{"id":3567,"date":"2017-02-10T16:29:11","date_gmt":"2017-02-10T16:29:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/2ndcupoftea.com\/?p=3567"},"modified":"2017-02-22T07:22:11","modified_gmt":"2017-02-22T07:22:11","slug":"tissue-of-tears-museum-of-broken-relationships-zagreb-a-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/2ndcupoftea.com\/?p=3567","title":{"rendered":"Tissue of Tears… Museum of Broken Relationships, Zagreb – A Story"},"content":{"rendered":"

In February, finding myself with the combination of a couple of cancelled tours and a serendipitous conversation\u00a0during a walk in West London, I decided to travel to Zagreb to visit the Museum of Broken Relationships (yes, that’s a real place). Here in the museum cafe, I wrote the following short(ish) story, imagining someone doing just that…\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Dedicated to S – who else?<\/p>\n

W<\/strong>hen you are sad, don’t go to Zagreb. And when you are alone, don’t go to Zagreb. And when it is winter and snow is falling, don’t go to Zagreb. And most of all, if you have recently lost someone you wish very much you hadn’t, don’t go to Zagreb. It’s a very grey place. For these reasons, don’t go to Zagreb.<\/p>\n

\"bir1-620x413\"<\/p>\n

Alternatively, ignore all that, do fly to the Croatian capital and head straight for the Museum of Broken Relationships. For whatever reason, none of this, none of my own most excellent advice was clear to me prior to boarding. My friend knew, she told me as much; ‘you’ll be lonely’ she sent in a text. But after I arrived. She was right. So here I am… Exactly that, in Zagreb. In the cafe of that very museum. And it’s grey. Everywhere. And it’s lonely. Everywhere.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

In her last letter to me, she stated that my impulsive nature had no part in her life. She was referring to me leaving my old country behind. I felt it was the first time I had not been impulsive, but actually made the right decision, what was solely best for Her, since our time together. That night, unable to reach her, I read about ‘being impulsive’. I read that there are benefits to being what is called functional impulsivity; being mentally agile, thinking on ones feet, taking advantages of opportunities. And I thought of gifts, restaurants, holidays booked, spas, the morning cowboy, all the things that had made her laugh. And I thought, ‘but you used to like my impulses’. But then I read on. And I read impulsive people can be lethal. They need someone, to consider consequences, to plan ahead. They need control mechanisms to moderate their fast tempo and love of reward. And so I thought, maybe she is right.<\/p>\n

\"ines<\/p>\n

But it’s hard to be told, you are not wanted in someones life. It\u2019s not much fun to be misunderstood or criticised, but rather a painful experience that hurts people deeply. And so here I am, a month later, impulsively in Zagreb.<\/p>\n

The building itself, a former baroque palace, I learn, looks a little like it<\/em> has been broken up with. The cream coloured stone, is shedding its paint. The green shutters are peeling. On the street corner there is evidence of an open air cafe – open that is during warmer times. Next to it, there stands an oil barrel, boarded off by planks of wood. I peer inside, there is nothing but ashes and discared cigarette packets.<\/p>\n

It’s my second day; it’s my second visit. Tomorrow I will come again. My personal relationship with this museum broke off around twentyfour hours ago. But like a jilted lover I have come back hoping… For what? Or maybe to give it another shot. I think yesterday, it was at the stage of the toy caterpillar with severed legs, that I ‘broke up’ with the museum for the first time.<\/p>\n

\"my-favourite-display\"<\/p>\n

Next to the glass display case, a label outlined its story; a couple going through a forced lengthy separation had vowed to one day live together in the same city. Until the realisation of that dream, each time they managed to meet, they would amputate a further limb from the poor creature. When no more surgery would be required, they would move in together… I gazed at the eight or so dissected offshoots. Then I gazed at the remaining growths, still very much attached. Another aborted dream. I’d say they got about two thirds… Then I gazed at the empty wall. Then I went through the rain to my apartment.<\/p>\n

The waitress comes over. ‘Wormwood liquor’, I see something listed as, and remembering my time in Switzerland chasing the absinthe fairy, I rather hopefully order that. She has no idea what it is and we check the corresponding location in the Croatian menu. We find it and she nods. ‘Yes, ice’ and ‘yes water’, ‘no, no lemon, thanks’.<\/p>\n

\"ines<\/p>\n

Today I have not even ventured into the museum yet. Instead coming in from the falling snow, I take refuge in the cafe. My knook is a spot opposite where those exiting through the obligatory gift shop emerge into this grotto-esque, vaulted space. Shortly a girl comes alone and settles at the first table through the white arch. She looks pale, sad, quiet. Huddled up. For a while she just sits there, pale, sad and quiet. Huddled. It must be five minutes. I am trying to write, so I stop observing her. Then a tall bearded man comes and takes the adjacent chair. He doesn’t stay long and they walk off together. I had wondered who comes here and immediately at the first opportunity imposed my ideas on the first person I saw.<\/p>\n

