Finding Zagreb

By Rashmi Jolly Dalai
This article was printed in Abroad View fall 2004

Croatia’s Zagreb is not the most charming capital in Eastern Europe. New visitors are greeted by an awkward city still trying to modernize amidst post-war economic stagnation. Trolleys run slowly on tracks embedded in cobblestone alongside busy streets. Ornate yellow buildings stand out uncomfortably from the gridded city landscape. Rundown hotels and cheerless block-style structures have brightly decorated windows filled with the newest Western fashions, while billboard ads crowd the most prominent open square, Trgbana Jelacic´a, in a less flashy imitation of Piccadilly Circus.

Many people that my brother and I encountered seemed absent, disinterested or simply not used to tourists. Our hotel concierge handed us our keys without telling us our room number, the location for breakfast or the cost for the room. He was too absorbed in his small black and white television. A guard at the Mimara Museum almost fell asleep standing against an exhibit room wall. An old man selling yellow and red flowers seemed more content to stand and smoke his cigarette than sell us a bouquet.

Meanwhile, the younger people we met were eager to leave the city. On our first evening there we had dinner at Bijeli Val, a vegetarian restaurant decorated with contemporary artwork and housed in what felt like someone’s apartment. Our waiter was a Bosnian Croat and had left his family to come to Zagreb to look for work after the war. Now, he too wanted to leave. “I don’t care where I go, maybe Italy, maybe London, maybe L.A., anywhere but here,” he said. “I am tired of Zagreb, there is no opportunity here. It is not a nice place. What can I do? I don’t have any money to open my own business. But I can’t be a waiter for the rest of my life.”

Yet, amidst the city’s struggle, there is a feeling of subtle beauty and grandeur. Medieval independence, Hungarian rule and socialist control have left imprints and shadows that give the city a unique depth. Northern Zagreb is comprised of two medieval towns that reluctantly came together under Ottoman threats to form the first Croatian stronghold. Kaptol, originally home to a large ecclesiastical community, retains its lovely, simple and solemn feel through low-level buildings and narrow streets in the shadows of Zagreb Cathedral’s grand neo-gothic twin spires. Gradec, historically the artistic and political center, proudly houses stately museums (the Museum of Zagreb, the Natural History Museum, the Historical Museum of Croatia and the Museum of Modern Art), government buildings including the Sabor (national parliament) and Banski Dvori (Ban’s Palace, used for formal receptions) and a medieval coat of arms, embedded in colorful tile on the roof of St. Mark’s Church.

To the south of these districts, the city’s center springs to life daily with the fruit, vegetable and meat sellers in the market, a handful of florists in Preradovíc Square (known as “The Flower Square”), and people sipping coffee at one of the many outdoor cafes along Bogovíeva. The center is loosely connected to Donji Grad, or the lower city, by a U-shaped series of carefully cultivated parks. This curve of green promenades is lined with more museums, galleries, the peach-colored Croatian National Theatre and the central train station in Tomislavov trg, which still holds airs of mysterious old-world travel.

But my brother and I couldn’t see these more colorful details at first. The dominating grey buildings, depressing block housing, spray-painted graffiti and empty sidewalks crowded out many of the other charms. So we decided to leave the city and drive three hours south to Plitvice Lakes, a string of sixteen lakes connected by waterfalls deep in northern Croatia. It seemed a good sign when our rental car agent, helpful and eager to ensure that we saw the best of the country, saddled us with maps and instructions. We passed through the edge of the city and soon entered a loose hilly sprawl of thin villages and open land.

But less than an hour outside of Zagreb, we found ourselves passing through war-torn areas, where roofless churches, bullet- riddled buildings and an air of desertion made us irrationally afraid to leave the safety of our car. We eventually stopped at a church outside of Karlovac, only five kilometers from the front line of the 1991 war. It still had the exterior walls and one window where there were once circular stained glass panels. But inside, there was nothing but rubble, fragments of religious relics and a view to a vast valley landscape in the distance.

Farther south, the destruction faded and was replaced by intermittent roadside stalls usually manned by an older woman in a peasant scarf and a thick-knitted sweater. Each stall offered an array of honey, fresh stuffed pastries and other farm and dairy products. We tried to ask one of the women about the different kinds of cheeses she had on display. But each time we pointed, she added the object to our bag until we finally decided to simply pay for the three large wheels. As we drove off, her lone presence against the hillside made the absence of men, many killed in the war, seem ghostly.

Three hours after leaving Zagreb, we arrived at Plitvice and walked to the “veliki slap," or the "big waterfall," Because it was still winter, the trees were bare against the tall sloping rocks where the wall of water began. We shivered as we made our way down the steep steps, past the smaller Sastavci falls, along a rocky trail and a wooden walkway to the bottom where a thin mist added to the cold. The sound of sheets of water hitting rock was almost deafening. We continued hiking past a series of smaller cataracts and jade green pools until we reached Kozjak, the largest of the lakes. By then, a deep chill had set into both of us, so we decided not to go farther.

With our visit cut short, there seemed nothing else to do but speed away to the northern part of the Adriatic coast. In less than two hours, we had driven west over the mountains and found ourselves sitting outdoors at a seaside café in just our T-shirts, watching the surface of the water ripple while we dined on black risotto. The restaurant was simple and old. In front of it, empty concrete fishing docks jutted out into the sea, and infrequent traffic passed down the highway despite the appeal of the quaint seaside town, the name of which we never learned. We relaxed until our skin felt warm and the light faded.

As we reentered Zagreb, we saw it in contrast to the battle remains, roadside stalls and bare mountains. The post-communist gloom was more palatable after the war-ravaged psyche of the surrounding countryside.

We parked our car and walked through the streets surrounding Jelacic´a Square in search of a snack. The more elusive aspects of the city now seemed to represent its character in the quiet twilight—an ability to build on in its past, immense pride in its cultural institutions and a desire for a beautiful urban space. AV

Rashimi Jolly Dalai graduated from Columbia University’s School of International and Public Affairs in 1999 and then lived in London and traveled extensively throughout Europe and Asia. When this article was published, she was working on her first novel while freelance writing in New York City.