I’ve been coming to Caffe Bar Sunce for years, literally years, even before I moved to Zagreb. It is a place populated by old men who have been sent by their wives to the market, for a bag of tomatoes, potatoes, onions. It doesn’t matter what they sent them for. It’s just an excuse to gather in the cafe with their groceries and meet up with their friends. They drink rakija or wine or beer – depending on the hour, in that order – and talk and talk and talk.
It’s curious that it’s women who have a reputation for gossip. It’s always men you see in gaggles and they are never silent.
I don’t know why I chose this place all those years ago. It’s the same as every other old-man filled cafe on the Dolac. Where are the women? Working, I suppose. The red umbrellas go up, coffee circulates, plastic bags full of fruit and vegetables swing by, attached to the hands of hurrying locals.
I sip my coffee and watch the world rotate. The sunce really is the centre of this universe.
