Zagreb is a modest, budding city. Our room, on the bottom floor of an apartment not far from the capital’s main square, was not. A screen of orange beads hung before a single window, casting a light as dim as an old photograph into a room best summed-up by its cupboard. Correction: its wet room. Wet being the operative word, as the shower curtain—presumably the stolen off-cut from a circus Big Top—barely reached halfway around the shower area. The drainage system was as equally ineffective, making the air as heavy as thick soup. The door refused to shut, denying privacy. Painted in a hasty whitewash, the sloppy strokes looked as if they had dried minutes before our arrival.