I knew something was different about Zagreb the moment I arrived at my hotel, an American chain, and discovered translations are available for menus at the restaurant, but only if you look for them. The gift shop rents DVDs, but they’re all translated into Croatian. “Do you have a lot of Croatian guests stay here?” I asked the gift shop clerk. She told me most of the guests were English-speaking, like me. “Then why are all your movies in Croatian?” I asked, with a bewildered look on my face. She just smiled, as if to acknowledge that that’s just the way they did things around there.
Zagreb, Croatia, a city so unapologetically, well . . . Croatian. In every city I’ve traveled to around the world, even those I visited prior to this journey, there was always a bit of English, French, or American influence on the culture. The street signs were in English, restaurant menus were in English, and the hotel staff generally spoke my language fluently. Not so in Zagreb.
When I’d arrived the previous afternoon, I had mistakenly walked in the opposite direction of the city center—my desired destination—and ended up in a less-than-flattering part of town where they served lukewarm pizza (which I ate while walking and unknowingly dripped red tomato sauce all over my white cargo pants and tennis shoes), the buildings were covered in graffiti, and the bars (the only places that appeared to be open) didn’t serve food at all.
But the next day, headed in the right direction toward the city center, I again noticed how every restaurant, bar, and menu was written in Croatian, and only if I looked hard enough could I find partial translations in English located somewhere in small print on the menu. The only thing I’d seen thus far that I recognized were a few small Ford cars and a street near my hotel, Franklina Roosevelta.
A short walk down several small streets lined with restaurants, boutiques, and unique lampposts brought me to the heart of the city, an area easily spotted. Trg bana Jelačića (pronounced yell actch itsa), or Ban Jelačić Square, features an enormous statue of nineteenth-century army general Ban Josip Jelačić, on a horse, with his sword raised and a pastel yellow building behind it. The square is paved with stone blocks and surrounded by dozens of shops and cafés. The antique facades of the nearby buildings immediately reminded me I was in a country much older than my own.
I spotted a few steep staircases that seemed to lead to a marketplace but didn’t even think about climbing them. Instead, I pulled out my camcorder and slowly spun around, recording everything in sight. Then I paused to people watch. I could immediately tell who was Croatian and who was a foreigner, not because the travelers were reading maps or looked confused as to where they were; they just came across as a bit tentative. In particular, those from America or other British-influenced countries tended to have that tentativeness about them. But the Croatians walked with their heads held high and chests stuck out. A brassiere-less woman with a thin (somewhat sheer) T-shirt crossed my path, with her C-cup bust bouncing up and down. She didn’t look the least bit concerned.
Although I would have loved to continue studying the nuances between our cultures (like the fact that those who looked American appeared to be the only ones wearing tennis shoes), after grabbing a grilled ear of corn from a street vendor and doing a bit of walking near the square, it was time to return to the hotel, as my friend Mia would be there soon to pick me up.
Mia was the first Croatian I ever met in the States. She had returned to Zagreb to pursue her dream of becoming a film producer. Keith and I had promised years earlier that we’d one day visit her country that she spoke to us so fondly about. Unfortunately, I had come alone and wouldn’t see Keith again for another four weeks (something I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about and that became more saddening by the day).
When Mia arrived, I was a couple minutes late getting downstairs. Not that she noticed though. She was busy on her cell phone, yelling at someone in Croatian. I couldn’t tell what it was about (she later explained it had to do with a frustrating business deal). We got in the car, and she sped through the narrow streets of Zagreb, holding the phone to her ear with her left shoulder, simultaneously shifting gears and steering with her left hand while her right was making animated gestures at the person on the phone. The adrenaline rush was the equivalent of several cups of coffee.
I couldn’t keep up with all the calls coming to her cell phone. I didn’t even try. “Oh, this is slow,” she told me. “You should have been here last week while the festival was going on.” I couldn’t even imagine. Mia was now an Emmy Award–winning producer and also produced film-related festivals and events throughout Croatia. I’d done my best to remain in the moment throughout my travels and to slow to a much more relaxed pace than I usually keep in Los Angeles. But with Mia, everything was moving at a New York minute. She was preparing to head to London in two days as part of a team of producers covering the Olympic Games and was still wrapping things up from the film festival the previous week.
