Liquid Gold in a Croat Café

There’s something about getting lost in a foreign city that feels like a rite of passage for any traveler. It was on one such meandering adventure, channeling my inner Carmen Sandiego, that I stumbled upon a quaint café, tucked away in a cobblestone alley, where time seemed to stand still.

The café was tiny, with just a handful of tables, each adorned with a single, fresh flower in a glass bottle. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, promising comfort and warmth. Behind the counter stood an elderly man, his eyes crinkling with a welcoming smile. He was the barista, and as I would soon discover, a bit of a magician to boot.

Ordering was a delightful exercise in charades and broken phrases. I pointed to the coffee machine and gestured, hoping to convey my desperate need for caffeine. The barista chuckled, nodding in understanding. "Jedna kava, molim" (One coffee, please), I attempted, almost certainly butchering the pronunciation. He responded with a string of Croatian that left me more bewildered than before. Seeing my confusion, he smiled and said simply, "Kava?" (Coffee?) while pointing to the machine. I nodded vigorously.

As he began his ritual, carefully measuring, grinding, and brewing, I tried to make small talk from my (very) limited repertoire. “Kako ste?” (How are you?) I asked, hoping to connect. He grinned and replied, “Dobro, hvala. A vi?” (Good, thank you. And you?) I fumbled for a response, settling on a simple “Dobro” (Good), feeling more like a bumbling tourist than the impressive intrepid explorer I aspire to (!).

When he handed me the cup, I was struck by its simplicity—no fancy designs or elaborate presentations, just a steaming mug of coffee. I took a tentative sip, and the world around me seemed to brighten. It was liquid gold, rich and smooth, with a depth of flavor that danced on my tongue. 

Attempting to express my delight, I said, “Ovo je izvrsno!” (This is excellent!) He beamed, clearly pleased with my effort. “Hvala” (Thank you), he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I laughed, knowing my Croatian was far from perfect, but appreciating the back and forth -- and mostly his humoring my feeble attempts with good humor and much (much) grace. Then there was just silence...me having reached my limit of language tricks to pull from the hat. After all, my Croatian is about as good as my ability to navigate without getting lost—abysmal, but with occasional surprising successes. 

After a few moments, while I savored my drink, I got a bit brave again and made another stab at speaking at all coherently in Croatian. I pointed to a pastry on the counter and asked, “Što je ovo?” (What is this?) He chuckled, “To je burek. Želite probati?” (That is burek. Do you want to try?) I nodded eagerly, and he handed me the pastry with a flourish.

As he gave me the country specialty, he touched my hand gently, like a grandfather would, and winked like a cat who´d just caught a mouse -- his gesture making me realize what a huge thing such kindness is, even among strangers.

As I left the café, the barista waved and said, “Sretno!” (Good luck!) With a final wave, I stepped back into the cobblestone streets, feeling lighter, happier, and thoroughly caffeinated.

Sometimes, getting lost isn't such a bad thing after all. Especially when you find places that remind you that, much like my sense of direction, life is full of unexpected surprises.