Slovenia Part 3: Bleddy Track 3a

Just to let everyone know, there are three parts to this Slovenia trip, and I think it will make the most sense if you scroll down and start with part 1...enjoy.

We took an hour bus ride north to Bled, Slovenia, partly because we could make excellent Bleddy puns in British accents all day, and partly because we heard there was a lake there.  I got off the bus around 11 a.m. and felt terrible after two long nights and not a lot of sleep.  We found a small pub and decided to have a coffee before heading for the lake.  The bartender spoke excellent English and the ceiling of the place was decorated with license plates from all over the world, including one from Vermont, which I took to be a good sign.

Lucas came out of the bathroom and told me that he had met a hockey player who spoke decent German.  I saw this enormous man emerge from the WC, with flushed cheeks, holding some type of drink with a lemon in it. I had just finished my coffee and stood up to grab my pack. 

"American?"  he asked, with a thick accent.

"Yes, yes, I'm from the states," I replied.

"I know George Bush,"  he informed me, making a telephone with his hand.  "He is my friend, I call him."

I nodded and smiled, not sure what to expect from this guy.  Lucas exchanged a few words with him in German, and told me that he wanted us to have a drink.  I was not really interested in touching any alcohol today, and with no food in my stomach, I wasn't sure it was even possible.  I tried to decline, shaking my head and pointing toward the door.

"We have to go to the lake, I'm very sorry."

"Lake is right here, is very close.  Lake later.  Now, one drink."  Ok, I thought, how much harm could one drink possibly do?  I asked the hockey player what he was having, and he said something to the barkeep in Slovenian, who turned around with two giant pitchers of wine. 

 

Fuck.

"Is good, strong Slovenian wine.  Please, Please."  The hockey player indicated to the pitchers that had been accompanied by six glasses.  

"Who knows when we're going to be in Bled again, why not have some Bleddy wine," said Keith cheerfully and I reluctantly gave in.

The wine was delicious.  One was a Cabernet Sauvignon and the other was a different type of red, the name I did not catch.  As we drank, I started to relax a bit while I listened to the hockey player regale us with stories in broken English.  

There was one about a crazy motorcyclist in Tajikistan, another about when he was in the Slovenian army and had to hide in a mountain, but my favorite was when he would tell us about his hockey games.

"You get very thirsty.  You play and train, and then you need a drink."  He made a motion like he was drinking liquid out of a teet, while he made a ridiculous sucking sound.

The hockey player also told us about his nineteen year old son,

"He is very good boy.  He play chess in Russia."

After a few more glasses of wine, an older man entered with a very expressive face who was dwarfed by the hockey player.

"This is Morris, he is good friend."

Morris carried a small cactus in his hand, and put it down on a nearby table for a bit.  He began to dance with Lucas, the bar had been pumping out American pop songs all morning, but paused momentarily to grab his cactus, apparently it made him a better dancer.  I took a discreet video of him (below), as both he and the hockey player refused to be in any photographs with us.

After over an hour of socializing with Slovenians, we grabbed our things to go, my head greatly feeling the effects of the wine.  The barkeep brought out another liter and the hockey player gestured toward it, and was greatly disappointed when we refused to stay.

"No, no, no American...I will call President Bush, I am his friend."  he gave me a big pat on the shoulder and whispered in my ear.

"I am very sorry...no money is not so funny."  I think he was referring to the present financial crisis in the States and I thanked him for his concern.

We took off on a very silly walk toward the lake, Keith and I sharing a long discussion about drugs and stupid, young decisions.  Alberto was next to us, with his eyes closed, completely sleep walking...I had to direct him so that he would not bump into people or walk into the lake.  

Lake Bled is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to.  It reminds me very much of something one might find in up-state New York or Vermont, with clear water, and mountains surrounding.  However, with Austria just over the border, the mountains are much higher and more breathtaking, with snow on the peaks.

We stumbled into another bar and had a couple of shots of Jagermeister for some inexplicable reason, I think it was Lucas' idea, and then we rented a couple of rowboats to take to an island in the center of the lake.  Alberto, Isabelle and I had great trouble in our boat, Isabelle kindly telling us suggestions while Alberto and I refused to let her row.  It took us about twenty minutes to weave our way over to the island.  Lucas easily directed his in a very straight and efficient way, and when we finally made it, he, Keith and Noelle had already climbed up to the church located there. The panorama from the island was spectacular, and I snapped pictures left and right.

On the way back, we reluctantly let Isabelle, the lady, try her hand at rowing.  She was incredible.  I had no idea that she was a closet crew superstar.  She brought us back with lightening speed, where we found an area to do what we had been waiting for all day...have a Bleddy swim.

Keith, Lucas and I were the only ones who dared jump into the freezing cold mountain water, but it was so refreshing, and just as we got out and started to dry off, the sun came out and warmed us.  As an added bonus, we ran into the dangerously charming British couple again, who were camping next to the lake and enjoying the long reach of Slovenian Wi-Fi.  We made them promise that they would come visit us in Treste, and they agreed, 

"Lets make it a hat trick," they told us in their amazing accents.  

