Coffee and Ćejf: How to Travel as a Temporary European

One morning in Mostar, I met my friend Alma for coffee. Not just coffee — Bosnian coffee.

Alma greeted me with her customary, exaggerated warmth: “Aaaaah, Cah-meh-ron! So goooood to see you, my old friend!”

I first met Alma years ago, when I was leading a tour in Bosnia and she was our local guide. She has a painful personal history and a huge heart, two things that seem to go together. Alma and her husband were living in Mostar with their toddler on May 9, 1992, when they were rocked awake by artillery shells raining down from the mountaintop. They persevered through the next few years as bombardment, siege, and street-by-street warfare ripped their city apart.

“Alma” means benevolent, soulful, wise. And Alma is all of these things in abundance. Anyone who meets her is struck by both her generousness of spirit and her forthrightness. Alma speaks her mind in the way of someone who knows mortal danger firsthand and no longer worries with niceties. And she has mastered the art of giving outsiders insight into Bosnian culture.

“Here in Bosnia, we have unfiltered coffee — what you Americans might call ‘Turkish coffee,'” Alma said as we walked. “But it’s not just a drink. It’s a social ritual. A way of life.”

We made our way through Mostar toward a café. The streets were cobbled with river stones — round as tennis balls and polished like marble — that threatened to turn our ankles with each step. Finally we reached a cozy caravanserai courtyard that felt very close to the Ottoman trading outpost that Mostar once was.

We settled in at a low table, and the coffee arrived: A small copper tray, hand-hammered with traditional Bosnian designs. An oblong copper pot, lined with shiny metal and filled with black coffee. A dish containing exactly two Turkish delight candies, dusted with powdered sugar. And two small ceramic cups, wrapped in yet more decorative copper.

The server deliberately poured coffee into each cup. I reached for mine too eagerly. Alma stopped me. “Careful!” she said. “Bosnian coffee punishes those who hurry, with a mouthful of grounds.”

Patiently, Alma explained the procedure — and the philosophy — of Bosnian coffee. “There’s no correct or incorrect way to drink Bosnian coffee. People spend lifetimes perfecting their own ritual. But one thing we agree on is that coffee isn’t just about the caffeine. It’s about relaxing. Being with people you enjoy.”

Alma paused for effect, then took a deliberate sip. Looking deep into my eyes and smiling a relaxed smile, she continued with a rhythmic, mesmerizing cadence: “Talk to your friends. Listen to what they have to say. Learn about their lives. Then take a sip. If your coffee isn’t strong enough, gently swirl your cup. If it’s too strong, just wait. Let it settle. That gives you more time to talk anyway.”

Looking around the courtyard, sparkling with mellow conversation and gentle laughter, Alma said, “This is a good example of merak. Merak is one of those words that you cannot directly translate into English. It means, basically, enjoyment. This relaxed atmosphere among friends. Nursing a cup of coffee with nowhere in particular to be — savoring the simple act of passing the time of day.”

Taking another slow sip, Alma noted that the Bosnian language is rife with these non-translatable words. Another example: raja. “Raja is a sense of being one with a community,” Alma said. “But it also means frowning on anyone who thinks they’re a big shot. It’s humility. Everyone knowing their place, and respecting it.”

But my favorite Bosnian word is ćejf (pronounced “chayf”). Ćejf is that annoying habit you have that drives your loved ones batty. And yet, it gives you pleasure. Not just pleasure; deep satisfaction. In traditional Bosnian culture, ćejf is the way someone spins their worry beads, the way he packs and smokes his pipe, or her exacting procedure for preparing and drinking a cup of coffee.

In American culture, we have ćejf, too. Maybe you have a precise coffee order that tastes just right. (“Twelve-ounce oat milk half-caf latte with one Splenda, extra hot.”) Or every weekend, you feel compelled to wash and detail your car, or bake a batch of cookies, or mow your lawn in tidy diagonal lines, or prune your hedges just so. My own ćejf is the way I tinker with my fantasy football lineup. (Should I start Marvin Jones or Jarvis Landry this week?) Or the way I chew gum when I’m stressed: Extra Polar Ice flavor, always two sticks…never just one.

Americans dismiss this behavior as “fussy” or “O.C.D.” or simply “annoying.” We’re expected to check our ćejf at the door. But in Bosnia, they just shake their head and say, “What are you gonna do? That’s his ćejf.” You don’t have to like someone’s ćejf. But — as long as it’s not hurting anyone — you really ought to accept it. Because everyone has one.

Reaching the bottom of my coffee cup, I noted that the grounds had left no residue at all. “When it’s done properly,” Alma said triumphantly, “you’ll never feel grit between your teeth. If you find a layer of ‘mud’ in the bottom of your cup, it means that someone — either you or the person who made the coffee — was in too much of a hurry.”

