Southbound, With Questions
We left Otočec in the late afternoon. Zagreb was our next destination. It hadn’t been part of our original plan. I had been persuaded — by a YouTube video, by articles and comments describing it as “one of the most underrated capitals in Europe,” and by Mo’s calm confidence that it deserved at least a walk. I agreed, as I usually do. Curiosity tends to win with me, even when instinct hesitates.
We needed to deal with the campervan cleaning and refilling duties, so we stopped at a service station just outside Otočec. While Mo handled the tanks, I took the opportunity to use the restroom. Avoiding the campervan toilet whenever possible is a small mercy on the road—especially right after emptying the black water tank. Less cleaning. Fewer regrets.
On my way out, I noticed a door marked as a shower room. I tried the handle. If there was a chance to rinse properly, we might as well take it. Before I could even step inside, the cleaning lady appeared and started yelling at me in Slovenian.
I tried to explain that I didn’t speak the language. That I was only checking. Possibly planning to use the service. She kept going—same tone, same volume, an angry face that needed no translation. I smiled, confused and polite, and backed away.
I might have been sad to leave Slovenia’s beauty behind, but I was quietly relieved to leave its rudeness with it.
The drive unfolded smoothly, almost meditatively. We played music softly. Talked about nothing important. Mo fought sleep, nodding occasionally, forcing himself awake just to keep me company.
My left hand rested on the steering wheel, and I couldn’t stop looking at the ring. I loved it — even as it felt heavy. Not in weight, but in meaning. Like something that had already begun asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer. I still didn’t have the right words for Mo. I didn’t even know where to begin. But I knew he sensed it. He always does. Silence has its own language.
As we crossed into Croatia, the landscape shifted almost imperceptibly at first, then all at once. The greens dulled. The hills flattened further. Fields looked drier, less generous. Houses lost that fairy-tale neatness Slovenia seemed to wear so effortlessly. Yards felt more improvised. Paint more tired. Beauty didn’t disappear — it simply stopped trying to be charming.
We reached Zagreb in less than two hours and parked on the outskirts of the city, in what used to be the University Hospital complex. Online, it appeared under touristic attractions — an abandoned megastructure reclaimed by graffiti and urban art.
The parking area felt like a neglected no-man’s land. Garbage piled unevenly along the edges. Old furniture left mid-collapse. Used condoms scattered without embarrassment. The kind of disorder that doesn’t provoke rebellion or curiosity — only a low-grade discomfort that settles in your chest.
The hospital itself loomed behind us: concrete and glass frozen halfway into becoming something important. It had been started in the 1980s, meant to be the flagship of Croatian healthcare, then abandoned in the early ’90s before it was even finished. Half built. Never completed. Left open to weather, time, and whoever felt like walking in.
Inside, the graffiti was raw and political, layered over cracked walls and broken windows — decay wearing the costume of expression. Maybe it would have been worth exploring the street art properly. Maybe.
But filth isn’t automatically art. And we weren’t in the mood to romanticise neglect. Parking the campervan there already felt like a compromise. Walking deeper into the structure felt unnecessary. We knew nothing about Croatia yet — it is considered safe, yes — but that place looked like the perfect hideout for people with no interest in being found.
Still, according to Park4Night, it was the only free option close enough to the city centre. So we stayed practical and we didn’t linger.
The Overrated Detour
We mounted the Vespa and officially began our visit to Zagreb.
At the traffic light near the intersection just outside the abandoned hospital complex, a car pulled up beside us. Two men in the front, three girls in the back. Windows down. Mr. Saxo Beat blasting at full volume. The driver turned toward us, raised the volume even higher, clearly performing for his audience. The guy in the passenger seat laughed. The girls hyped him up, fists pumping to the rhythm, eyes locked on us like we were part of the show.
When the light turned green, the driver shouted something in Croatian—no idea what—and sped off dramatically.
Welcome to Zagreb, I guess.
Mo and I burst out laughing, exchanged a look that said what did we just sign up for?, and followed the flow of traffic toward the city.
The ride from the abandoned hospital to the centre cut through wide roads, industrial blocks, worn residential buildings. Long façades with peeling paint. Balconies cluttered with old furniture. Shops with faded signs. Nothing aggressive. Nothing shocking. Just tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t ask for attention but lingers quietly, like something that stopped being taken care of a long time ago.
After Slovenia—after Ljubljana, with its clean lines, pastel buildings, and romantic cohesion—it was hard not to feel underwhelmed. Even Ljubljana’s industrial areas had felt orderly, intentional. Here, things looked functional at best, resigned at worst. Not degraded. Just worn out. Like momentum had stalled years ago and never quite restarted.