The cafe fills, an elderly couple, two young American girls, one of whom orders ‘the largest latte you can make’. I am envious, I can’t risk coffee. Then a middle aged man and his young daughter who runs around the place in shoes that light up and sparkle as they touch the floor. Blue. Pink. Then blue again. She never stops. A fat lady, orange hair, who sits in corner and looks like she is here to use the free wifi and answer emails. If I had expected a teary and heartbreaky crowd, well it\u00a0doesn’t extend to the cafe.<\/p>\n

I order another wormwood… The fat lady in the corner turns out to be the curator or cafe owner; she starts issuing orders to the girls working in the museum.<\/p>\n

\"ines-perkovic-a-simple-hello-night-zagreb-bokeh-cold-winter-cafe-outdoor-night-Christmas\"<\/p>\n

After having left the previous day, I strolled the streets for awhile. The key to my luxury apartment, dead centre of town, was not working as I left, so I returned to discover they have moved me. They have not moved my belongings so I spent five minutes un-hanging my shirts in B1 and re-hanging them in B2. Then I have to leave. I don’t have to of course, but I need to. Keep moving. I am in the habit of walking, but it is cold and gray. So gray. I think that will be what I take with me from here. The colours. Or lack of them. It must be different in the summer. But this is not summer. This is February and the colours are hibernating. I take a taxi, google an address in the Southern suburbs…<\/p>\n

But none of this helps. It never does. I’ve lost count of how often I have boarded a plane and flown away from something. Generally from a state of mind, or state of heart. But whatever I’m escaping from knows all the short cuts through the clouds and usually is right there at baggage claim waiting to greet me. It never helps. And yet… and yet… I have come here to learn something. I go back to the giftshop and buy the book. I check they are open tomorrow, vow to complete my visit, return to my table and order a third wormwood…<\/p>\n

The Museum of Broken Relationships (I originally typed ‘Hearts’) is all about letting go. And symbols. And tokens. And letting go… Why do we hang on? Why IS hope always the last to die? From a former broken relationship of mine, I carry the phrase; ‘should’a – would’a – could’a’. How I used to hate it when She said that. How right she was.<\/p>\n

\"bad-memories-eraser\"<\/p>\n

It’s time to leave. It’s time to leave the Cafe of The Museum of Broken Relationships. It’s time to leave the Museum of Broken Realtionships. Tomorrow, early thank goodness, it is time to leave Zagreb. To leave grey. To leave the falling snow. To leave loneliness. The museum grew from the donations of so many people across the globe. People leaving behind symbols, tokens, moving on. I have such a token with me…<\/p>\n

This is a place where the shattered togetherness of couples is given a space to gently fade out as all historical facts inevitably do. But people, just as objects are hard to forget entirely. Or even discard. In the words of the curator; ‘even the exiled have a land and a language to tell their story’. This place, with all it’s donations embodies a state where people wish to share, to step out of the isolation and sense of aloneness one feels. Perhaps even a longing to fall in love again.<\/p>\n

And this is not a place of despair. Why it takes me three visits to feel this way, for I am back in the cafe writing once more, I do not know. But contrary to the title of this museum, it is a place full of life, love and above all hope…<\/p>\n

\"ab15\"<\/p>\n

The last time I met Her it was a Sunday. We made an appointment in the car park of a supermarket. It was evening, the car park was deserted, we had both forgotten the supermarket would be\u00a0closed. But we found an open cafe. All the hopes I carried to that meeting were soon dashed. In the carpark we embraced, hugged and I kissed her. We both knew how much we loved each other and it was the last time we’d be together like this.<\/p>\n

At the table behind us in the cafe, she’d cried. And when leaving, she left the one tissue she’d taken from the metal dispenser on the table. I don’t think she noticed as I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. That paper is here in my wallet in Zagreb. To do what with? I should leave it here. Surely this is the perfect place. One item is displayed next to a panel that simply states; ‘carried in a wallet for too long’…<\/p>\n

…But I am not ready to let it or her go. It’s seems Zagreb and the Museum of Broken Relationships is not to be my end station. ‘Hope is always the last to die’ I told her once. As I leave the building I stare at the old oil barrel, now this would be the place. My hand touches my wallet, but I know I am not there yet.<\/p>\n

I know that with me to London in my hand luggage tomorrow will still be;\u00a0her tissue of tears…<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/p>\n

S – in case you ever read this, this song says what I want to say. We first heard him on the way to Bolonia…<\/em><\/p>\n