Setting down her mudless cup, Alma allowed the silence between us to linger for several long moments. She knew I was in a hurry to get back to work. (I am always in a hurry.) But she was determined to slow me down. We waited. And waited. I sat like a dog with a treat on my nose. My mind began to whirr: Is it easier to be soulful, more at peace with idiosyncrasies, when you’ve survived hardship? Or is this ritual pulling back the curtain on a Muslim worldview?

And then, as if pushing through turbulence on the way to blue skies, I felt myself calming. My pulse abated. I sensed the merak percolating around me. I tuned into the details flowing in the background behind Alma’s smiling face. It’s the first time that having coffee has slowed me down rather than revved me up.

Finally, sensing my peace, Alma took a deep breath and spoke: “Good. Shall we move on? What’s next?”

Alma is just one of the countless Europeans I’ve gotten to know over more than two decades of exploring Europe. Since 2000, I’ve worked for Rick Steves’ Europe, spending about 100 days each year on the road: researching and writing guidebooks; producing TV shows; and leading bus tours. That’s a grand total of about five years, over the last twenty, in more than 35 European countries (which — let’s be honest — is more than I once thought Europe even had). Over all that time, I feel that I’ve become a temporary European.

That’s the title of my new travel memoir. The Temporary European: Lessons and Confessions of a Professional Traveler was just published by Travelers’ Tales.

It took me a while to come up with that title. I began the project by collecting my favorite pieces from the travel blog I’ve been writing since 2015. As I refined those, I began to fill in some gaps with new writing. Over time a structure emerged, and the various writings began to cluster around common themes. But I just couldn’t figure out what to call the thing.

Finally, as I was wrapping up the book, I realized that a single thread unites all of the stories in my book: traveling as a Temporary European: Traveling with curiosity and empathy. Seeking to understand the lives of the people I meet…and trying on their ways for size, to see what I like (and what I don’t). I think any traveler can have a more rewarding trip by approaching their travels with a Temporary European mindset.

Take the simple act of caffeinating. In England, you might perk up with a cup of midafternoon tea; in Italy or France, you slam down a tiny mug of espresso standing at a busy counter; in Vienna or Budapest, you spend hours nursing a cup at a grand café, with borrowable newspapers on long wooden sticks. And in Bosnia-Herzegovina, as we’ve learned from Alma, you nurse a copper-clad cup of unfiltered coffee deliberately while chatting with friends.

A Temporary European assumes that other people’s ways make sense to them, and tries to understand why. If you barge into a French shop without saying Bonjour, Madame!, and find the shopkeeper unfriendly, imagine how you’d feel if someone did the same in your living room. If you’re in Croatia and people are cranky, trust them when they explain that the muggy Jugo wind puts everyone in a foul mood. If Germans are standing in the pouring rain, with not a car in sight, waiting for the light to change, wait with them while contemplating why rule-following is important to their notion of a successful society. And if an Italian barista grows agitated when you try to order a cappuccino after lunchtime, consider how having so much milk late in the day might be bad for your digestion.

Dubrovnik — on Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast — is a tourist hotspot. If the cruise ships weren’t enough to overwhelm the place, they’ve also become swamped with Game of Thrones pilgrims. When I’m in Dubrovnik updating my guidebook, I stop by all of the big sights: walking around the top of City Walls, riding the cable car up to the hilltop fortress, dipping into the sumptuous churches and quirky museums.

But my favorite thing to do in Dubrovnik is to have my morning coffee right along the main drag — early enough that most of the tourists are still sleeping in. A group of locals gather each morning at an outdoor café to chat and gossip and people-watch.

Sitting there with them, in the amount of time it takes to drink my morning coffee, I learn more about the real life of Dubrovnik than I do in several days of sightseeing.

Just before the pandemic, my wife and I took a week off to simply hang out in Provence. Every day, we went to a different market: even markets in seven days. But we really wanted to learn how to marché like a local. Mathilde met up with us one day and gave us some lessons.

First, learn how to recognize the difference between a farmer and reseller: If the producer displays a wide range of produce — especially bananas, mangoes, or other tropical fruit — they’re a reseller. Stickers on produce are also a sure sign of a reseller. Produce from a reseller can still be good quality, she stressed. But knowing the difference can help you choose more carefully. “A farmer picks their produce only when it’s perfectly ripe, to sell today at the market,” Mathilde said. “When picking for a reseller, they tend to pick it just before it’s ripe, to give it more time to be transported.” Connoisseurs shopping for today show up early and seek out farmers first; if they strike out, they turn to the resellers.

