At the bottom of my street, the road widens into triangle centred around a white marble fountain. Inscribed with Arabic script, it contains several water taps where worshippers can wash their hands on the way to the mosque. One side of the triangle is made up of a tram stop and kiosks. The other sides are lined with small shops and cafés - a couple of bakeries, a guesthouse, the nearest branch of the ubiquitous Croatian supermarket Konzum, and three small grocery stores. They're not all located on corners, but more or less they're what I would recognise as corner shops: one or two are no larger than glorified cupboards. They sell some bits and pieces of basic necessities, but nothing special. Most stay open either very late or else never close at all, and mostly they're useful for late night booze runs when house parties are threatening to collapse from various shortages of beer or cigarettes.
The guys who run two of the dingiest, darkest, miserable concrete box-like shops in Sarajevo are the epitome of what the rest of the world generally considers to be the stereotypical Balkan male. Behold, how he stands scowling at the night from the shop's low door, a step or two below the level of the street, lovingly backlit by a fluorescent tube. Burly, dressed in jeans cut square like it's still the '80s and a black leather jacket - either a ribbed wool cap pulled down over his forehead or a vaguely colourless crop of hair - he blocks the door with his arms crossed and generally dares you to enter and buy something. A few cronies usually stand nearby, all equally brusque, scowling, and dressed like it's 1992. They watch the night and the city and the passing traffic and, I have no doubt, curse most of it.
Generally I can't tell any of the guys who run these two shops apart. I get the impression that the same two or three guys are there all the time, no matter what hour of the day or night - no wonder they're grumpy - but for all I know there's a small army of curt men, probably all related to each other, who take various turns at spending their Friday nights cursing the city from their vantage point near the tram stop.
Needless to say, I prefer the one shop on the other side of the street. For a start it's above ground level, lifted somehow above the snow and slush. It looks less like a bachelor's lair and more like a functioning shop - it's even been swept out and cleaned somewhat recently, which I attribute to the woman who works there. Yes, a woman; no wonder I feel basically safer taking my business there. A large metal table outside the door holds reasonably fresh fruit and veg. If she sees me lingering outside to look the produce over, she'll come bringing paper bags and wrap up whatever I point out to her with a faltering ovaj, ovo - toi (which translates as something along the lines of "that one - no, this one! Or - maybe that one after all"). She smiles wearily back at me like an exhausted housewife. In contrast to the other shops, I also know for sure that it's always the same one guy working there. He appears to work 12 hours a day, 7 days a week. He's there on my way to work in the morning, and he's there when I come back at night. He speaks German and usually insists on saying Guten Tag to me, seeming somehow offended that I don't reply auf Deutsch. (The second spoken language in Bosnia is probably an even split between German and English - huge numbers of Bosnians went to Germany during the war and most people still have family there today).
The reason I write about this, is because this man and this woman seem to me to sum up entirely the attitude of the Bosnians you cross paths with around Sarajevo. A smile isn't enough to initially cross the barricades, and unlike many countries where even one or two words of the local language is enough to get a good reaction, you have to go to greater lengths here to prove yourself. Mostly you just have to be a regular customer. I'm not sure if it's a matter of winning someone's trust or respect. To be honest, I think partially it's just that they don't particularly see the point in bothering to be friendly if they've never seen you before.
And with working conditions appearing to be what they are - those long hours, the undoubtedly tiny wages, the shaved profit margin, the sheer tedium of it all - I can't say I blame them. It's not that there's a terrific rudeness, just that very often no one's in a particularly good mood, and there's little or no incentive to pretend otherwise. And so explains the genesis of the local assumption that bad service is just the norm around here.
Which is why it's quite nice when you begin to get a friendly greeting when you pop in. After all, it's the same people working everywhere all the time, so it only takes a matter of days before they'll start to recognise you as the foreign girl who doesn't speak a word of Bosnian but will try to say hello anyway. The lady at the kiosk from whom I buy a tram ticket whenever I sleep late and don't have time to walk to work, for instance, started to smile at me once I'd slept in three days in a row, and with a wry smile showed me the weekly ticket that would be better value for me to buy. The girls in the café near the office know my coffee order and acknowledge it with a tired smile and a nod before bringing it over. Personally I think the real root of perceived unfriendliness here is not rudeness but exhaustion. Everyone just always seems so bored, and so tired.
Yesterday I tramped into the corner shop out of the snow, laden down with heavy grocery bags which I was carrying from the bigger, better-stocked supermarket down the other end of the old town. It's easier to get heavier things like wine or sparkling water in a shop closer to home, and I like giving smaller businesses some trade. As usual, we had our little exchange of pleasantries - I often end up wishing them good morning when it's evening time or stuttering nema veze ("no worries") instead of samo malo ("hang on a second") while fumbling for change.
As usual, he asked me if I could speak German. It seems he keeps hoping I'll eventually change my mind on this matter overnight. Lots of gesturing and wiggling shoulders. Ich spreke kein Deutsch! They must have been in a more talkative mood than usual, and with the lack of German they made the only logical conclusion - "Iz Amerikanska?". This one I understood - "Ne, ne. Iz Irska". No, no. Irish.
What a the reaction! IRSKA! Great excitement. "Dublin!" I tried to gesture no, not Dublin, but it went unnoticed, because they knew Ireland all right. "Irska! Dublin! - Eurovisia!"
Well, it made me laugh. Eurovision. Bosnians apparently love Eurovision. I hope I'm still here in May so I get to join in the excitement. I'm not exactly sure how it works in a country so desperately divided on ethnic, federal and political lines, but clearly getting to compete against the neighbours whilst showcasing your own talents on a larger, aspirational European level is popular down here. So he knew Ireland because after all, we still have a good reputation left in the one sphere that none of us remembered to celebrate: cheesy Euro-pop song competitions. The really sad part of course is that the great successful run of ballads which he was referring to lasted from 1992 to about 1996; right when the crisis in the Former Yugoslavia was at it's worst. Later in the conversation he told me he used to live in Frankfurt, so I guess he used to vote for the Eurovision from Germany, but it seemed a poignant memory: his only associations of Ireland's good times being linked to Bosnia's lowest moments.
So my welcome has evolved from gloomy scowl, to hesitant scepticism, to the vague hints of a smile when I come through the door. At least - unlike across the street - they don't look exactly displeased when I come in. And I call that progress.
