The Last Bathtub Stopper in Zagreb: A Nomad’s City Quest

National Theater of Croatia in Zagreb: (photo by Roxanne Patruznick)

I once spent four hours in Zagreb looking for a bathtub stopper.

Before I start, let me preface this by saying that Zagreb bears no responsibility for any of it. Zagreb is an underrated, great city that is actually easy to navigate. It was all just new to me, and I tend to bumble my way through life. I’m a bumbler.

We had arrived in Zagreb in March of 2018 at the very end of a late-winter storm that hit much of Europe: “The Beast from the East.” All flights had been canceled the day before we left. It snowed in Rome and Barcelona — which never happened — so imagine what the Balkans looked like. Pretty much how most Americans imagine Eastern Europe looks, I suppose. Concrete gray. (more on going to countries where we have less of a visual foothold later.)

There was still some light snow falling when our plane landed, but the bulk of the storm had passed. As was evidenced by a foot of snow on the ground everywhere. We had never been to Croatia. We had never been east of Italy. Everything was new. A new city in a new country with a new language and a new culture.

Because of a flight change and a ridiculously short layover in Paris (thanks, Air France), our luggage was going to get to enjoy its arrival in Croatia a day later. And for some reason, my wife really wanted French fries. It became a whole thing. But neither of those things have anything to do with the bathtub stopper. Just details I remembered.

For the two previous months, we had been staying at a friend’s apartment in Palme de Mallorca (friends in Mallorca are the best kind of friends.) It was a small one-bedroom in Santa Catalina, the former fishing village. When the taxi stopped in front of our Zagreb apartment, we stood in front of a graffiti-tagged storefront in a Tito-era apartment building. Luckily, having traveled in Spain and Italy, I knew that the outside of an apartment says nothing about the comfort of the interior. The place was great.

Zagreb Trg Francuske Republike: (photo by Roxanne Patruznick)

The very cool apartment overlooked Park Dr. Trg Francuske Republike and had ludicrously high ceilings, a feature we would soon learn was a staple of Eastern European living spaces. Along with the incredible view, it had a great kitchen, plenty of space, and my wife’s favorite thing when we could swing it: a bathtub. Most European apartments have showers, so a bathtub is a rare treat. And when it’s freezing outside, soaking in a hot bath makes life that much more luxurious.

But there was no bathtub stopper. No plug. And before you ask, yes, I checked the drawers in the kitchen. And under the sink. I’m not a complete rube. And the sink stopper was a different size. The last thing I wanted to do was run to the store in the snow when I was cozy, but I thought it would be quick. I didn’t know it was going to be stores — not store — that I was going to have to run to. It was about 3:00 in the afternoon, so I had some time before the shops closed and it got dark.

I put on my big coat, hat, and gloves. First stop, a multi-floored department store near Ban Josip Jelačić Square, the de facto center of the city (Fun fact: the word for “square” in Croatian is “trg.” R is a half-vowel. To say it you roll the R — which I’ve never been able to do. So, it sounds like I’m choking when I say square in Croatian.) It was about a twenty-five-minute walk, so I figured in an hour I would be back with a bathtub stopper. Lemon squeezy. And if they didn’t have it, I’d be in the center of the city and surely, I’d be closer to somewhere where I could find one.

Ban Josip Jelačić Square: (photo by Roxanne Patruznick)

We had only begun our nomad life a few months earlier. Zagreb was the third city we had lived on our now-7-year-plus journey. We were in the learning phase (and still are, as learning never stops.) Definitely before I learned the importance of finding the “Everything Store” in whatever city we were in. That’s not the official name, just what we call it. On Google maps, it will probably be called a “variety store.” If it’s made of plastic, they’ll have it. When you need a Phillips screwdriver, a muffin pan, pillowcases, a gorilla mask, and a hot water bottle, it’s one-stop shopping.