After parting with the Brits, we walked back to the station and took a bus to Ljubljana, where I sobered up and got some sleep.  We grabbed a quick meal, walking out to the platform just at 6:50, when our train when supposed to leave.  We stood at platform 3A and asked a girl if this was the place to get the train to Sessana, a border town, six kilometers from Trieste.  She nodded, so we waited and watched another train come and go.  As 7:00 approached, we knew something was amiss.  We waved down a rail employee who looked at our ticket and told us.

"Your train left from platform 3, this is 3a."  Fuck.

"Is there another one to Sessana tonight?"

"No, you will have to wait until morning."  We could not believe that there were no trains directly to Trieste or anywhere nearby, but we kept asking and finally found one at 2 am that went to Monfalcone, a station farther West than Trieste, but from there we could get another train and go back East.  We bought our tickets and began a depressing search for the best way to kill time.

We spent a couple of hours in an underground mall with some homeless people, and a few outside in the cold with more familiar homeless people that we had met Friday night.  One of them told us a story about when he was in Portland, Oregon where he claimed there was a strip-club open in the middle of the day.

"Portland Oregon, is one of best places in world.  There is a restaurant with the naked girls, you can go all day...when sun is shining!" 

Around midnight we found a nice Slovenian pizzeria and a man who spoke excellent English and even stayed open a couple of hours late, because I think he was just happy to finally have some customers and some company.  Another group of Spaniards who were taking the same train found us and shared some pizza and coffee.

When we were walking out to the track we could not find a way across, Slovenian train stations are very confusing, so we had to jump over a fence.  Poor Keith slipped and fucked up his ankle and had a nice ambulance ride to an Italian hospital the next day, where in the ultimate Catch-22, they had no crutches to give him, but also would not let him leave because he did not have any crutches.  He returned home with a cane, that they insisted he return the next day, in a cab and asked me to run outside to pay for him and grab his bag and shoe.  

"Fucking 3a," he said appropriately.

Slovenia Part 2: Things Get Real

We awoke mid-morning, had some breakfast, and then headed out to experience all that Ljubljana has to offer.  We found an outdoor market, which Lucas accurately pointed out is a great place to experience what local people eat and how they act. I managed to spill some coffee on my shirt, which was an excellent excuse to buy a new one with a dragon on it.  Apparently there is some legend about a Greek warrior who came to Ljubljana and slayed a dragon, which explains why they all over the city.  

After trying on some cool hats and sampling local food and drink, we hiked up to Ljubljana Castle, which has an amazing view of the city.  On the way, we were passed by a sprinting Slovenian man, who upon closer inspection had a very weathered face and was probably about eighty years old.  When we reached the top, we noticed him jumping from rock to rock with his capri pants swaying in the wind.  I hope I am in half as good shape when I am that old.

In the castle courtyard there was a wedding taking place and two little kids were kicking a little nut around.   When it reached me I kicked it back, which prompted the little blonde Slovenian girl to say, "Hvuala,"  which means thank you, and is pronounced to rhyme with Koala, in the most adorable way.

On top of the castle we met a dangerously charming British couple.  Everything they said had me hypnotized.  They could have told me to jump off of the castle tower and I would have done it without question, because they are just so damn charming.  Apparently they had quit their jobs and were spending their savings driving a van around Europe.  The Brits are able to use certain verbs that American could never pull off.

"Yes we had considered wintering in Tunisia, (Tunisia with four syllables as opposed to our measly three) but we're not sure if government will permit us to drive there."  Everything to them was "really fantastic" or "absolutely brilliant" including Budapest, which they recommended highly for New Years, and Czech beer which they said is the best in the world, to groans of protest from Lucas and Isabelle who had spent all morning debating if German or Belgian beer was better.

After absorbing the gorgeous surroundings, we descended and toured the city's churches and museums, including a stop at the library, which was designed by a famous Slovenian architect and I know my parents would enjoy it very much.  We also found the Parliament building which is not terribly impressive except for the doors, which are famous and filled with sculpture. Isabelle proved to be a great guide, translating her French information on Slovenia into broken English or Spanish, and explaining the significance of every building and statue.

For dinner we went to the supermarket and bought some pasta and meat which I happily cooked in the hostel's kitchen.  Alberto thanked me for cooking and began calling me, "The Cookie," as in 

"Thank you for cooking, Cookie...you are a great cookie!"  

We drank some wine and tequila that Alberto brought and prepared to head out.  Thankfully Noelle agreed to stay in, which meant nobody had to take care of her.  This time we wanted to avoid the turisty clubs and decided to venture deeper into the city, following advice from one of the hostel employees.  First we had some wine on the Dragon Bridge (my favorite spot in Ljubljana) and discussed conspiracy theories, agreeing that the U.S. government has far too many secrets.

We went from the Dragon Bridge to the art district, where apparently a group of students had congregated in the '90s and I didn't quite hear the whole story, but I guess the government tried to stop them from taking over the square, but they finally gave up and just let them have the place.  