“For top quality, watch for a stand selling only one item,” Matilde said. “Only Plums. Just Berries. Apricots seulement. This is a very good sign.”

In Italy, my friend Virginia took me on a crash course for finding the best gelato. She showed me what to look for: small batches of homemade gelato, stored in metal bins, with muted colors. And she showed me what to avoid: big, colorful mounds of ice cream designed to attract children.

Finally, she explained that when she wants to assess the quality of a gelateria, she samples the pistachio — for a very specific reason. Gelato flavors all cost the same to buy, but the cost of producing each one can be quite different. Authentic pistachio gelato, using real nuts, is the most expensive flavor to make. Unscrupulous places cut the pistachio with other, fake flavors to lower their costs. A trained tongue can tell if the pistachio is real pistachio. And if it is, the rest of the gelato will be great too.

I spent a month one summer driving around Scotland to work on a new guidebook. Even when writing a book to introduce travelers to a new place — especially when doing that — it’s important to have a Temporary European mindset. And in Scotland, so rife with clichés, that’s especially tricky. I see it as my challenge, as a guidebook author, to deconstruct clichés. But here in Scotland, I was about to give up when I spent a day off going to a Highland Games in a little town nobody has ever heard of.

It had all the (seeming) clichés, yes: tartans, bagpipes, Highland dancing, feats of strength, and so on. But it was also, very clearly, a local event — designed to celebrate Scottish pride for Scottish people. And it helped me to see how even those clichés are rooted in authenticity: The tartan patterns were standardized and neatly organized, clan by clan, during Victorian times. Any gift shop in Edinburgh will be all too happy to sell you a tartan matching your surname (or any Scottish surname you happen to take a fancy to).

But if you dig deeply enough in Highland history, you learn that members of a clan lived in the same general area, with access to the same natural dyes — so they really did tend to wear coordinated colors…even if they weren’t in tidy plaid patterns. And all of those events of the Highland games were critical for showcasing skills important to Highlanders: dancing for dexterity; tossing around cabers and weights to show strength; and the hill race — in which runners do a few loops around the track, then run up to the top of a nearby hill, then back again — as a sign of endurance.

On another trip, I spent several weeks driving around Sicily, on a similar guidebook assignment. If you’re not mentally prepared for the experience, driving in Sicily can be mortally terrifying. It took me a few days to dispense with preconceptions about things like obeying traffic signs, or why it’s a bad idea to triple-park in the middle of a busy street, or the importance of cars staying in their lanes (or, really, the very concept of “lanes”).

But eventually I realized that if I’m the only one trying to use the roundabout “the right way” — then I’m the only one using it the wrong way. I came to accept that Sicilians just drive differently than I do; less “legally,” perhaps, but more intuitively. They see how fast you’re going, how big your car is, and where you’re headed next. They probably know more about your driving skills than you do. And they adapt — constantly, intuitively, and effectively. So if you go with the flow and follow along, you’ll do just fine. (Or, failing that, just go numb.)

Finally, on a guidebook-research trip high in the Swiss Alps, I decided to do an impromptu hike high above the Lauterbrunnen Valley. It was just me and the cows. As a cable car floated silently overhead — crammed full of tourists heading up to a James Bond-themed revolving restaurant on the mountaintop — I was thrilled to be striding across a meadow rather than squeezed in there with all of them.

I came upon a mountain hut with giant cowbells hanging on the rafters. I greeted three old-timers a hearty Grüezi! and helped myself to a little wedge of alpine cheese — made right there — from the self-service fridge. It was the best cheese of my trip, if not my life. And then, as I rose to depart, I found myself walking down the gravelly trail just as the cowhands were driving their herd back up to the hut I’d just left. I froze — surrounded, with cows on all sides of me. A bit frightened by the thousands of pounds of agitated beef plodding my way, I stand still — a rock in a stream of livestock. It was one of those beautiful travel serendipities where it felt like every decision I made that day conspired to put me in the perfect place, at the perfect time.

These are just a few of the travel tales you’ll find in The Temporary European. I hope all of these stories help inspire you, on your next trip, to slow down and take in all of those wonderful moments that blossom into a trip’s best memories.

What are your favorite examples of becoming a Temporary European?


The Temporary European, published by Travelers’ Tales, is available now wherever books are sold. (Well, that’s not entirely true. Due to supply chain issues, you may encounter shortages. But books are on the way.) You can get it now for 30 percent off, while supplies last, at the Rick Steves’ Europe online Travel Store. Your favorite local bookstore may have copies in stock, or you can ask them to order you one. The Kindle edition (and other e-versions) are available instantly. And Amazon should be stocked up again on the print edition soon. Enjoy!

