Apartments Orange

I was impressed by the apartment. There's plenty of room and a large balcony, plus a shared pool and a huge BBQ area. Worth considering if you want somewhere a little quieter, with a quick trip into the center of things.

A really mediocre place. The living room and kitchen were spacious enough, with an induction oven and a big fridge, but the shared pool had turned green by the end of the week. The bathroom and toilet are shared, with no window or fan in the toilet. The Wi-Fi was terrible, and even the slightest movement made the beds squeak. The terrace was set up for four people.

The place was spacious and cozy, with restaurants, beaches, and local attractions all within walking distance. We also appreciated the safe, family-friendly setting and how much the team knew about nearby events and places. Thanks for a great stay, Orange Team. Gregory & Angel Marinovic

The cab pulled away from Stara Novalja, and I looked back at the building glowing in the sun. A strange kind of light for a place that had felt so dark. When we arrived, the driver rushed our bags onto the pavement, muttering about the “crazy man” who owned the apartments, then drove off. House music thumped nearby, with the odd sound of canisters being emptied and balloons filled. There was no turning back. Milan came through the cigarette smoke, kicking canisters aside as he greeted us. “Hi I’m Milan...Welcome to Orange Apartments.” He took us up to the third floor. The hallway light was broken, he said, so we made our way up the dark stairs. Our apartment was meant for eight, but we were shown six beds. I hoped there'd been a mistake. That night I tried to sleep on the sofa, praying to God and Allah while the music bass replaced the ticking of my alarm clock back home. By daylight things somehow felt worse. Toilet paper seemed to be rationed, and beside the pool there was an uncovered hole about four feet deep, filthy enough to make even Saddam balk. On the sixth day we returned without a key and did what our host had told us to do, knock so someone could let us in with the master key. Milan wasn't there. His elderly mother had been sent to handle it, helping three different groups into their apartments. She looked about eighty, and I watched in distress as she struggled up the stairs, each marble step feeling like another betrayal. The colour orange used to make me think of Johan Cruyff in his Dutch kit, a ripe mandarin on a warm spring morning, or the glow of a jack-o'-lantern when I was a child. Now it brings Orange Apartments Stara Novalja to mind, and a much darker side of humanity.