(This article was written for bikepacking.com)
It’s a cold winter’s afternoon in Zagreb, Croatia, and I push my bike into oncoming crowds of jubilant sports fans. Struggling to steer and keep my patience, I’m slipping into a grouchy state of autodrive. Thanks to a soon-to-expire Schengen visa, the previous week had been a calorie and sleep-deprived blur. I just want to reach the border.
Sarah grabs my arm and pulls me out of the conveyor belt of human traffic into a quieter courtyard. “Let’s get one of these pastry things,” she says. I want to keep going, but she insists. Falling into a cold metal chair, a steaming plate slides in front of me. My fingers burn on the hot oil. Then, teeth crunch through flaky coils into a gooey centre filled with hot cheese. It’s salty and oily, soft yet crispy, and wonderfully comforting—like a hug in a bite. It was my first time trying burek.
I open my eyes with a smile and see the bustling market we’re perched beside. I watch elderly locals meeting and greeting, market traders hawking their wares, bartering prices with old women wrapped in winter layers. The world finally slows, and I notice the waiter looking curiously at our bikes. He comes over and asks where we’re from.
