The Kind Old Women of Sarajevo

"We need something to help us pass on to another dimension. The creation of an androgynous thought that leads to a superior mind. When you are linked to everyone there are no enemies."

The trip was at a crossroads. I ate oranges in my room and thought out the remaining options. The end game was a festival in Rijeka, but I had three days to get there. Rijeka is a coastal town in the Northwest and Dubrovnik is way South of there.

To get there straight from Dubrovnik would require a long ride past cities I'd already explored. The key was Zagreb in the North. If I could get to Zagreb, I could easily dip down to Rijeka and even see scenic Pula in the bargain.

To get to Zagreb, I could fly ($50! One Hour!), which was tempting, since it was cheap and fast. Or... I could take the slow route: bus to Sarajevo, spend a day there, and take a bus to Zagreb after that. The way that would work out would render Zagreb nothing but a crash spot, but there wasn't really anything appealing about it anyway.

Sarajevo, on the other hand, promised exotic delights. And I was so moved by Mostar, I wanted more of that Bosnian flavor. So... a long ride to Sarajevo it would be. Tightened my straps. Bid Dubrovnik and my patron Saint farewell, and back to the bus station.

It felt like the right choice immediately. The ride there was ripped from a Hans Christian Anderson story. It was nearly like a picture print by Currier and Ives. Bright white covering solemn dark trees. Fuzzy rivers in the distance. Distant bridges out of focus.

Once you get away from those warm coastal breezes, the interior of the country is free to be as cold as it likes. And as you weave up up up through the mountains, it really exercises that right. Read more Shardik (end already!) and a misogynist Noel Coward play called Blithe Spirit.

A German woman and her two children sat behind me. The boy kept practicing his English in the sweet high voice of a child. It would be a bunch of Teutonic murmuring and then, "Eat. Play. Drink."
She doted on them. Listened to them. Seemed happy to be traveling with them.

At a brief stop (I got good at understanding the language of the drivers. When they said something like, "Powzuh, Dessa Minuta" I could tell it meant, "ten-minute rest"), we got out in the snow. She bundled them up with their little scarves and hats.

I watched an animal roast at the rest stop. Someone had built a tiny snowman with twig arms. Everything but the spitting coals was still and quiet.

Drifted the rest of the way. The driver and his buddy chattered in Croat (or Bosnian?) and the little boy read aloud: "Ron told Harry he was worried it would be posha." He stopped, "Posha, poshen...poison!"

I listened to more French music. Ate some almonds and... Sarajevo. A real city. None of this seaside bullshit. People work here. People walk the streets here. Old trams rattle by with "FUCK" spray painted on the side here. Big orange letters.

In the last few moments leading to our getting off the bus, the German woman introduced herself and started a very friendly conversation. Why had she taken so long? She told me she was staying in the Old Town and was looking forward to... well good bye.

What stories I might have learned!

Found a taxi. Creepy old dude who asked for a bunch of money. I had read it was much less, but I didn't argue. These people are poor and the "outrageous' price they ask amounts to being ripped off for less than three dollars. Let them have a score and brag about it.

Except... he had no idea where he was going, kept stopping for directions, and insisted I get out when he was tired of looking. He just dropped me off at a street that had some of the same letters as the street I needed. Charged me double and left me high and dry.

I was in some sort of suburb. It had been cool to race past buildings and parks and cemeteries, but... we screwed the cab into an alley, he cursed and ground the gears, and now I was... here. No phone. No internet.

I just pushed the doorbell on the closest building. Figured I'd throw myself on the mercy of the court. No answer. An old woman with a head scarf and no teeth came limping by. She was like, "Osh Kosh, Wisconsin Orchard?" and I was like, "Uh..."

She put down her grocery bag and hit a different doorbell than I had pushed. An old woman came to the door. "Shishta?"

I showed her the address I was supposed to be at. The first old woman said, "Oh. Oh, is far. You need taxi. 1516 is good taxi. Very good. Call 1516."

I was like, "Uh..." and the second woman went back in her house. It was just me and the first woman. She kept smiling. "1516, very good taxi. You want to go far."

The second woman came back with a phone. She was calling the taxi! The first old woman nodded at me and said goodbye. The phone woman motioned me into her home. I was suddenly in a Bosnian stranger's home with tile floors and crystal glasses and little rugs and wooden chairs.

She brought me water. It tasted like the water of human kindness. Neither of us spoke the other's language, but neither was afraid. The taxi showed up, and she made bird sounds and I was gone. Goodbye old women.

Driver got me there in two seconds, and magically the few coins I had left were the fare almost exactly. Walked up the hill to see my host, Edith, smiling from a window. "You are early!" she shouted down. Somehow that was true.

Supremely charming woman in a thick green sweater. Real style. "You'll want breakfast in the morning, of course," she said. "Will nine o' clock do? I'll lay it all out, you will eat it, and you will not touch the dishes."

VERY cozy warm little room. I sank into it. Got my camera stuff together and went out to see if there was any light left. The goal was to find the Latin Bridge and the plaque commemorating the death of Franz Ferdinand. The apartment was very close to "Pigeon Square," so there I went.

Noisy marketplace, towering mosques, lively streets, and what I'd been craving: Doner Kebab. I ran in and ordered the biggest pouch of it they had. Hunched in a corner, puffed up with all my layers of clothes, and ate and ate. It was excellent. Warm and spicy. Fragrant onions.

He was waiting for me when I walked out. Wiry little street whippet in a bright yellow track suit. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. "How was you sandwich. I see you eat it." Fine, thank you. Have a good day. "For me is long time no sandwich. My father, he is ten years not living. My mother, she is five years no work."

He must have seen me exchanging my dollars for Convertible Marks.

I'm very sorry. Good luck to you. "This your first time Sarajevo? You are America, yes? America has no problem money. You give money yes?" Take me to the Latin Bridge. If you take me to the Latin Bridge, money yes. "Yes? Money yes? Where do you want to go, the what?" The Latin Bridge.

"Lati....OH, Catta Dala! You want Catta Dala. I take you Catta Dala, and money yes." He took off very quickly. He got so far ahead of me, I thought about ditching him, but I'd obviously been on his radar for a while, and he would easily find me again. He was a streak of yellow flashing past the old women with their bags of lettuce and the old men selling long strings of beads. He would look back every now and again and shout "Catta Dala!"

Maybe Dala meant bridge here? The language is different. None of my Croatian phrases are having any impact here. I had a few tiny coins and a few large bills. I was worried the coins wouldn't be enough, and I wasn't going to give him a large bill.

He tore around more corners, but the yellow made him easy to follow. We were nowhere near the river now, and I know the Latin Bridge crosses the river. It's a bridge. Coffee shops. Rugs for sale. Copper plates for sale. "Catta Dala!" he gestured at an enormous church. Why did he? Why were we?

Catta Dala. Katedrala. Cathedral.

I gave him the coins. He ran off without counting them. When I am retired, I will open a deli called "Long Time No Sandwich" and the special will be the Catta Dala with provolone.

Found the plaque. Explored the city aimlessly. My energy faded with the light, so I went back home. I piled on the blankets and curled up in that furry bed. There was a soft purple glow from the window, and the call to prayer lulled me to sleep. In the morning, I would wake up very early and climb a hill to a cemetery. I pictured myself doing it. I envisioned it. I slept.