All the rolling materials I’d bought after a night of sitting at a table in a small village up in the mountains with some other backpackers. My friend and I probably wouldn’t have stayed so long, or had a reason to join them in the first place, if we’d declined their offers to come smoke. The conversation would have outlasted the scarce amount of wine we’d brought, but the cigarettes kept coming. So we kept sitting while our gathering attracted all kinds of scraggly diplomats and we stayed until the hostel receptionist told us to go to bed or go to the (only) bar in town. We opted for the bar and stayed as long as we could withstand the penetrating stares of the old men trying to drink their Karlovačko in peace. Eventually, we understood the glass we dropped and shattered as our cue to leave and slipped out the door, narrowly avoiding the advances and yells of a particularly agitated local, who one of our new Croatian friends convinced to leave us alone – by saying what, I don’t know. It’s not unreasonable to think that if we hadn’t been smoking with him, he might not have helped us. Then again, if we hadn’t been gathered around the ash tray then we might not have been there to get into trouble. Now I was left with a big bag of tobacco I didn’t want, and it didn’t feel like I was around anyone who’d want any part of it either. I like to be alone, but dragging my feet through what felt like a ghost
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town made me realize there’s a difference between separating yourself from people and really being on your own. You feel it a lot more when you don’t have a choice in the matter. I’d be willing to bet I wasn’t the first person to touch down in a city full of people and feel like there was no one there. But I’d also put a bet on the fact that taking the cigarette out of my
mouth would have given me a better chance to say hello. So what it came down to was that I needed some kind of filler, and these ended up being my little distractions. I found myself smoking a lot of these uniformly bad cigarettes for the three days I was in Sarajevo. For the most part I was sleepwalking through the city. Wandering and stopping became the stuff my day was made of. My loose schedule consisted of stopping at cafes to sip espresso outside – or a cappuccino if I felt like staying longer – occasionally writing up a sad postcard to someone back home.
I would head to Leuven several days later, ready to spend my last days in Europe going out swinging. Consequently – and either too late or at just the right time (it’s always hard to tell, isn’t it?) – it was there I would learn that you’ll always have friends if you’re willing to let go of your cigarettes and beer. Together, we all pounded on tables late into the night and they sang their songs while I bought the next round. These things aren’t that important after all. Usually what matters is what happens between sips and drags. Things were starting to lose their taste though. In Bosnia they know how to cook meat, but if your palette craves a variety of seasonings, sauces, vegetables, spices, or any other non-meat flavors, then you’re in the wrong country. Eventually I came to look forward to getting a mouthful of onions along with cevapcici; chopped, raw onions being the only other thing it came with. I found a sort of refuge in döner kebap that helped keep me afloat, reminding me of an inspiration that seemed to be on its last legs one week from leaving Europe. Hailing from somewhat ambiguous origins, döner has spread across most of Europe as the go-to delicious cheap food. It never had any real ties to wherever I was eating it, but it was always there, so evocative of late nights in smoky bars and hearing your voice echo down cobblestone streets and into the baroque