I'm starting this post from the living room of Goran's apartment in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina. Soft yellow walls, wispy white curtains, shiny wood floor and light tan carpets. He's just moved in, so the yellow walls are bare, but the fridge is full of bacon, cheese and various fruit liqueur.
We must have been best buddies in a past life. How else would he know me this well?
I've mostly had the peaceful apartment to myself for the last three days, as Goran has been off taking care of his injured mom. And while Goran is an excellent cook, a great conversationalist and an incredibly caring guy, it's been wonderful for Aimee the Introvert to, well, get to be introverted.
As an introvert, I lead an extraordinarily extroverted sort of life. And it can be exhausting.
We shared a dinner my first night, a bit of wine the second, and a barbecue at his father's country house today. With each meeting, we shared a bit more of our stories.
This is perfection.
 |
| Goran is quite the grill master. |
Goran picked me up from Hostel Dada at around 12:00 on Friday. Check Out was supposed to be at 10:00, but Dada allowed me and Jean Baptiste to linger until noon, although she did keep glancing at the clock on the wall, then tsking and glaring at us timid travelers very pointedly.
Dada was an odd old bird. Her English was limited to yes and no types of questions, so she spent most of her days watching TV in her private room, carrying firewood to feed the furnace and crooning to her cat. A very fat, intimidating cat who slept in between my legs one night when I forgot to shut the door. My right calf started to cramp and I was desperate to turn onto my side, but...
... the cat.
The calico cat glowered at me from where it had nestled betwixt my legs, seeming to say, "I dare you, mofo."
This is when I discover who the boss really is.
And it isn't me.
Other than paintings of crying children adorning the walls, Dada also has emphatic handwritten signs all over the house.
"USE OF KITCHEN IS FORBIDEN!!!" (sic)
"Is it a joke?" poor Jean Baptiste asked incredulously when he returned from the shop with a hefty bag of groceries.
"I dunno," I looked up from my kindle. "Ask Dada."
"Excuse me," Jean Baptiste poked his head into Dada's lair. "Is it forbidden to use the kitchen?"
"Go! Go!" Dada nodded.
"I can use it?"
"Yes, yes! Go!" she repeated.
"Okay... thank-you," Jean Baptiste retreated.
Odd old bird.
I've been walking a lot during the last few days.
Walking with Sophie, searching for buttery burek and learning that in Australia, a cooler box is called an Esky.
Sophie says maybe they're named after Eskimos.
Makes sense. But not. Because Eskimos don't need boxes to keep their stuff cold. Outside in the Arctic Circle is plenty cold enough, I'm sure. An Esky in the Arctic would be dreadfully redundant.
I told Sophie of the awkwardness that ensues when an American uses the word "spunk" as a compliment in the UK ('cos it means "sperm" there...) and she relayed the weirdness of an Australian shouting in frustration, "WHERE ARE MY THONGS?" in a hostel full of American guys.
'Cos flip-flops are called thongs in Australia.
Walking around with Mia, finding parks and cafes and learning about websites that could help me find work abroad.
One day. One day, my life will be more grounded. I'll have a job that lasts for more than a few months. I'll have a community I can expect to live with and invest in for more than a season. I'll be able to plant the garden and stick around long enough to see the flowers.
There is nothing that scares me more.
And at the same time, nothing I look forward to more.
Walking around by myself. Talking to myself.
(In whole paragraphs, more often than not)
Listening.
The sound of water churning, bubbling, flowing. Streams rushing towards the river, river rushing towards the ocean.
Gypsies saying, "Please. One euro. Baby is hungry. Please. One euro."
Cars honking. Drills grinding into concrete, stone, dirt.
The sound of church bells ringing.
The call to prayer. Not a mesmerizing, enchanting call like in Marrakesh or the cacophonous call of Istanbul.
A quiet call. A call I have to listen for if I want to hear.
Which is how every call to prayer should be.
Watching.
Romantic couples taking pictures together on the bridge, in front of the bridge, probably scheming up ways to take selfies under the bridge.
Stray cats and kittens.
One black and white kitten with mangy fur and a broken left front paw.
Stray cats chasing sparrows.
Stray dogs chasing stray cats.
Tourists chasing stray dogs.
(I don't know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die)
Water collecting in tiny pools between cobbles, reflecting lamplight, moonlight, starlight.
Roofless buildings pepped with bullet holes.
I feel like they're faces with thousands of eyes and nothing left inside. With all they've seen, how could there be anything left?
Goran has lived in Mostar his whole life. Through the war.
"What was it like?" I asked on our way to the barbecue at his father's country home.
"Well, you kind of just kept your head down."
Gypsies dressed in rags, filth on their faces, sitting on street corners with hands outstretched. Burrowing in those empty buildings with piles of trash, lighting fires to keep warm through the chilly nights.
Plastic bottles. Plastic wrappers. Plastic bags. In the streets, in the river, snagged in the trees.
I tried to post Christmas presents home to my family yesterday. I'd been slowly collecting gifts in Italy, Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina, and was thrilled to finally send them off (carting a bag of Christmas presents through four countries is proper painful).
Collecting presents made me feel a bit more connected. Gave me an "in" to a celebration that I'll miss.
Even if I won't be with my family, my letters will be. My little gifts will be. Mmm... maybe I could even Skype them while they open the presents so I can see everyone's faces... that would be incredible. Not as good as being there
But the postman at the post office told me that my perfectly packaged and sealed food items weren't permissible.
"No," he said as he took them out of my bag and put them to the side.
"No?" I asked, panic creeping into my voice. "Why not?"
The man shook his head, having exhausted his English.
"But... but it's for Christmas..." I said weakly, as if Christmas was a trump card that could destroy postal regulations.
The man just looked at me.
"Okay, then just give it all back," I sighed and tried to hold back tears. "Never mind. I'm not sending it."
I'll figure something else out. I always figure something out, I thought as I collapsed onto the bench outside the post office.
But that didn't keep me from sobbing.
This is the first time in three and a half years of travel I've ever tried to send anything home. Because I'm that desperate to be part of Christmas this year.
I am completely captivated by Mostar. Totally bewitched. Utterly enchanted.
(so all the things)
If you're anywhere close to as captivated as I am, maybe check out this documentary by the BBC: The Death of Yugoslavia
And this:Unfinished Business
I leave for Sarajevo in the morning, but I'll be dreaming about his hauntingly beautiful war torn town for months.
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