I am writing this with my laptop on my knee, in the centre of my sofa, surveying my new apartment. On Friday I moved into an attic almost nearly in the old Ottoman Quarter, Baščaršija. I urge you all to come visit – I’m so delighted with this beautiful perch up on the third floor that I’m fidgeting for someone to come visit so I can show the place off. I have a sweet little loft with a spare bed and two magnificent sofas long enough to accommodate even the fussiest of tall sleepers. The big news: I’m living alone – this is all belong just to me! Obviously this must be viewed as an important scientific and social experiment: if my open invitations to come visit turn into polite requests, and then pleading, and later into desperate cries for help and company, we’ll know whether this was a dreadful mistake. Does living alone meaning you’re turning into a grown up? We’ll have to see.
From my perch under the eaves, past the mosques and the minarets, past the Sebil fountain which promises a lifetime in Sarajevo for those who drink its waters, I look out on the hills ringing the city, which at this hour after dark twinkle in the distance. Sarajevo is a neat little city tucked into a tight valley, its gabled houses spreading up the hillsides like mould speckled on a bathtub. The Centar is long, narrow and pointed, probably no more than 500 or 600 metres wide, so that at most moments as you move through the city you can see a steep hillside beginning close by on both left and right sides. On cold mornings the city is a bowlful of mist and fog lit through by sunshine. On clear nights, lights twinkle on either side like pierced cloths have been strung across the sky. And when it rains – as it did for two days without pause last week – it felt like we lay in the bottom of a cistern.
From my perch under the eaves, past the mosques and the minarets, past the Sebil fountain which promises a lifetime in Sarajevo for those who drink its waters, I look out on the hills ringing the city, which at this hour after dark twinkle in the distance. Sarajevo is a neat little city tucked into a tight valley, its gabled houses spreading up the hillsides like mould speckled on a bathtub. The Centar is long, narrow and pointed, probably no more than 500 or 600 metres wide, so that at most moments as you move through the city you can see a steep hillside beginning close by on both left and right sides. On cold mornings the city is a bowlful of mist and fog lit through by sunshine. On clear nights, lights twinkle on either side like pierced cloths have been strung across the sky. And when it rains – as it did for two days without pause last week – it felt like we lay in the bottom of a cistern.
Thanks to my friend Sven from whom I shamelessly robbed this photo without his knowledge.
Sunset on Sunday 31 October 2010
From my office on the 14th floor of one of the city’s only skyscrapers, I have yet to get tired of the view, one of the strangest mixes of a vista I think I’ve ever seen. Tapering up to the hills which begin only 200 metres away and which are dusted with the year’s first fall of snow, I can see the minarets of Turkish mosques, Austrian-style red gabled houses, socialist tower blocks, gracefully engineered mountain-side roads, a Croatian supermarket chain, a Chinese restaurant, an empty new shopping mall and the improbably smooth and gleaming Parliament building, rebuilt only in the last few years after being burnt during the war. My own skyscraper was shelled early on during the siege. I try to imagine it at as I listen to the hum of central heating and printers and the jingle of new emails, looking down at some of the bullet-scarred buildings below. The tower must have projected its 21 storeys of desolation over the low-lying city like some kind of spectre of the nightmare.
Sarajevo reminds me in lots of ways of Cork. It’s probably about the same size: 300,000 people, with a tiny, twisted centre and a sprawl of suburbs. It seems full only of young people, packed with old bars to which you need directions, little families running closet-sized cafes. They even have a jazz festival starting this week and of course, the locals speak a tongue-twisting lingo which defies all attempts of translation!
I may be starting Bosnian classes next week – another intern from the office is organising a teacher so I have decided I may as well embrace the opportunity, if only to manage ordering food, taking taxis and getting a coffee that actually corresponds to what I wanted in the first place. Bosnian is called Serbian in Serbia, Croatian in Croatia, and Slovenian in Slovenia, but it’s also almost the same as Czech, Slovak, Bulgarian and Polish. The touristy cafes in Bascharciza have waiters who can snarl “Pancake? Mixed grill? Soup?” at you when they see you looking confused, and the taxi drivers who claim not to speak English mysteriously know how to explain their charges, but in general it’s more difficult than I had anticipated to muddle by without the language.
Take Mr Brano, the caretaker of my apartment. I found the place through an agent, who handles all contact regarding the apartment in lieu of the landlord, who lives abroad. The agent, poor thing, is also my personal translator as Mr Brano does not speak a word of English. And I do mean literally, not a word. ‘Please’, ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ mean nothing to him. I suppose he must be in his 60s, wearing frayed trousers with a few faint streaks of paint and sturdy winter boots. On Friday he was waiting at the apartment to meet me when I arrived, three friends (i.e. helpful bag-carriers) in tow, huffing and puffing and rushing in with suitcases. We had to wait half an hour for the agent to arrive and sign off on everything.
While waiting, Mr Brano carefully and thoroughly walked me around the apartment, showing me with the delight of a skilled craftsman how each individual switch, plug and fitting in the place worked. All of it was accompanied by a stream of detailed description in darkest, densest Bosnian – it was entirely irrelevant to him that I – and my three friends - didn’t understand a single word. He revealed how each individual light fitting, table lamp and spot light turned on and off. He demonstrated how to light the gas stove. He opened the fridge and gestured to show me it was cold. He opened and closed the windows, he slid the venetian blinds back and forth, he turned the shower off and on. He gave a thorough and complex demonstration of the sliding doors of the fitted wardrobe in the bedroom. He showed me the blankets in the closet and the drawers built in for storage under the sofas. He indicated the television and showed us the channels, but he reserved particular attention for the thermostat for the central heating. 20 degrees would be about normal, but because the place hadn’t been heated in months it was turned up to 30 for the afternoon. This required a tremendous explanation on his part; never mind that it was entirely unintelligible – he gave me the most thorough convincing of the merits of turning the temperature down to 10 or 15 while I was out during the day, before putting it back up higher at night. 30 was too high! 30 was only for today!
“Super, super,” I nodded, knowing no other word to express my anticipated pleasure with all of this. He seemed delighted – I think he sensed my profound appreciation of the marvellous system of switches and lighting in the apartment! I know that I certainly had a profound appreciation of the agent when she finally arrived and could reassure Mr Brano that I had understood everything. He went home for the weekend, happy with what seemed to be the gratification of a well-satisfied craftsman.
Mr Brano is probably one of the reasons I want to learn a little Bosnian. I want to be able to say thank you, or make small talk. But I also want to be able to say something to sweeten the old ladies who frown at you sceptically as you walk down an uneven street of patched concrete houses. I want to be able to get bartenders to take me seriously and bother to serve me rather than pass me over for the beautiful – no, strike that – stunning, all the women here are absolutely stunning – girl next to me at the bar. On my third day it took at least four minutes of wild gesturing and pointing and pulling faces to get the man at the deli to cut me some cheese. I want to be able to order coffee and get it right. I’d like not to get jostled on the tram.
For all that, I make it sound hostile and defensive here, and yet for all that, somehow it’s not. Mr Brano smiled and patted my arm before leaving, after all. After a day or two the man at the deli began to smile and greet me with “ciao ciao!” when he saw me coming. Smiling at the old ladies helps a lot – in truth I think they’re just not used to seeing people with blue eyes. And yesterday, a five year old came up to me in a park and said hello, before telling me that she didn’t learn to speak English in Sarajevo, because she learnt it in Tokyo. Yes!
I think it’s just that the Bosnians are tough, and I don’t think anyone would hold that against them, all considered.
No comments:
Post a Comment