As we got closer to the centre, fragments of old Europe began to surface. Heavier architecture. Straighter lines. More stone. More history trying to hold its ground. And yet, the fatigue clung to everything.
We parked near the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Zagreb’s iconic neo-Gothic landmark, its twin spires piercing the sky. I hesitated. No scooter parking in sight. We left the Vespa on the sidewalk, slightly tucked away, slightly exposed.
Would we get fined?
Would it be moved?
Would it disappear?
Mo waved my worries away and urged me to start walking.
So I did.
The cathedral stood tall and imposing, all pointed arches and ornate stonework, a structure that has watched the city burn, rebuild, fracture, and persist. We took a few photos—of ourselves, of tourists, of the façade—then slipped into Dolac Market, just as vendors were packing up.
Red umbrellas folded halfway. Wooden stalls closing. The air still smelled of fruit, cheese, herbs. Mo grabbed some burek, warm and flaky and comforting, and added a few magnets to his growing souvenir collection. The usual.
From there, we walked back toward the cathedral and headed south down Dolac Street, entering a lively stretch filled with bakeries, cafés, small shops. The energy shifted—more modern, less historic. We guessed we were drifting away from the old town again.
I spotted a small café that felt genuine. Not polished. Not franchised. Just there. We stopped.
The cappuccino was below average.
We kept walking as the streets widened and opened into Ban Josip Jelačić Square, the city’s main square. Large. Open. Functional. Statues. Trams slicing through. People passing without lingering. A street performer attempted an acrobatic routine—enthusiasm exceeding skill. We watched briefly. Took a few photos. Moved on.
Next came Ilica, a long commercial street lined with shops. Nothing particularly memorable, until one boutique selling handmade clothes caught my eye. Inside, a maxi dress hung quietly—clean silhouette, pops of pink and yellow, no embroidery, no theatrics. Just colour and shape.
I asked the price.
Six hundred euros.
Silk, she insisted.
It didn’t feel like silk to me. Either way, it didn’t matter. We walked out.
A few steps later, we passed Calliope—a brand I used to love when I was nineteen. It hadn’t evolved much. It suited the girl I once was better than the woman I am now.
Mo was already irritated.
Why are we wasting time shopping?
He hates it and makes no effort to hide it. I like shopping alone. Or with my mother. Walking, trying things on, chatting endlessly. Mo’s shopping autonomy is ten minutes. Souvenirs only. Even for himself, he always goes to the same shop in Sharjah and leaves with oversized T-shirts, maybe a polo if I’m lucky. Then wears the same cargo shorts or baggy jeans on rotation.
I abandoned my teenage shopping fantasy and kept walking.
After getting lost in a narrow alley that led absolutely nowhere, we found the funicular and climbed the stairs beside it, reaching the Upper Town.
At the foot of Lotrščak Tower, a medieval defensive structure marking the old city’s edge, the crowd thickened immediately. Tour groups. Cameras raised. Voices colliding rather than blending. That’s how you know you’ve hit a landmark.
We escaped toward St. Mark’s Church—one of the few places I genuinely wanted to see. Its tiled roof, decorated with the coats of arms of Croatia, Dalmatia, and Slavonia, is unmistakable.
Or it would have been.
The church was under renovation. Fully wrapped in scaffolding. Construction barriers everywhere. Photos ruined. The peak of tourist season, and the heart of the square looked like a work site.
Who renovates in summer?
Then I remembered I was in Europe. These renovations probably started two years ago.
By then, Zagreb still hadn’t made its case. We discussed ending the visit early. We passed through the Stone Gate, a narrow medieval passageway containing a shrine to the Virgin Mary—candles flickering, people pausing briefly in devotion—then descended into Tkalčićeva Street, vibrant, loud, packed with bars and cafés, life unfolding efficiently.
We joked about all the videos calling Zagreb “the most underrated capital in Europe.” Maybe it should have stayed underrated.
It was only a joke. But not entirely.
Too many construction sites. Too many interruptions. Everything felt scattered, unfinished, diluted.
We crossed Park Opatovina, a small green pocket between streets, took Kaptol Street, and suddenly found ourselves back in front of the cathedral.
A loop completed.
A sign, if there ever was one.
We retrieved the Vespa—still there, thankfully—and rode back toward the campervan. The hospital parking had filled up. A security figure had appeared. Sunset was approaching. The place felt less neutral now. More alert.
We didn’t linger.
As beautiful and historic as Zagreb is, it didn’t speak to me. It felt important, yes. Necessary to understand Croatia’s past. But not somewhere I felt drawn to return.
We left as the light softened, pointed the campervan toward Plitvice Lakes, and let Zagreb recede behind us.
Quietly.
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