My first trip up was in August, and it was suggested that I not stay at the usual "foreigners'" hotel, the Balkana*, as recent visitors found it less than pleasant and newer places had been opening, now that it was coming up on five years since the war. Proposed was the Dvor*, near the center of town. Ok, said I.
Reception: The desk wasn't busy, but the clerk still took his time to respond to my presence - which gave me to time to check out the dimly-lit array of pigeonholes behind the desk, each with the room key hanging in front of the slot when any guest was currently not in their room. I handed over my passport; the quickly-concealed expression across the clerk's face hinted at the expectation of a small emolument from the local secret service for promptly notifying them of my arrival and the chance to review the booklet. Oh well; it's not like they hadn't been tailing ever since we crossed the last bridge on the way intio Banja Luka. I was handed the key, told the room number and reminded to hand in my key any time I left the hotel grounds.
No elevator, so I trudge up the dimly-lit and somehow already crumbling stairs, just a single flight to my floor. At least I didn't have to tip the bellboy for carrying my overnight bag and showing me my room: no bellboy.
The Dvor's rooms were recently remodeled and refurnished. Apparently they obtained the wall-to-wall carpeting from a demolished Motel 6, and glued it directly to the concrete floor. At least the room had air conditioning, a relief with high temperatures around 90 F (32 C). But the air conditioning didn't work. At all. So open the window, as the night should be cool. The open window looked out over a sidewalk cafe, which afforded my tails a convenient and comfortable place to await my reappearance, and music. Loud music. Until 3 a.m. Not provided by the window - any sort of breeze, cool or otherwise.
Turn on the TV in time for the news and the weather, presented by a middle-aged woman, haired dyed "Balkan red" - in this case, orange. Like meterological forecasts anywhere, the weather report appeared to indicate that the weather halted at political boundaries. Surreal in Banja Luka, as Republika Srpska wraps around the Federation of BiH, and is itself encompassed by Croatia and Serbia. It was if the weather was affecting a very large horseshoe.
Off to bed, to sleep and perchance to dream. More like fat chance. The mattress was fair to being an imitation of a pool table, only without cushion rails, and the pillows bags of cement.
Morning arrives. No hot water and little water pressure. A Continental breakfast is included, so I traipse down to the serving room. As is too often the case on the Continent (and at least once in northern Virginia), the room is the basement. The white bread toast is dried out, the jam mere gelatin infused with food coloring, the "cold" cuts oddly warm, the slabs of pre-sliced cheese able to substitute for kitchen countertops, the coffee cold and faintly oily.
At least I got a receipt for my stay, to attach to my travel voucher.
* Names are changed. Standard disclaimer: The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
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