zagreb

There's a kind of hush all over Zagreb. We notice it from the first day here when we venture out from our Hotel Croatia to explore the city on foot. Even along the six kilometres of Ilica Street, the major road separating the Upper Town from the Lower Town, there is only an occasional car. We pass pedestrians. People on bicycles pass us. Sleek sky blue trams reflecting clouds in their windows quietly glide past every few minutes. Beneath the austere brown buildings lining the street there are many shops, but except for the bread shops and caffe/bars, a lot are closed, giving the street a shabby, deserted appearance.

Another closed local shop.

My map reading skills being what they are, we take a wrong turning and are soon lost on a thickly wooded hillside, where the paths criss-cross each other at confusing angles. There are no signs. We are like Hansel and Gretel lost in the woods, but in the middle of a city of one million, which is about the same size as our home town, Adelaide. Half an hour earlier we passed an old woman walking with a stick and a jogger flashes past between the trees higher up. Zagreb certainly has plenty of parks but where ARE all the people?

We head upwards hoping for an overview of the city and come to an open park with a playground and a kiosk where two teenage girls with earrings in their noses and ears huddle at a table, engrossed in each other. They speak English well and are very happy to point us in the right direction to find the central squares and pedestrianised streets of the city, the centre of Zagreb's renowned lounge culture. We find the cafes with rows upon rows of outdoor tables and chairs filling street after street, but Zagreb seems almost empty compared to other places we have visited like Seville and Granada and Carcassonne. And this is Saturday when most of Zagreb reputedly goes out for coffee and cake and people watching.

Later I read in my Lonely Planet Guide that Zagreb is almost deserted in August when everyone heads for the coast. We see few young people [the students must be on holidays], or families with children; mainly middle aged or elderly Croatians and a sprinkling of German, Italian, French and Spanish tourists. All the young beauties of Zagreb must be sunning themselves on the party islands of the Dalmation coast.

There are handwritten signs on shop doors indicating that the proprietors have gone away until the end of August.

On Sunday a few tour groups, with guides, swell the numbers in the centre and we admire the same sights; some architecturally interesting buildings, the palaces and museums, the cathedral and the iconic Saint Mark's church, the colourful markets under red umbrellas, the pageantry of the Changing of the Guards, the statues and folkloric performances. 

Changing of the Guards

Zagreb boasts many theatres, art galleries and museums, and a packed program of cultural events, but early August is not the best time to visit, particularly when we find everything, even the Botanical Gardens, closed on Wednesday for the Festival of the Virgin.

St Mark's

We learn that Zagreb invented the neck-tie and the fountain pen, both fading in relevance I fear. 

 

We love the museum of naive art with many works depicting scenes of village life in this region. There are a lot worse things to do than to sit in the sun with a cold beer in one of the spacious squares of Zagreb.

Ban Jelacic 1848.

The city revs up a bit during the working week, and the trams are packed when we travel to the residential areas outside the city, to see endless shabby concrete blocks of flats, many spacious recreational parks and matronly women flocking to new shopping centres.

MacDonald’s is turning from red to green. Hot Red Chilli Peppers are performing at the Arena in September. Even Harvey Norman is here. Zagreb is on the move.

On the trams and in the cafes I am struck by how quiet it is here after three months in Spain and southern France. It is not just the time of the year or the relative absence of cars which accounts for the silence.

It is also the language and the way people speak. It is softer and flatter, at times hushed or monotonic. It is the whispering of a sad sea or the soothing voice of a mother calming her child to sleep. Sometimes it is the staccato sound of rapid fire.

The Spanish talk loudly and expressively, laugh, sing, shout and chant. In Madrid the human sounds soared above the sounds of the traffic. The French use language to engage and connect, to joke, to express civility. Particularly in country regions, everyone acknowledges each other with a cheery “Bonjour.” I am eating alone in a cafe and a passer-by wishes me “Bon Appetit” We are farewelled with “Au revoir” or “A bientôt.” The language is a musical stream babbling over rocks.

