Welcome to Osijek

From the second I stepped off the bus in Osijek, I was lost. My backpack felt too heavy, the sun was too hot.

In Slavonski Brod I’d been wondering if the pockmarks in some of the buildings were war-damaged, and I couldn’t be sure.

In Osijek, I was sure. They were everywhere.

Osijek is the town of Vanja and Sandra.

Kids living in basements for two years, drinking in bars at 12 years old and the bartenders allowing it because these kids were a lot more grown up than most adults. Little girls watching the friends they played with blown to bits in an apartment building.

This is Sasa’s town.

I found the centre of town and, correctly assuming there was no hostel in Osijek, I decided to find the cheapest hotel. I spotted Hotel Royal just off the main square and ventured inside. There was no one at the front desk so I looked into the attached restaurant. A young waiter jumped up to help me.

“Room, for hotel? Yes, yes, come with me.”

He bounded up the hotel’s wide staircase without paying attention to whether or not I was following. The hallway was long and empty, and I felt like I’d wandered into The Shining.

When he opened the door and lead me into the room, even he could barely keep a straight face. There were no blankets on the tiny single bed. The walls were stark white with no paintings or decorations and there was no tv. I wondered if the hotel was even open to the public yet. This waiter, surely, was taking the mickey out of a poor, unsuspecting tourist.

“It's okay?” he asked.

If I hadn’t been a little afraid for my life in the empty hotel, I would have laughed out loud.

When he offered me the key I politely refused it and turned away. The vineyards in Brodski Stupnik would have been a better choice of accommodation.

I then tried the Pension Regina. When I knocked on the door a lady answered, dolled up in a black, velvet suit and sparkling jewelry. She told me that the titular Regina was out but she would call her immediately. She offered me a seat, then a cup of tea and I’m sure she would have offered to cook lunch if she’d been able to ask in English.

Regina arrived twenty minutes later, relieving her poor mother - or mother-in-law, I didn’t quite catch that part - and showed me a room. She, and the room, were lovely, but more expensive than the swanky Hotel Waldinger down the street. Not having the heart to refuse, I told her I needed to pop out quickly to a bank machine, and I headed straight for the Waldinger.

To this day, there might be people at both the Hotel Royal and the Pension Regina holding rooms for me.

I’d heard that Osijek was the gastronomic capital of Croatia so even before I got there, I expected to have great food.

But even in the gastronomic capital of the country, for the love of God, I was hard-pressed to find a restaurant where I wanted to eat.

I wandered the streets that first night, increasingly cold, tired and frustrated. The few restaurants I found were either too empty or too crowded for me, or totally unappetizing.

I had no guide book with me and I couldn’t find tourist information. I tried to follow Davor’s advice and eat in the hotel restaurant, but it was closed.

I knew I’d hit rock-bottom when, after hours of searching for somewhere to eat, I wound up in McDonald’s. And it wasn’t even particularly tasty McDonald’s. My descent into madness was accelerated by a group of screaming children having a birthday right beside me.

While I bitterly shoved french fries into my mouth, a man and his young daughter started making the rounds through the restaurant asking for money. The man couldn’t have been older than thirty and the girl was a toddler.

“Ne govorim Hrvatski,” I said when they reached my table.

“Money! Money!” he nearly shouted.

I shook my head.

They stood there. The little girl reached for my tray and I handed her one french fry, which she happily shoved into her mouth. Osijek had turned me into the selfish bitch who was stingy with a pack of fries that I wasn’t even enjoying.

That Saturday night in Osijek was one of the coldest and loneliest I’ve ever had.

After dinner, I forlornly walked the streets. I was desperate for a drink but afraid to meet anyone, in case they were somehow linked to Sasa. I finally settled on a pub that was empty except for two old men watching a football game with the bartender. I sat in a corner, writing in my journal, smoking a cigarette and drinking a huge Osjecko.

On my way home that night I passed the burnt-red Cathedral and there was a group of men standing outside. A wedding ceremony had just ended and the guests were still milling about. The men had ukeleles and guitars and were singing joyously, and I watched for a few minutes before getting too chilled.

I went back to the Waldinger and bundled myself into the enormous Hotel Waldinger bed. Supersize Me was just starting on TV, an ironic little jab for that night’s meal.

The next morning I woke up late and wasn’t able to partake in the beautiful hotel brunch for as long as I’d intended. I made a mental note to force myself out of bed the next day.

I went to the front desk to ask for another night and ended up chatting to the receptionist.

"Did you go out in Tvrda last night?” she asked.

I knew that was the best area to go out partying, but I’d felt intimidated just walking around the quiet streets, let alone heading into a nightclub.

“I wish I’d known you were here,” she said. “I would have taken you out.”

She then asked me what I was doing in Osijek. It’s a common question posed by Croatians, not only in Osijek which, granted, doesn’t see many tourists, but even in Zagreb or Pula. What are you doing in Croatia? And when they find out how long I’ve been there, What do you like so much about Croatia?

I left the Waldinger at 11am, not sure where I was heading. As I passed the red Cathedral, I realized that Sunday mass was about to start. Although I'm Catholic, I never attend mass when it isn't connected to a wedding or funeral.

I went inside.

I sat down at the end of a pew, trying to stay out of the way, but had to move into the middle when more people arrived.

There were two girls, probably 19 or 20 years old, sitting in the pew in front of me. At one point when the congregation stood up, one of the girls dropped to her knees, hands folded in front of her, eyes closed. She wasn’t embarrassed to do it, she paid no attention to the friend with her or anyone else, and no one paid attention to her. I couldn’t imagine one of my friends at home showing their devotion so strongly in public.

The words of the sermon were as foreign to me as the Glagolitic lettering on the church walls. But somehow, I understood it. And when it came time to shake hands with our neighbours and say a few words, the handshakes I received from the women on either side of me were firm and heartfelt, even though I could only respond to their words with a meek smile.

I left the Cathedral an hour later and the day was crisp and bright blue.

I don’t know if it was the church service or the great sleep I’d had the night before, but I was suddenly full of love for Osijek. I decided to take it slow, like Slavonians, or like the slow-moving Drava river that I walked alongside for most of the day.

I explored the Tvrda area, an old army barracks, and I stopped for a bijela kava in the centre of it. Then, in the middle of the Sunday afternoon, I sat down on a bench atop a little hill, surrounded by autumn leaves and fresh grass, the sun warm on my head. I ate the sandwiches I’d made that morning at breakfast, and I read my book for hours. Something I’ve always meant to do but have never had the time.

I wandered around residential neighbourhoods that evening, wondering if Sasa and Vanja had grown up in one of those houses. I got lost around every corner but the Cathedral spires that rose up into the sky helped me to find my way home.

Osijek is a city best enjoyed for its simple pleasures. For all the trouble it had given me the night before, turned out to hold one of the dearest places in my heart.