Sunlight poured through the second-floor window onto the bunk bed, warming my cozy little hostel room. After nearly three weeks of sleeping in a tent, it felt wonderful to be in a warm room with a hot shower and a real bed. It was my first full day in Sarajevo and I couldn’t wait to see the city! I’d wandered a bit the evening before and was more intrigued than ever.
While getting ready for the walking tour I had booked, I realized something was missing as I dug through my backpack — my laundry bag. That bag contained the only other outfit I’d packed for this six-week trip because I needed all the extra room for my camping gear. Panic started to rise up my neck and quickly surrounded my brain in a dense fog. “Shit, shit shit. Fuck! What am I going to do?!”
My mind raced like a cracked-out hamster, searching for any option that wouldn’t require a whole day of backtracking. I’d run into the major downside of solo travel — when there’s a problem, there’s no one else to offer ideas or possible solutions. Once my brain callmed down enough to have a coherent thought, I formulated a brilliant plan! I would call the hostel in Jajce, where I stayed last, to see if they would be willing to mail the laundry bag to Sarajevo. I would happily send them money for their time and trouble.
The woman on the phone was incredibly kind and understanding. She agreed to put my clothes in the mail that day. I was hopeful that the package would arrive in time to do laundry and hit the road again in a few days. Feeling like a goddamn genius, I put the whole business out of my mind and set out to enjoy the day.
After spending the last few weeks in mostly small towns and countryside villages, the city felt bustling but with an air of ease. There was plenty happening, though no one seemed to be in a rush. The cafes were dotted with locals soaking up the mid-morning sun, drinking coffee, and chatting with friends. It was quite a stark contrast to the hustle culture I was used to at home.
I knew very little about Bosnia & Herzegovina before I arrived, only that the country had been the main area of conflict as Yugoslavia fell apart in the 90s and that the first shots of WWI were fired in Sarajevo when Archduke Franz Ferdinand was killed. I’d spent some time wandering the city the previous afternoon, and the visual reminders of what this city and her people had been through were everywhere — bullet holes, shell damage, and even a few bombed-out buildings.
Knowing there had been so much conflict and horror, I expected the locals to be cold and closed off, wary of outsiders. Instead, I was greeted with warmth and hospitality from everyone I encountered, from the hostel staff to the shopkeepers. It was delightful and confusing in equal measure!
By the time the walking tour was done, Sarajevo had completely captured my heart. Our tour guide shared the city’s history and many personal stories from her experiences during the 90s conflict. She was around my age, and it was jarring to think about the contrast between how I spent my teenage days while she was losing loved ones to senseless violence and watching her city be destroyed. I felt a profound sadness at what we humans are capable of doing to one another and also an overwhelming sense of hope as I looked at what the city had become.
The locals sipping coffee in the plethora of sidewalk cafes were smiling and laughing, in spite of high unemployment and a struggling economy. These were people who knew what it’s like to live through hell and understand better than most how to enjoy the good while it’s happening. They seemed to be immersed in the present moment, focused on enjoying time with their loved ones and the simple joy of a good coffee. In that moment, I knew there was much I could learn from that place and its people.
It took a full week for my dirty laundry to make the three-hour journey from Jajce to Sarajevo, forcing me to slow down and stay put for the first time since I’d started the trip three weeks earlier. During my time, I learned about Ramadan and experienced a full Iftar dinner from the kindest, most joyful restaurateur I’ve ever encountered. I became friends with an elderly shopkeeper on Coppersmith Alley and spent part of each lazy afternoon listening to his stories. With book in hand, I made my way through the city’s cafes sipping tiny cups of espresso and getting into the flow of her days.
I did my best to embrace the slow, easy pace of life in the city. I learned to be present to and relish the small moments — the bitter taste of good coffee and a cool breeze through the trees on a hot afternoon. Every call to prayer resonated through my heart as it echoed off the hills around the city. I learned to be at peace. It was a surprise to realize there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
When my package finally arrived, it was a bittersweet goodbye. Though I knew it was time for my journey to continue, part of me didn’t want to leave. I vowed to come back, and have made good on my promise a few times over. It’s a place I hope to return to over and over again.
Sarajevo is where I go when I need to remember how to live. Though the city has seen incredibly dark times, it stands out in my mind as a beacon of light and hope, a shining example of resilience. The Bosnian people seem to understand the truly important things in life more than most — love, kindness, the small pleasures, and enjoying the good times while they’re happening.
