“Today I will swim in the warm Mediterranean Sea, drinking fine white wine on the beach while surrounded by beautiful European women.” So I thought as I stepped on the Sunday morning bus from Zagreb to Zadar, Croatia. But once I sat down in my assigned seat and haggardly inhaled through my mask, reality hit me – like a punch to the face.
Well, that’s what happened.
The previous night Neo-Nazi skinheads attacked me for wearing a t-shirt that read, “Love Beer/ Hate Fascism.” A large bandage was wrapped around my head. The doctor in Zagreb had instructed me to wear it for at least two more days. I could feel blood oozing from a scar above my right eye. My nose wasn’t broken, but it was swollen and made breathing difficult. Wearing a mask for COVID restrictions didn’t help. And a lingering hangover added to the pain.
Still, I had an AirBnb reservation confirmed and paid for ten days. After I spend the next two days bleeding out inside a room in Zadar, I could go outside and enjoy the seaside.
Bleeding In Zadar – How Not To Relax On The Croatian Seaside
Except there was no room.
At Zadar’s bus station, I showed a taxi driver the address to the apartment just outside the city center. He took me there and left me with my luggage. Since I didn’t have service in Croatia, I couldn’t call the Airbnb owner. I knocked on the door.
An old man opened the door. He looked surprised at my puffy bandage-wrapped head. But his surprise quickly turned to disappointment when he saw my luggage. In broken English, he spoke:
“You must to be a AirBB. I sorry. No have room.”
“I have a reservation at this address and paid on my credit card.”
I showed him a screenshot of the reservation on my phone. His sagging eyes squinted at the small screen.
“You call?”
“No, I don’t have service in Croatia. I messaged you three times. Do you have WiFi?”
“Yes, I give you. But I do not have room.”
“Why? I paid. Ten days.”
“I have a son, he make many – how say? – profile on AirBB for my apartman. I do not know all them.”
He pulled out his phone, squinted again and scrolled down the screen with the hesitant uncertainly of elderly people who are not used to using mobile technology. After an eternity, he found Airbnb.com. He showed me several bookings. I saw my name and pointed: confirmed and paid. He shook his his head. My head, already pounding, started pounding harder. Am I bleeding, sweating or crying?
“All five rooms are busy, sorry,” he grimaced, “Are you hungry? You want coffee? Eat?”
Yes, all of the above. But what I really want is a room.
Bleeding, Sweating or Crying In Zadar?
The old man lurched into his apartment. After some time, he brought out a plastic plate with slices of industrial ham and cheese, stale white bread, and a cup of coffee. Through clenched teeth, I thanked him. On the positive side, the hospitality was appreciated. On the other hand, I had a confirmed room in his apartment that I already paid for and couldn’t go to. I began searching for lodging online.
Again, I searched AirBnb. Nothing. I checked Booking.com. Everything available around Zadar’s center was more than 100 dollars a night. On Google, I looked further out. Eventually, a place showed up which was about 30 minutes from the center: Guesthouse Mihovil. Although it was only available for the night, it was just 40 dollars. A 15 minute walk separated me from the booked Airbnb I was at. Suddenly, my luggage looked heavier. And the temperature was 98(40) degrees that day. My head swelled like a ripe tomato under the soaked bandages.
“You find room?”
The man interrupted my dazed thoughts.
“Well, yes. I can book it. For one day though. After that, Idontfuckingknow.”
He appeared to understand my “yes,” but not the rest. Better. He smiled meekly, then made an offer.
“You wait. In Zadar, I drive you?”
I accepted his ride. While he went to his car, I confirmed the reservation. My exhaustion and the heat forced a decision. Better that I sleep on a bed now and save what’s left of my addled brain, than to continue this hellish day.
The man pulled up his car. After stuffing my luggage in the back seat, we drove five minutes to Guesthouse Mihovil. A iron gate encircled a large orange two-story terracotta building with a terrace. Everything looked quiet. I asked the man to wait with my luggage while I walked to the gate’s entrance. It wasn’t locked. Slowly, I stepped in.
The Matron Of Guesthouse Mihovil
No sooner had I stepped in the gate, than a matronly lady appeared from a door on the second floor and greeted me in Croatian. I responded with, “Reservation, Guesthouse Mihovil?” She nodded, descended the stairs and smiled at me. She began in English, “Yes, room reservation…,” which relieved me – then she switched to Croatian. Great. I called the old man from the car. He translated my predicament as I (again) showed her a screenshot of my reservation. She understood and walked me to a room on the terrace. It was empty but not yet clean.
I ventured my bad Serbo-Croatian, “Cekam ovde na terazu? [I wait here on the terrace?]”
She looked thrilled, and nodded her head, “Da, da. Dok ja cistatim… Hoces kafu?”
The owner cleaned the room and prepared coffee. Meanwhile, I got my luggage and waited on the terrace at a table next to a rustic brick kiln. At the terrace’s edge, a garden of olive and orange trees grew. It provided welcome shade. I tried reading three pages of my book, then realized I remembered nothing I had just read.
Sleep, where are you?
The lady was efficient. Her homemade coffee perked me up during the brief time I waited for her to finish the room. She showed me into a large single room with a bed, table, bathroom, and full kitchen. I smiled and wiped sweat from my eyes. Sensing my discomfort, she pulled a remote control from her pocket, waved it in my face, then clicked a button. As a wall-mounted air-conditioning unit began wafting cold air into the room, she beamed about the “klimatizacija.”
Gradually, our combined struggle with English and Croatian revealed that this room was not available tomorrow. In order to stay another night, I would have to move to a room on the opposite side of the terrace. I agreed. Moving my luggage twenty feet is better than moving it twenty miles.
Once in the room, I opened my suitcase. Everything was in order.
Next, I opened my guitar case. My Ovation acoustic-electric looked fine…until I picked it up. The metal panel which covered the back, amplifying its electric sound, plopped out on the floor with a hard clank. Shit. I had been playing it on streets since I had arrived in Europe three months ago. But no more.
It was Sunday. I still had to find lodging for the rest of the week. After settling into the room, I immediately turned on my computer, sent a dispute for my credit card charge to AirBnb, then began searching.
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