10 Replies to “Coffee and Ćejf: How to Travel as a Temporary European”

  1. Hi Rick—I travelled alone in streets of paris and all across Switzerland first time in 2009 carrying ur book. I followed every page of the books. That was best trip. Last few years worked with a very popular pharma company from Germany and again got multiple opportunities to travel and connect with Austrians, Germans and Swiss super closely. Again I carried ur books even though I was not on vacation but still managed to step out on couple of days with book in my hand. Thank you for helping me keeping up with my spirit. Love! -Monika

  2. Enjoyed your book, read it like you mentioned in the Monday night travel zoom, bounced around different chapters until finishing it. The story on Zagreb was very moving.

    Now I can’t keep my mind off what the Ukrainians are going through.

  3. So what I’d like to know is: How do I get a chance to purchase your book. I barely missed out when the website said they were available.

    More being printed or what? I loved your presentation on Monday Night Travel whe
    n you introduced your new book.

    So anixous to by/read your book!

  4. Hi Cameron,
    Thanks for your blog post about traveling as a temporary European. Can’t wait to read your book.
    My wife and I spent a month this past October, living in a 500-year old apartment in a tiny, mountainous village in Tuscany. Settling into this small community of fewer than 200 souls was fantastic. We got to know a few of the local residents, including the town’s restauranteur and his wife, and we became very comfortable with the gentle pace of life there.
    Although we also enjoyed our side trips to Sienna, Assisi, the Italian Riviera and elsewhere, our fondest and most lasting memories will be of living life as temporary Italians in our tiny corner of this amazing country.

  5. Question!
    You mention doing 100 days in Europe.
    How do you handle the Schengen rules as well as country rules on days in country or Schengen countries???

    1. Good question, Jerry. That’s 100 days per year, but not in a row–it’s usually spread over a longer period (say, March through October). And it includes non-Schengen countries, such as the UK. So this year, for instance, I’ll stay legal because 5 weeks will be in the UK. But you’re right that someone planning that much travel needs to keep an eye on those restrictions.

  6. Hi Rick and Cameron, Have spent last 4 hours watching your you tube channel about Switzerland and the Alps; have already read the guidebook cover to cover, have enjoyed reading the forum your blog & have ordered The Temporary European – it’s flying off the shelves, it seems – and just immersing myself in “play” travel through your eyes and experiences!! Thank you for all the wonderful stories and sights!!

  7. After many years of being temporary Europeans, we have been living in Europe permanently for the last 2 1/2 years. We will continue living here for many more, we believe. We love it here and highly recommend it.
    Question: any plans to publish How to Travel as a Temporary European as an e-book?

  8. Thank you, Cameron, for asking about our favorite examples of becoming Temporary Europeans.

    We saw a flyer on a bulletin board in Dambach-le-Ville, France, for a volksmarch. Signed up at the registration table the next morning and headed into the Vosges mountains. We smiled and said hello to everyone who walked with us. One person asked about the location of our home in WI and we said, “north of Chicago”. They replied with tommy gun sounds and “Oh! Gangsters!”. Halfway through, there were bbq grills and a variety of freshly cooked Alsatian foods, plus a beer tent and picnic tables. Best food we ever ate with friendly folks out for a day in the mountain air. The older men manning the grills wanted to talk to the American women, giving us examples of the menu items and smiling for a photo. I think their wives weren’t too pleased, but we managed to make them smile, too. After all, they were cooking fresh, warm, potato salad.

    Another time, wandering the area of Egg, Austria, we were beginning to head up the mountain in our car. The police approached from the other direction, lights flashing, stopping autos to park or turn around. “The cows are coming down the mountain!” So we parked and found a spot to watch the cowherds in their lederhosen with pine sprigs in hats, herding the pine-decked, belled cows who were very determined to leave the road and eat the roadside flower beds. A restaurant owner stood on the roadside with a tray full of schnapps for the cowherds. He offered us drinks as well. What a great unexpected experience of a local tradition.

    I always carry photos of my family, my town, and maybe a postcard map of my state in a ziploc bag on the outside of my day bag. I have had random pidgen & pantomime conversations with grandmas on benches as we pull out our photos and share our families. You never know what you will learn about people, but everyone has a photo in their billfold or, now, on their phone.

    One evening, while playing roulette at the Baden-Baden casino, my husband was winning. Standing with his arms crossed, he winked at me across the table. I was sitting on a sofa with another woman, talking about the beautiful casino and sharing photos. When he winked at me the second time, the woman who was across the table from him (her back was to me) swung quickly around and looked behind her, at me. We think she thought my husband was winking at her! We all had a laugh. And he won enough to break even and buy dinner the next night.

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