Emily Wolfteich

Seriously, Mom, don’t translate that.

My program gives us a week of vacation inbetween classes and beginning our internships, and, being contrary, I decided to go to Croatia. Why, you ask? (You and everyone else that I met there.) I’ve never been to Eastern Europe before, for one, and why not? Apart from the flight, Croatia is cheap, and relatively safe, and I wanted to escape from fancy for a while — to have some time alone. Thankfully, that didn’t happen.

I flew into Croatia with a return ticket, too much luggage, and a place to stay, and that was pretty much it. I realized with a sinking feeling on the flight over that I had misjudged exactly how much Croatian I didn’t know, which would be all of it except for “hvala” (thank you) and “bok” (hello, a word I couldn’t take seriously and so avoided using) and molim (supposedly please, except that people seemed to use it in places that please did not fit into). On the bus to the city center from the airport, I saw blocks of concrete that appeared to be houses, billboards seemingly advertising Russia (just Russia, nothing else) and snow everywhere. The men next to me in the back of the bus were speaking what seemed to be only consonants. Not in Paris anymore, Toutou.

But despite the somewhat forbidding environs, I was deliriously happy to have successfully navigated not only an airplane but also a bus and a tram by myself, and so when I finally lugged my snowy self into my hostel (Hobo Bear Hostel in Zagreb, I give it a hundred stars out of ten) I was feeling pretty perky. Kristina at the front desk, one of the most sylph-like humans I’ve ever met, became the first Croatian to put me to shame with her perfect command of the English language. Eric, the scruffed-up Argentinian sprawled on the couch, treated me to lunch (pizza) where we quickly realized that neither of us, despite speaking multiple languages, spoke a mutual one, but I gathered that he was a soccer player who’d been traveling and was now talking to scouts in Croatia. (Holla.)

But then — and this is still my first day — I went to go meet Jan, a Croatian teenager who had also stayed with my Parisian dame a summer ago, and who she had insisted I look up. “His parents are in clothing exportation, he is tres sportif and very nice,” was about all that she could offer me by way of introduction, but luckily the square where I met him and his two friends was empty enough that I could recognize him. Jan is blond and clearly plays hockey and his friends know words like “funicular” that I didn’t even know existed, and for about two hours I wandered around the Upper City in Zagreb with three Croatian teenagers who told me about state of politics in Croatia (corrupt), showed me where to get the best cheesecake (the mall) and explained to me how to get on older people’s nerves (play Serbian folk music).

That evening we drank coffee and rakija and I was taught some useful phrases. Apparently Croatian is just a naturally vulgar language. “Ideš mi na kurac,” for example, means “you’re getting on my nerves” but in reality means something a little more graphic. Despite the literal meanings of their words, however, every single one of them was exceedingly kind to me, kind enough to invite me to a celebration that night of their friend’s birthday. Their sixteen year old friend’s birthday, which happened to be in a hoppin club called History. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say that Croatians grow up a lot faster than Americans.

The next morning, mostly alive, I made myself a lot of instant coffee and then went with my new friend/bunkmate Erica to the antique market in the Britanski trg, or British Square, right around the corner from our hostel. The market was very useful if you happened to collect coins, World War 1 helmets, religious icons, old cameras or other random things. I found it endlessly fascinating but sadly had to pass up the decorative dagger for a more plane-friendly ring that I haven’t taken off since I left Croatia. Then Erica and I successfully managed lunch (a sandwich that, thanks to the exchange rate, was less than a penny) and went to the Upper city again to the Museum of Broken Relationships, one of Zagreb’s main curiosities. It was a small museum that was filled with relics of relationships that didn’t work. Some were heartbreaking and some were ridiculous, some were truly bizarre and some were angry — like my favorite exhibit, a Stupid Frisbee.

It reminded me, at a particularly poignant time for me, that everyone has their own fragility. We just usually don’t see them out on display.

The next day I and my other new friends Ibrahim (Turkey) and Christian (Chile) went to the shockingly comprehensive zoo in Maksimir Park, where I felt incredibly sad for the animals — why should anyone’s world be confined to a cage, anything’s at all — but guiltily enjoyed it nonetheless. Especially when a Croatian zookeeper, in the middle of feeding lions, turned around when he heard my American accent, placed the piece of raw meat back in the bucket, walked over to me — fished around in his pocket for a receipt and a pen (why do they carry pens?), gave me his number, and walked away. Without saying a word. And if it hadn’t been for the tiny fact that I didn’t have a phone, I might now be Mrs. Lion Keeper.

We walked back because it was sunny and I wanted to, and we saw an area of town that was less shiny than the rest of Zagreb. I suppose those houses were how I had pictured Croatia — post-Sovietesque, block on block. But, as I discussed with many different Croatians, I really had no idea what to expect. American schools are sadly lacking in education about the Eastern European area, lumping them all in with “Soviet satellite states.” Croatia, however, was never a satellite state, and has its own complicated and painful history. My ignorance was embarrassing for me, to be honest. But is that American ignorance or is it just me?

I’ll write a second post about the rest, because this is long enough, but a few final reflections. First, Croatia — or Zagreb at least — is beautiful, and was probably the city I’ve felt the most safe and welcome in. Every single person I met was unreasonably wonderful. From all the people who worked at the hostel (even if Marko told me I mumble too much and refused to tell me his life story) to the people who were there (the mechanics from Slovenia and the students from Ankara and Patrice the Indefatigable Ophthalmologist from London/Chile) to the baristas and high school students and kebab men were all generous with their city, their time, and their laughter. And secondly, Croatia reminded me why I love traveling. I tried to escape some things when I left Paris, but while they crept up on me from time to time, I also remembered a little bit more about who I am. I can talk to literally anyone (in some cases regardless of language barriers), and I can make friends in a snap, and I am passionate about discovering things about other places and other people — and I’m good at it. I like being like that. I like that I’m lucky enough to have the chance to do so.