Alexander, the Danish-Bosnian guy that I met on the train to Zagreb, told me to eat cévapcici with kajmak at Pigeon Square. So that’s what I did.

They had the cutest little Coke bottles.

When the food came, it was in the shape of meatball-like things with raw onions in a pitabread. And the kajmak resembled cottage cheese, but was a lot saltier. And really really good. Mr. P agreed. This was not the last time we had cévapcici.

Sarajevo is a small city, compared to most other cities that I’ve visited during this trip, and it is also very different in the sense that it is built on the steep slopes of a V-shaped river valley, with the river Miljacka flowing in the middle. This makes for a very scenic city scape, but also climbs up and down the streets that are trying on your thighs. All in all, though, it is a very beautiful city, and the relative coolness of the temperature and freshness of the mountain air made walking around in downtown Sarajevo generally a much more enjoyable experience than in, say, Vienna.

Bascarsija, or Pigeon Square at it is generally known by English speakers, is the central square in the old city center. A square with a laid back feeling, despite all the people. Sarajevo in general is a place that doesn’t at all feel very stressed. I think it’s a question about scale. The mountains have limited the city growth, made the streets narrow, and it’s simply impossible to hurry when things are so hilly and quaint.

Kazandziluk, or Coppersmith Street, the only remaining trade street from the Ottoman period. There, I bought a pair of earrings – my second pair on this trip. It’s been very easy on the shopping wallet this far, this trip.

City Hall and the National Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina. I couldn’t go inside, but the newly renovated outside is beautiful.

Walking up the hills, low buildings with memories of a war in the walls.

Muslim cemetery, with a view of the yellow fortress.

At the market, I bought apricots and figs from this very friendly man, who’s name I couldn’t pronounce.

Marsala Tita street, just outside my hostel.

We arrived in Sarajevo, about two hours late. Turns out, the nice man who had been to Gothenburg was welcomed at the station by a younger man who spoke with an almost perfect Gothenburgean accent. For those of you who know Swedish, the Gothenburg dialect is one of those homey and good-hearted kinds and I have real trouble imagining anyone speaking it being a bad person. Which, obviously, is naïve and stupid of me. But in this case, it turned out to be true. The young man helped me with my bag and explained to me how I could get a taxi into town. Such a lovely person, really. My first impression of Sarajevo was great, thanks to him.

My second, though, wasn’t as good. I found a taxi, which was driven by a young smiley guy, wanted to seem helpful – but I’m pretty sure he cheated me on the taxi fare. I said a price (the one the helpful man had told me to expect) and the taxi driver said it was way too low. So I agreed to his price. I simply didn’t feel I had the authority and momentary intellectual capacity (I had been sitting in a train for eleven hours after all) to argue with him. But when I sat there in the passenger’s seat on the short taxi ride into the city center, I started calculating with the currencies in my head and realized that the amount he had asked actually was almost comparable with what it would cost to go with taxi in Stockholm. Or maybe not, but still. I paid almost as much for the 15 minutes taxi ride as I later would pay for one night at the hostel. I was a stupid, blue eyed Swedish girl in a strange city, and this cunning young man thought I would be an easy victim. Which turned out to be true.

If we’re talking pure economy, the amount I paid him was not really that much when compared with other things I’ve had to pay and it won’t affect the economy of the rest of my trip at all. But I hate feeling like a fool, being the stupid girl. He put me in such a terrible mood, and I hate him for that.

My hostel in Sarajevo is of the cheaper kind, which means that the rooms are small and the beds stand very close to each other. However, it is clean and right now it seems like I’ll get to have this entire four bed dorm all to myself tonight. Which feels nice. I’m exhausted and am planning to sleep in tomorrow. The internet isn’t working, but the guy in the reception said that they will fix that tomorrow, and the hostel is full of young people that go outside and smoke right outside my open window, but other than that, things are great. I made it to Sarajevo all in one piece. I’m so proud of myself.

I’m still on the train, it’s half past seven. One and a half hours after we were supposed to arrive in Sarajevo.

There are less mountains outside the windows now, and more industrial buildings. People are smoking in the corridor outside my compartment, and once in a while a man with a small shopping cart walks by, selling soda and booze in tiny bottles.

The old man who’s been sitting in my compartment ever since we crossed the Croatian border turned out to know some Swedish. He spent some time in Gothenburg. Probably during the war, but I don’t know. I didn’t dare ask. I’m afraid his opinion of Sweden might not be that good. Sweden in the nineties was not a very good place for a refugee. It isn’t now either. Still better than having to stay in a war, though, I guess. There is always that.

But I have to say, despite the lateness and the smokers and the whiff of the pungent toilet smell that occasionally floats into the corridor, this train ride might be one of the most scenic I’ve ever traveled on. The mountains outside the windows can only compare with the drama of the Andean slopes on the train ride from Cusco to Aguas Calientes (the village below Machu Picchu). And that is a major international tourist attraction. Here, I feel like I’ve found a hidden treasure.

Well, that’s how I feel now. Let’s see how I feel after we arrive and I somehow have to find my way to the hostel through the nightly streets of yet another strange city.