I loved it when we were in Bouriege listening to children's voices ringing out across the valley as they chanted French rhymes and clapping songs. Wherever you are in France, people acknowledge each other. “D'accord,” “Voila,” “S’il-vous plais madame,” “Mais oui,” “Merci.” Happy sounds.

I know I haven't been here long; I have the naive perceptions of the outsider. Perhaps an outsider, in seeing differently, finds a pattern, a colour or shape to things which the insider may not notice. I wonder how much the language has shaped the culture or vice versa.

Here people sit silently in cafes and chain smoke or talk to each other in subdued tones. There is a melancholic note to the language. Two men at a cafe table communicate in sign language for the deaf. Their non verbal animation seems louder than the conversations at other tables. The manager at our hotel smiles with his eyebrows not his mouth. But the young receptionists have warm smiles and fluent English. I am sure that when the young people return from holidays, Zagreb will resume its new optimistic personality.

A group of women in traditional costumes sing lustily with joy, but many of the old people look ravaged by their lives. I see a number of women with black eyes. There is an exhibition about violence to women on at the gallery of modern art. Women were burnt as witches in the 18^th century; domestic violence is an issue here.

I feel increasingly sad as I learn more about the disturbing history of Croatia, the way people here have suffered and the cruelty we are capable of as human beings. Although there are positive signs in this 'new' Croatia, I can't help noticing the poverty and the pain.. Our hotel receptionist is outraged when she hears we have been overcharged by a taxi driver. “I work for two days for that amount,” she says, “and a taxi driver takes that from you in half an hour.” Now she is expressive. We see two men shouting at each other in the middle of the road, in dispute about who was at fault in a near accident. Beneath the silence, perhaps there is a lot of anger and fear.

As we approach the main city square we hear loud live music. A band and young singers belt out 'Proud Mary' in English. There are television cameras and a surging crowd.

A quartet of older male singers, with voices which blend into a single stream of harmonies, mesmerise the crowd with traditional Croatian songs. I notice people waving little Croation flags, or dancing and singing along with the words. The younger pop singers return and sing 'My Way' and 'We are the Champions.' Of course. It is the homecoming ceremony for the Olympic athletes.

The crowd roars when they come on stage. There are speeches. The excitement builds. The men sing more traditional anthems and everyone joins in, young and old. An old man next to me has tears in his eyes. Old women sway their hips in time to these rousing anthems. Young men hug and raise their flags.

The rock band sings 'Stand By Me' and I join in. I feel it. The nationalist pride of a new nation. Croatia. I am one of them for a moment. I want to show the world what we can achieve, despite the turmoil of our recent and more distant past. How easy it is to stir up nationalist sentiments!

The athletes leave the stage and the crowd disperses, but a few stragglers stay to hear the final song.

After the exhilaration comes a sobering reminder of the tragedy of the Civil War in the emotionally charged voice of the pint sized female singer:

I don't wanna talk

About the things we've gone through,

Though it's hurting me

Now it's history

I've played all my cards

And that's what you've done too

Nothing more to say

No more ace to play

The winner takes it all

The loser's standing small

Beside the victory

That's a destiny

 A bearded man, decked out in red and white, lowers his flag. He looks confused. His eyes empty of fervour. The moment is over. He gets on his bike.

Over fresh trout with almonds at the place where they dress like Hansel and Gretel, we talk about being away with different words. We feel rude when we can't respond in Croation. I know Ne is no and Da is yes and Molimo means please. “Bog is hullo” I say. '”I'm not going to say that,” says Old Dog.

I look blankly at the street signs and menus. I notice how many consonants there are in words, particularly V and K and J and Z, with few vowels in between. I look at them and try to hear the sound of the words. But I can't visualise them or make associations unless they resemble words I know.

When I see the word “tram”, I hear it and I see the word and I see various trams and I feel the movement of the old rattling tram to Glenelg and I remember the feeling of excitement when my nanna took me to Adelaide on the tram and the old horse drawn tram to Granite Island .I think about it being a green and effective way to travel in cities. I wish we had more trams and less cars in Adelaide.

The four letters are exploding with meaning. But when I see vrijeme or sljivovica, there are no associations. There's a kind of hush.