How I Rediscovered Sinatra in Bosnia

My bus arrived in Mostar at exactly 6:40 pm just as it was listed online. As I stepped off the caravan I instantly made out the sunglasses and familiar hairline I’d seen in the photo of my host, Jan.

A timely arrival and a punctual local who insisted on picking me up gave Mostar a comfortable leg up in the first impression contest. I soon discovered the former was somewhat of an anomaly.

“Your bus is on time,” he said. “That’s rare.”

Jan stood about 6’3 and moved with a confident stride. He struck me as the type of person who’d grown self-assured by things seen or accomplished, or perhaps a little of both. I gathered we were around the same age as we made our way to his black Mercedes.

We spoke about my journey before he dove into a very interesting and slightly rehearsed history of the town, referencing the Ottomans and Romans on several occasions.

After a short drive we arrived at the place where I’d hang my hat for the next 3 nights — a newly constructed complex that doubled as apartments and a hotel. His place was clean, simple, and conveniently situated.

We made small talk in the kitchen as he ran me through the building’s features and amenities of which there were many. In between he told me he worked in IT. He’d left a low-paying government position for a private sector gig, which appeared to be working out quite well.

He also told me he’d once visited Pittsburgh on a student exchange program many years ago.

“That’s a really random place to go,” I said.

He seemed underwhelmed by the whole experience as I half-tried to convince him to visit New York or San Francisco on his next trip to the States.

Just as I was getting ready to rest after a tiring day, Jan insisted I let him drive me to Old Town. He wanted to help me get my bearings and probably share another Mostar anecdote or two.

“Sure,” I said. “Just let me run to the bathroom real quick.”

We got back into his car and listened to the playlist he’d chosen for our short ride.

“You like Sinatra? I asked.

“Doesn’t everybody?” he said.

This guy’s alright, I thought.

We drove past bombed out buildings that were either pummeled or shot up during the conflict that began here in 1992.

The contrast between a shiny new shopping mall towering above the skeleton of a home where lives were likely lost was stark and unfamiliar to me.

“What was it like back then? If you don’t mind me asking,” I said.

“I don’t really like to talk about it,” he responded.

He then delved into more history, throwing around names like Milosevic, while explaining the role religion played in the Balkan conflict. He skillfully elaborated then demurred leaving me just enough to consider.

Soon he dropped me off in front of the Cathedral of Mary, Mother of the Church, pointing the way to Old Town.

I thanked him for his generosity mentally wording the stellar review I intended to give him. It wasn’t lost on me this was probably his intention but I must say he also seemed to genuinely like and maybe even need the company.

Now I was alone.

I began to saunter through the city of about 110,000. I set out for the Old Bridge built by the Ottomans in the 16th century and perhaps the most iconic structure in the Herzegovina region.

Mostar, I learned, is derived from, “Mostari,” who during medieval times guarded the Stari Most or Old Bridge.

It really was as beautiful as the pictures I’d seen.

Almost instantly, I found myself in the midst of a mob of tourists clamoring for selfies and family photos with the Nenetva River as the backdrop. Not one for crowds, I glided past the madness in search of some tranquil adventure.

The shops that lined the cobblestone streets could just as easily stood outside the pyramids in Cairo or the begrimed streets of Little Italy in New York. I made it through unscathed and soon found myself eating at a very pleasant little Italian restaurant Jan had recommended an hour or so before.

As I sat alone nibbling on some bread in between scribbling notes, I stared at the mountains in front of me. A familiar feeling washed over me. It was the same sentiment I’d felt eating alone in Siracusa, Sicily ten years earlier as I gazed at the Duomo di Siracusa.

In both instances everything seemed to slow down, offering a sense of fleeting clarity. For a moment the world made complete sense.

Life is simple, I thought.

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