When I was younger, I never thought much about walls. They were just there: holding the roof up, giving shape to the rooms, keeping the weather out. But when you live in an old apartment building with walls so thin you can hear your neighbor’s phone conversations, you start noticing them. You start realizing how little separates one life from another.
Every time I remember that half of the world’s population never gets close to owning a piece of property, I remind myself: these thin walls are a blessing.
These thin walls
I inherited two apartments like that. Small, modest, tucked high up on the third and fourth floor of a pair of buildings from 1967. No elevator, worn staircases, sound carrying in ways you couldn’t ignore. They were nothing to boast about, but they were mine. Mine by chance, by family, by a twist of fortune that I could just as easily have missed. Every time I remember that half of the world’s population never gets close to owning a piece of property, I remind myself: these thin walls are a blessing.
Still, life moves on.
My girlfriend—now my wife—and I were living in an apartment owned by her parents at the time, planning a family, planning a future. We needed a space of our own: something big enough for two bedrooms, about 70 or 80 square meters, tucked into a nicer part of Zagreb. She searched the classifieds every day, memorizing them like scripture.
But what we found was discouraging. Very!
New builds were beyond reach, priced over three thousand euros per square meter. Old stock was affordable, but decrepit — crumbling plaster, bad plumbing, the same thin walls, and always the looming uncertainty of neighbors who might make life unbearable. We’d already seen how quickly that can escalate (perhaps I’ll write about that some other time).
And then there was memory: the summers of my childhood in Selce, where my grandparents had a little house by the sea. Long days, freedom, the feel of being in a home that stood on its own patch of land. It left a mark. Maybe what we needed wasn’t another apartment at all; maybe what we were chasing was that feeling of solidity, of having earth under our feet. A small patch of grass, a living fence, a patio to walk onto and have a cup of coffee in the morning or that comforting afternoon tea.
The Quest
So we turned to searching for a plot.
That turned out to be another kind of madness. Land in Zagreb’s desirable areas is brutally expensive. And the hills beautiful but treacherous, in a city built on seismic ground. We came close once, painfully close. A beautiful plot, a residential neighborhood, exactly the kind of place we could imagine ourselves in. We pushed ourselves to believe it was right, even though the price was crushing and the slope of the land made construction near impossible.
The night before the final handover I had a complete meltdown. I sat on the couch until dawn, heart racing, every instinct telling me: stop. And I did — two hours before signing!
That was the hardest cancellation of my life — but also the most important.
Because a few months later, we found another plot; smaller, humbler, but with a view that opened the city before us. On higher ground, easier to reach the city, and more forgiving for building. It felt right in a way the other never did.
We bought it, called on friends who were architects, drew plans, handed in the paperwork. And now we wait — six months and counting — for the city to give us permission to begin. It’s how this House construction series began, as well; I hope anyone building a place of their own will get some information (or consolation) in these articles.
It’s funny: I once thought walls were simple, just walls. But what I’ve learned through this process is that walls can also be promises. The apartments I inherited gave me stability, they reminded me of gratitude. And the house we’re now waiting to build, that’s a promise. Not just of more solid walls, but of a life shaped by choice, built on ground that’s ours, and maybe even a chance for my daughter to one day remember her summers the way I remember mine.
