A small market sits outside the Zagreb train station. It is home to several dozen stands, all the same rusty red color, with the same slanted roof and counter space. Behind one, a girl talks impatiently on her cell phone. She’s sitting sideways on a stool, with one leg crossed over another, shoulders hunched and staring intently at the space that distant conversations traverse. In the stand beside her, a middle-aged woman wearing jeans and a blue blouse smiles at the crowd. “Dobre don” she greets me as I walk by, and I smile and nod in response. Several more stands over, an older man with a crinkled eyelids and a plaid shirt stands and sways slightly, as if buffeted by the wind generated by the passing crowd. His hands are tucked behind him and his shoulders are straightened by his pose. His head is tilted up slightly, and he scans the horizon for clouds, paying no attention to me or the other people in front of him.
Twenty or thirty stands, vendors of the same number, and they’re all selling the same thing: strawberries. Boxes upon boxes of strawberries are stacked on the wooden counters, each selling for 10 Kunas (~$2) per box. They are big and small, curved and jagged, lush and pale. I imagine that each throws a unique fragrance into the cool Croatian air. The scents combine and drift westward, settling in the trees hanging over benches that surround a fountain, moving onward, floating past the botanical gardens and into the parks that lead to the centre, giving the city a taste of natural sugar and red fruit. Maybe that’s why so many people sit outside in café chairs.
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