Written by: Rajesh Patel, almost-Croatian (working on it)
Many people told me Croatia was a beautiful country. I didn't believe them. Now I love them like my own family.
My first job in Croatia was food delivery for Glovo. I received an electric scooter. The scooter was slow. Perhaps the slowest motorized vehicle in the recorded history of human transportation.
But Croatians are warm people, and I quickly noticed something touching — every time I drove down the street, the cars behind me would start honking. In India, a horn means "move or I will drive through you." But I immediately understood this was different. This was the Croatian horn of welcome. A greeting to the stranger on the scooter. Perhaps even a form of folk music.
I waved at them. They honked louder. It was a symphony of friendship.
After Glovo, I got a job at Croatian Post. A greater responsibility. Letters, packages, the fates of people sealed in envelopes.
Problem number one: Croatian names. I say this with full respect — they are magnificent names, but they were not designed with someone from Mumbai in mind. Three minutes per letter, minimum. On the islands it was even more complicated, because every address read something like: "Behind the house where the fig tree used to be, third door on the left."
And then it hit me. A brilliant idea, inspired by thousands of years of Indian collective problem-solving:
I approached the oldest man in the village, handed him all the mail, and said: "You know everyone. You distribute it."
He did it perfectly. Within twenty minutes, everyone had their letters. Some even faster than usual. I had introduced a revolution in rural Croatian postal logistics. He mumbled something in Craotian and had a not-so-happy look on this face, I figured he was just tired.
So why didn't I leave?
Because of the sea. It is not water — it is a mirror of the sky, blue and calm in a way I had never seen on any postcard. In India I have an ocean, but that ocean shouts. The Adriatic whispers.
Because of the people. A man who showed me directions to the post office invited me for lunch. I hadn't even asked his name. I ate pašticada. I didn't know what pašticada was. Now I know it is the meaning of life in the form of meat.
Because of the weather. In October the sun still warms. In India we call this "normal temperature", but Croatians walk around in jackets saying "brr, winter is coming." I smile and say nothing.
Croatia, you were not in my plan.
But as an old Indian proverb says — the journey you didn't plan is the only journey you remember.
Or maybe I just made that up. Doesn't matter.
See you on the beach. I'll be the one on the scooter.
— Rajesh