Whipping through the streets of Zagreb, we began an ascent up a steep hill. We dipped down a couple of times, around a few tight corners, and finally down a narrow street taking us to our destination. As soon as she hung up the phone (or rather, the phone lost its signal when we went into an underground parking garage), she began showing me Gornji Grad, known as Upper Town (or as Mia described it, Old Town).
Upper Town is the medieval core of the city initially developed as two separate towns, Kaptol, home of the church and the bishop (where an imposing cathedral now stands), and Gradec, where most of the citizens lived. Standing on Radićeva, a street at the lowest level between the two towns, Mia explained that we were atop what was once a wood-beamed bridge separating two hills, with Medveščak creek running below it. This bridge and creek served as borders between the two towns.
The conflict between the people on the two hills is a familiar storyline: people versus power. During one conflict, it is said the battle between the two settlements got so bad, the creek waters became red with blood, hence the name Krvavi Most, which literally means “Bloody Bridge.” Today, there are no remaining signs the bridge ever existed, and the two hills aren’t as pronounced now that they’re covered with cobblestone, cafés, shops, and outdoor food vendors, but the locals know its history well.
We stood for a moment as I took in the sights around me and the large youth choir singing in the middle of the street a short distance away. Then we passed through Stone Gate, the only surviving medieval town gate. Mia immediately lowered her voice and signaled me to lower mine. As we continued through the arched walkway, I noticed several small, black church pews to my right, with people sitting quietly with their eyes closed, a nun in a black-and-white habit, and a shrine with a large Virgin Mary painting, flowers, and lit candles on our left. All in the open air. As I stared at the painting (citizens believe it to be sacred, as it is the only thing that survived a large fire in 1731 and remained undamaged), Mia put her index finger over her lips, as if to say, “Shhh.” We were walking on holy ground. An outdoor church in the middle of the road. That was certainly a first.
A few moments later, we stopped at an open square where there was a small, thirteenth-century church with a steeple and a beautifully designed mosaic-tiled roof. Red, white, blue, and brown tiles displayed two coats of arms, representing Zagreb in one and the former Kingdom of Croatia, Slavonia, and Dalmatia in another. St. Mark’s Church is one of the most recognizable edifices in Zagreb. Pointing to one side of the church, Mia told me, “That’s Parliament.” Having just left London, I was surprised to see such a plain-looking parliamentary building. Pointing to the other side, she said, “That’s the prime minister’s office.”
Continuing up the small hill, along a narrow, stone-paved alley, Mia pointed to an open gate on our left. Just as I poked my head inside, her phone rang again. I walked in the dusty area and was astounded by what I saw. Well-preserved artifacts one might expect to see in a museum or somewhere out of the reach of the general public rested against a stone wall. Mia removed the phone from her ear for a moment. “Someone will come and work on the restoration,” she told me. But before I could inquire more, she returned the phone to her ear. She later told me that if I looked in various cubby spaces throughout Croatia, I’d find a lot of similar artifacts.
“Want to go to the Museum of Broken Relationships?” Mia asked after ending her call.
“That really exists?” I inquired. Not only does it exist; it apparently won the 2011 European Award for Most Innovative Museum. Well, I couldn’t travel around the world, looking for the secret to a happy marriage, and not stop at a museum that represents the exact opposite.
Upon entering the museum, I was amazed first that so many people had been willing to share such personal stories with strangers. But I guess most authors, like myself, do the same. An ax hanging on the wall tells the story of its owner, a woman who used it to chop up twenty-five pieces of furniture while her ex was on vacation. A large wedding photo album was sent in by another woman, along with the story of her failed marriage. Videos people had created to chronicle their relationships, and the pain caused in their aftermath, played on one of the walls.
Teddy bears, shaving kits, old wedding dresses, pink furry handcuffs, all mementos of a love gone wrong. Along with each item on display was the story its former owner had written about his or her broken relationship. Some of these writers were still clearly in love, others still upset, and some had written stories that seemed wholly inappropriate for public consumption. “Oh, this one’s still bitter,” Mia said, pointing at one she thought I should read.