[A quick note on the hot water bottle.] I tried to find one in Spain. My Spanish isn’t bad, but the person helping me kept trying to sell me a regular water bottle. I kept saying, “No, a hot water bottle.” And they kept saying, “Yes, it is okay to put hot water in it.” The “you idiot” was implied in the increasingly frustrated way they said it. After a bit of pantomime on my part, we figured it out. Apparently, in Spain, they call it a hot water bag. Which makes sense. Damn you, English, and your nonsensical nonsense.

Back in Zagreb, after a bit of language-based confusion, the nice lady working in the homewares section of the department store informed me they didn’t carry bathtub stoppers. She did her best to give me directions to a hardware store near there. While I would later learn that English is spoken to some degree by almost everyone in Zagreb, the nice lady did not speak English, and it didn’t occur to me to find someone who did. Through pointing and Google translate, and a lot of polite smiling, I felt like I understood what she had said.

I had not. Or rather, she had probably communicated her thoughts clearly. But they were in a language that I didn’t understand. The hardware store she sent me to is probably still there, but I ended up on some random block in the snow farther away from our apartment.

I know I said that everyone in Zagreb speaks English. I meant everyone under 40. It’s taught from primary school on. The older generation’s second language tends to be German (all Europeans speak at least two languages. Every single European.) I do not speak any German, except to count to ten, the lyrics to “99 Luftballons,” and any phrases from the original Castle Wolfenstein, none of which were going to do me any good.

Zagreb Cathedral: (photo by Roxanne Patruznick)

Google maps told me the closest hardware store was fifteen minutes away, taking me even farther away from my apartment. But as long as the mission was accomplished, it would be worth it. Even if they had it, it was probably going to be about an hour walk back.

On the way there, I noted a bookstore/café (Booksa) that I promised myself I would return to. Also, a steampunk bar (Dr. Fogg), a kiosk surrounded by people eating sandwiches (Pingvin), and a small park (Park Zrinjevac). I probably passed five museums, as well. On one errand, I was getting a feel for the city and a list for later.

There were two customers in front of me at the hardware store. Like many European hardware stores, they aren’t browsing-the-aisles kind of places. You tell the guy what you need, and he goes into the back and gets it for you. The place was warm, so I wasn’t in a hurry. I could wait. The communication between the man behind the counter and his customers was neither efficient or friendly, but both customers theoretically walked away with what they needed. Neither of them looked happy, but Croatia isn’t a smiley country. I got to the front of the line, prepared with what to say. “Čep za kadu, molim.” I said confidently. However, I hadn’t yet learned the pronunciation of all the letters. Nor had I heard enough of it to get the rhythm. So, instead of saying “Plug for bath, pleas,” I said, “Hump for bath, please” which is not a helpful phrase in any situation. And it doesn’t help to repeat it exactly how you said it the first time. I can tell you that with certainty.

Instead of trying to be cool and acting like I knew what I was saying, I pantomimed running water and putting a plug in an imaginary bathtub. He nodded. “Ne,” was his response. Which was one of the Croatian words I knew, and now you do, too. I waited for more. I did not get more. We stared at each other. I looked up the word for “Where?” and stared at it. Here’s why. This is the word for “Where?”

Gdje

Are you shitting me? I honestly didn’t know where to start. There was a good chance I would pronounce every letter incorrectly. I mean, look at it. Come on. That’s ridiculous.

I realized I could just show him my phone. He took it and typed “vodovod” which is about the coolest word to see after that “gdje” nonsense. It translated to “plumbing.” Like most European cities have separate bakers, patisseries, butchers, and fishmongers, they had separate hardware stores, paint stores, and plumbing stores.

Of course, the nearest one was fifteen minutes farther away. I got there ten minutes before it closed. They had exactly what I needed. It took less than a minute and cost the equivalent of a dollar and a half.

Johnny’s triumpth! (photo by Roxanne Patruznick)

I walked in the door to our apartment about four hours after I left, shaking the snow off the shoulders of my coat.

“What took so long?” my wife asked.

“I’ll tell you later.”

Written by Johnny

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