching floors with two heavy suitcases. Why can't I be a lighter packer? The apartment did not quite have all the rooms covered with AC. In fact none of the bedrooms had air conditioning and we were in the middle of a heat wave. I decided to move into a hotel tomorrow. Go big or go home: Hotel Esplanade. Historic, luxury within walking distance and a block away from the train station.  

I received a warning at night. Despite the cute gingerbread looks, Croatia was possibly more racist and problematic than Serbia. I didn't really see it, but I was told to google articles about homophobia and racism in Croatia. Sure enough, I pulled up several instances of gay bashing and anti-immigrant fervor. I sloughed it off. I would be going out during the day to tourist places and writing in the afternoon and evening. No clubbing or bar hopping or doing anything where you're rolling with large drunken rowdy crowds.

The next morning I walked to the park for a tour. On the way there I stopped at a grocery store for a burek. The rap on Croatia is that it has the same food as Serbia but blander. Apparently the farther West you get in the Balkans, the closer you get to Germany and the more bland the food becomes. My first burek lived up to the ignominious claims about Croatia. Dry, hard, stuffed with chalky cheese, the Croatian burek seemed as if it was made by a very dreary and constipated baker. After eating a few bites of my breakfast, the rest of the parched elephantine pastry found its way into the park trash bin. A small gathering of tourist gathered around the clock and our tour guide appeared. 

Walking around Zagreb, I was totally charmed. The city had won Europe's best Christmas market contest a few years in a row before being told that they could no longer compete after repeated victories. Dejected, Zagreb residents continue to create their Christmas markets and quaint shops. 

In this tiny walkable city, there is so much history. The tour guide seemed to have a charming fable or folk tale for everything: black umbrellas being turned red by the passion of two lovers, the fair maiden who gave a cup of water to a thirsty knight from the spring still flowing in the townsquare and, thus, securing the cities name, the canon fired every day at noon to commemorate the Croatian bluff of shooting one of their last cannon balls at an approaching Ottoman army and convincing the invaders that they were facing a formidable foe...instead of a depleted army with few weapons. There were sobering stories like when we walked through the massive underground tunnels built by the local Nazi party in the 1940s as a bomb shelter. The tunnels are large enough to fit planes and tanks in the main part and hundreds of soldier in the tributary pathways. It was a blistering hot day so walking into these concrete tunnels immediately hit us with a blast of cool air. The tunnels were converted into a space for new art and performers. 

We scaled to the top of Zagreb and the tour guide noted a famous Croatian lover who sat on a park bench and had many love affairs before dying of alcoholism (and probably syphilis), and now had his life commemorated by an aluminum statue of his likeness sitting on a park bench overlooking the city. 

About an hour into the tour, the guide was spinning another tale and it was obvious that romantic storytelling was a cornerstone of Croatian life. Talking to a Serbian friend, they scoffed at the Croatian image of 'kind, cultured Europeans in contrast to the bloody Serbians.' He retorted that Croatians wrap their brutality in charm and gingerbread and fables. I could see that, but I'm also a tourist here for a few days, not someone looking to settle in. The Museum of Broken Relationships started in Zagreb so I went to the source. I found myself laughing and crying at all the objects sent from people around the world that commemorated relationships ended by divorce, death, tragedy, comedy, and all causes. And then the Museum of Drunk History also had a funny collection of international stories about inebriation sprinkled with some facts about drinking. 

I switched to my hotel room and rediscovered my writing mojo. I finished a rewrite on one project, and started two more. Ron came over for dinner and we ate at the Michelin restaurant on the hotel patio. As we finished a spectacular meal which defied the shame of Croatian cuisine, we heard music floating from the park. Walking over, there was a huge concert with thousands of people spread out on the lawn at night. I will admit it, the charm campaign was very convincing. Despite the warnings, I was won over by the hotel, the food (with the exception of that awful burek), and the limited people I met in my time at Zagreb. On our last day, we walked over to the train station and waited for our nice ride to Slovenia. La Roma begged in the main terminal. I bought a Roma woman some food and wished her well. Others ignored her and she cursed them. 

After waiting a few minutes, our train pulled up from the 19th century. Broken, old, dusty, un-air conditioned. Ron switched our bus tickets to a train ride, thinking it would a final touch on a ideal journey. Instead we were crammed into a Soviet hot box filled with half the cabins locked. We had first class tickets but there was no conductor, no ticket taker, and almost all the first class cabins were locked with no explanation. 

We rode out of Serbia sitting in a sweltering car shared with a grumpy looking Balkan woman who kept the windows shut. Ron asked me for a meditation to distract us. Great idea. I gave some tips on how to align the body and focus the breath. The hot car became part of the practice. Maybe this too will be a quaint and charming Croatian story one day.