My trip to Sarajevo was a memorable one. As I crossed the Serbian border into Bosnia, I took in dramatic peaks, verdant valleys, and lakeside towns.
During one of the many pit stops, I asked the young man sitting across from me where he was from.
“Bosnia,” he told me.
“Can you understand people in Serbia? I asked. “How similar are the two languages?”
“Pretty similar,” he said.
Eventually, this opened up the floodgates for a conversation that would span nearly the rest of the journey.
Milan, a 24-year old law student from Bosnia, took the seat next to me as we spoke for hours. His English was impressive, impeded only by a stammer he was thankfully unconcerned about. It sounds strange to say, but he was perhaps the most earnest person I’d ever met.
We spoke about politics in his country and mine. He asked nuanced questions like the relationship between African-American men and the police, my stance on gun control, and my take on the upcoming presidential election. I felt at times as if I were running for office.
This guy knows his stuff, I thought.
I offered my thoughts, however flawed. I tried not to claim I knew more than I did and told him how impressed how I was with the scope of his interests.
The only problem was he went on and on.
I nodded politely before becoming gradually more nauseous from weaving around the steep mountainside. He was so consumed by his own thoughts it seemed at times he didn’t even need me to share his musings.
There were brief respites, like when the bus broke down. I joked with three travelers from Poland about our chances of making it Bosnia.
“Are you staying in Sarajevo?” one asked during the delay.
“I don’t know anymore,” I joked.
Eventually, we were on our way as Milan got off at a stop just outside the city. We shook hands and agreed to stay in touch.
Soon after, I arrived on the outskirts of Sarajevo. Why the bus stop was not in the heart of the city confounded me but I had bigger fish to fry.
My AirBnb host had been shaky with communication. He’d informed me to contact his partner, Imran who I never heard back from. After nearly half an hour of waiting to hear back, I asked for a refund and connected with the other AirBnb host I had considered.
“Hi Aida, hope you’re well. Very last minute, but just curious if you’ve arrived back in Sarajevo. Just got in and haven’t heard back from my host who I believe is on vacation. Just wanted to quickly see if your place is still available. Very last minute. Understand if you’re out. If it is available I can make my way…”
After a few minutes, she responded telling me the offer still stood.
I hailed a cab and followed her instructions, which read:
‘The address is Aleja Lipa. Take care this is Grbavica and not Hrasno. You need to tell that to the taxi driver.’
A few moments after our exchange, I received a confirmation phone call from her.
Or so I thought…
I made my way to a cab parked nearby. I was tired but mostly relieved I’d have a place to hang my hat for the night. The man driving the car was probably in his 50s. He was tall, bald, and looked to be fit for his age, certainly not someone I’d want to upset, which I later would.
As we inched closer to town with a loud Bosnian news broadcast blaring in the background, it was clear the driver was disoriented. He stopped the car to ask for directions, but we were both totally confused as to where exactly the apartment was.
Of course, I had a slightly better excuse.
Just as we seemed to be on our way, I received a phone call from my host.
“I’m just checking to see where you are,” I heard someone say.
It then dawned on me the voice I was speaking to wasn’t the host I’d been texting.
“What is your name again?” I asked. “And what is your address?”
“This is Aidan. I am on Ferhadija,” the voice replied.
I’d made a huge blunder.
The person who called had a very similar name as my previous host, and both addresses ended with the number 9. And because Imran had failed to return my messages, Aidan had taken over communication duties; something I wasn’t aware of.
“I’ll be right there,” I said.
I texted back Aida explaining the mix-up to which she graciously said wasn’t a problem.
My cab driver did not share the same sentiment.
I showed him the new address as he mumbled something in Bosnian, which you didn’t have to be a scholar to know wasn’t good.
All of that hassle in finding the first place was for nothing. I had caused him (and myself) several minutes of meaningless aggravation.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated profusely.
We arrived in one piece a few minutes later as I offered a very generous tip. Not surprisingly it seemed to settle everything.
Funny how money has that effect on people.
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