Leaving the museum, Mia received a text from Sanja, a woman we were scheduled to meet for afternoon coffee. “We’ve got to go,” she told me as I snapped a few more photos of the interesting stories and artifacts.
We walked through a marketplace, and Mia pointed to a set of steep staircases that didn’t look as if they should be used by pedestrians. But alas, that was the way to Lower Town. As we began our descent, I was just thankful we were walking down rather than climbing up. A few minutes later, we arrived at the statue of Ban Jelačić and headed quickly toward an area with a plethora of cafés.
Several of Mia’s married girlfriends were supposed to meet us at a local café, but one by one began calling and texting to apologize for not being able to come. Even one husband called, because his wife was breast-feeding when she got Mia’s follow-up text and realized she hadn’t scheduled the right time.
Sanja was early and already at the café, so we began briskly walking toward one of the busiest outdoor cafés. As we got closer, Mia called Sanja to see where she was seated in the large café. A stunning brunette with long, flowing hair, perfect makeup, and a formfitting dress and high heels headed our way.
I was instantly struck by this woman. Once we sat down over a couple bottles of Coca-Cola, my fascination increased. For one, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that many curse words come out of the mouth of such a beautiful woman. I often forget that in many European countries, cursing is a part of their day-to-day speech. They recognize “bad words,” but many don’t treat them as such.
I listened to Sanja talk about how “bleeping” tired she was of “bleeping” complaining and nagging wives, while smoking her way through several cigarettes. She was irritated that all she ever heard about in the media and on television was how miserable wives are and how marriage is like a death sentence. She doesn’t feel that way at all and hates that others project such a negative view onto other people.
Sanja is an arms dealer for the Swedes. To be exact, she sells supersonic fighter aircrafts and defense and security solutions on behalf of a Swedish company to the Croatian government. As I tried to process her career and appearance at the same time, I was stumped. Her beautifully tailored, smart-looking, jasmine-colored dress was not what I’d expect from a person who sells equipment to the military all day. And it’s also not what her almost all-male audiences expect when she walks through the door to do business.
Once, she recalled, she went into a meeting with two men in suits. As she walked in, one of the men looked up and said, “I’ll have an espresso, please.” She looked at him, straight-faced, and responded, “Great. And I’ll have a martini.” She’s no-nonsense in every area of her life, including her marriage.
Sanja, who is early on in her marriage, is the kind of woman many wouldn’t expect to be married at all. She has a current-generation, “I don’t need anyone” aura about her. But that’s part of what drew her to her husband. He was just as confident as she was, and he wouldn’t take her jabs. He tamed her. He calmed her. But all in a good way: a way that allowed her to continue to be the warrior she is in the workforce, as she battles men who completely underestimate her, while allowing her to be gentle at home.
Since Sanja has only been married a few years, I initially wondered if I should include her in this book. I decided to break from my self-imposed twenty-five-years-or-more rule because, seriously, how often do you bump into an arms dealer who could double as a model and who echoes the most consistent secret I’ve heard about how to have a great marriage?
“Treating your spouse with respect,” she said, “that is the secret. I want respect, so I must treat him with respect.” So many want what they don’t give, Sanja said in her trademark, “take it or leave it” manner of speech. The secret, she believes, is giving what you want to receive, and giving it 100 percent. Sounds a lot like Donnant, donnant.
This is what Sanja does in her marriage. She hopes it will last always but also recognizes that the ability for that to happen rests in her long-term commitment to make it happen by working toward it every day, and not allowing her battles with male chauvinism in the workplace to trickle into her home life. She knows that if she begins taking out on her husband the frustrations she sometimes experiences in the field, that will spell disaster for her relationship at home.
I asked Sanja where she saw herself in twenty years. “Sitting somewhere and laughing with my husband,” she replied.
Yeah, that’s where I see myself in twenty years too.
As our time together came to a close, we exchanged contact information and I promised to let her know what I found to be the “secrets” from all the other women I interviewed. Mia and I then began walking to dinner, where we were to meet her boyfriend at one of the many quaint restaurants on Tkalčićeva Street, a pedestrian street that was once covered by the Medveščak creek but is now lined with cafés and bars on both sides.
That’s when Mia started to tell me about one of her closest friends, whom I’d have the pleasure of interviewing the very next day: Zeljka.