The train just started again after standing still for quite a while. The Dutch couple got off the train an hour or so ago and now there is no one in the compartment who speaks English, but I picked up the word Zagreb from what they were saying, and then another train passed us going in the opposite direction. So I think we stopped to wait for the train from Sarajevo to Zagreb to pass. Does that mean that we’ve only come half way? It’s four now, and if the train was running on schedule we should be in Sarajevo in two hours. We left Zagreb (on the bus, mind, but still) six and a half hours ago.

Ah, well. Let’s see what happens. The landscape is still beautiful, with the mountains and the corn fields. It’s starting to become really hot in here, and the windows can only be opened by holding them down, which means that we only get fresh air whenever someone feels like standing up and holding on to the window handle. But except for that I’m pretty comfy. I brought about four liters of liquids (water and ice tea) on this trip, so I’m fine for now.

The train from Zagreb to Sarajevo does not run from Zagreb. When I arrived at the train station, I was told that I first had to take a bus. Luckily, the bus stopped right outside the train station and it even had air conditioning. Excepting the nice woman in the information desk at the train station, none of the official personnel knew any English, so I just had to rely on the other passengers. There were a couple of other backpackers around, and a couple of Croatians (I guess) that spoke a little English, so, I got safely to the tiny little train station where the four carriage train was waiting for us.

So now I’m sitting in this old, creaky train that leisurely moves through the Bosnian countryside. There are small fields and trees and shrubs, small brick houses and everything is framed in by the mountains. It is really beautiful. And the relative slowness of the train means that there is plenty of time to look at everything.

I’m sharing a compartment with a very nice backpacking Dutch couple, a middle-aged Bosnian woman who speaks German (and therefore can communicate with the Dutch girl), and an older Bosnian man. We crossed the border about half an hour ago, and I have no idea if the train is on time or not. Excepting for on the two stations on either side of the border, where sullen, intimidating policemen came and asked for our passports, the train hasn’t stopped for long anywhere. This far, this train seems to run much more smoothly than the one from Budapest to Zagreb. But then again, you never know. Maybe it is just biding its time, until it has lulled us passengers into a false sense of calm. Only then will it stop, in the middle of a field, with nothing for us passengers to do but wait for it to start again. Imagine the feeling of power. If a train had feelings, that is. (They do in Catherynne M. Valente’s “Palimpsest”, that wonderful wonderful book. Read it! Now!)

It’s Saturday night and I’m alone in an empty hostel. And when I say alone, I mean Completely Alone. No one else is here. For some odd reason, everyone who stayed here last night left this morning and no one new has arrived. The hostel is in a big apartment with three dorms, a big common room, kitchen and bathrooms. And here I am, lonely Swedish girls, all alone in an empty hostel in Zagreb. I must admit, it feels kind of creepy.

I’ve had a great day in Zagreb though, so the feeling of loneliness yesterday didn’t linger. Or, at least I didn’t feel it while walking around the narrow cobble stone paved streets of Zagreb, this super cute little city with such wonderful architecture. But as soon as I came back to the empty hostel and saw the note that the receptionist had left me on my bed, telling me that I would be alone in my dorm tonight, the feeling came creeping back.

I called Kirke. And after that, I called Hanna. And I think it’s a good thing, traveling by myself. I learn so much, about me and about how I react. Like now, for instance. Staying in hostels can be really lonely, especially if they’re empty. I so much prefer couchsurfing. At least I know that now.

Tomorrow I’m supposed to catch the train to Sarajevo. It leaves at 9 and is supposed to arrive at 18. Alexander, the guy on the train from Budapest, told me that the trains on the Balkans are never on time, and that I should expect to arrive in Sarajevo in the middle of the night. I’ve booked a hostel, so I will know where to go – but still. I feel a little bit worried. If I’m being completely honest. I’m feeling a little bit worried.

* * *

And now there’s a thunderstorm too. I’m starting to freak out a little.

They had some pretty cool stuff in Zagreb, on uninteresting house walls in the Lower Town. Even though some was written in Croatian, which I didn’t understand, so I couldn’t know if it cas cool or racist/anti-gay/something else less sympathetic.

Right next to the railway tracks lies the Botanic Garden of Zagreb. It is a small garden, but with no entrance fee and in the afternoon that after the rain had turned clammy and sultry, a walk among the trees was perfect.

They seem to have waterlilies in every Botanic Garden. I like them.

 

A Persian Ironwood. Incredible tree. So many branches.

And by the flower beds, the commuter trains covered in grafitti rolled by.

I continued my Zagreb walk down into the Lower Town.

The street outside my hostel.

The statue of the Grounded Sun.

The Well of Life statue, made by Ivan Mestrovic. There is something so suggestive about the naked bodies, something so intimate. I really liked it.

The Croatian National Theatre.

The First Fountain, designed in 1878, in the Zrinjevac square.

 

The Kallina House, built in 1904. One of the main investors to the building owned a ceramics factory, so that’s where the ceramic tiled facade comes from. Lovely building.

 

 

 

Seriously, what is that about?