As we ventured further and further from the downtown Ljubljana, there was less light and fewer people, I started to feel a bit uneasy, but we were in a group and Lucas seemed to be confident that this would be a cool place to go, so I tried not to worry.

When we reached the square, we saw that there was graffiti and post modern, abstract, metal sculpture everywhere.  Students stood around with drinks, wearing leather and sporting piercings of various kinds.  I felt that something was not right about this place as we opened our last bottle of wine and listened to the strange music that leaked out of one of the buildings.

After a bit, two young men approached us, one wearing a black jacket and the other with sores all over his face.  I told them I was from the states, but only the tall one, without the sores, seemed to know any English.  Every other thing he said was "fuck's sake," as in,

"You'll have to excuse my friend,"  he gestured toward the red, sickly looking spots all over his face.  "He has the H.I.V. very bad, fuck's sake."  

I started to become more and more uneasy, and then things escalated quickly when Lucas tried to ask what the word for Prost (German cheers) was in Slovenian, raising his cup to clink it with the Slovenian student's.  Upon hearing the word Prost, his expression changed drastically, and he said quietly but forcefully,

"German...you are German."  It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah,"  Lucas responded in the kindest voice.  The student removed his black jacket to reveal a red soccer warm-up.

"My grandparents were killed by the Germans, forty-five kilometers from here.  Now we fight."

He put his fists in the air, and I stepped between him and Lucas, who walked in the other direction trying to avoid a confrontation.  I tried to talk down the angry Slovenian who kept explaining to me about his grandparents.

"Fucking Germans for fuck's sake, killed my grandparents, fuck's sake.  Fort-five kilometers from here."  

"Look I told him.  I'm Jewish.  I understand.  I understand your anger, but this is a new generation.  Lucas did not kill your grandparents, you have to understand that."  I don't think he quite got what I was trying to say.

"Fuck's sake, you go forty-five kilometers.  You go there!"  He looked around crazily for Lucas who had disappeared with Isabelle, and then finally put his jacket back on, seeming to give up. Keith, Alberto, and I had a seat on the curb and tried to wrap our minds around what had just happened.

"I don't really feel safe here, like I think we should go."  I could tell Alberto was shaken up.  Keith and I consoled him and tried to sound like everything was fine when another student came over and sat next to us with his head in his hands.  He looked at us momentarily and then let out an extraordinary amount of vomit onto the street, which did not contribute to making Alberto feel safe.  We watched the angry young Slovenian emerge from inside the building and take a serious fall, the force of which pulled off his pants and exposed his entire bare ass.

"Lets get out of here," Alberto said, and Keith and I did not need any more convincing. 

I told them to wait where they were, and I walked into the dark club, which was filled with smoke and art students dancing strangely to music that was a mix of techno and wailing folk rock.  I saw Lucas and Isabelle happily sipping dragon beers at the bar.

"Look at how they dance!"  Lucas seemed to love this place.  I told them that it was time to go and they agreed.  We left the place, which is how most Americans would probably imagine night-life in a former Yugoslavian Republic.  It was about 4 a.m., so we decided to see if Bacchus was still open, but because they were closing soon we figured it wouldn't be worth paying the cover, although I wondered if my princess was in there.

We walked back to the hostel in near silence, and when we were about to make the turn onto Tomisceva Ulica, we heard a shout from across the street.

"GERMAN!"  The angry student and his afflicted friend had found us, so we took off at a fast-paced walk and made our way into the safety of the hostel.  I consoled Alberto by telling him that now we had an incredible story to tell.  We set an alarm for 7 a.m. to make the trip to Bled in Northern Slovenia.

Slovenia Part 1: My Slovenian Princess

I just returned from Slovenia, a wonderful country that is much more developed and modern than most people think, making it a model for Eastern European democracies. A lot happened there and it might take a couple of days for me to write it all down and post the pictures, but it's not like I have to go to class this week, so here is what happened day 1.

We took a bus to Ljubljana, the capital, which took about two and a half hours from Trieste.  I traveled with an international crew including three Americans, a Mexican, a German, and a Belgian.  Of course we were accompanied by over twenty Spaniards who stayed in a different hostel and were very cold in Slovenia.  On the way, my friend Keith (from Montana) and I started looking at a Slovenian travel guide (pictured above) and decided that this weekend was going to be a good time. 

I mean just look at all of the amazing things Slovenia has to offer: dragons and giant flowers, white water rafting and ice climbing, tree houses suspended on ears of corn, flying horsemen with tophats, cliff diving, and of course housewives, traditionally dressed, and doing their cleaning while standing on top of pastries.  What's not to like?

We arrived in Slovenia, which looks exactly like Vermont, at about 5pm.  I mentioned the similarity between Slovenia and my home state to Alberto who took this idea and ran with it, frequently tapping me on the shoulder and telling me things like,

"Hey, I think this looks like Vermont."

"Noah...we must have fallen asleep and now we are in Vermont."

"Keith, I think it looks like Montana now."  Keith responded by telling him that it looked nothing like Montana, and more like Mexico to him, which had Alberto holding his sides and laughing hysterically.

Alberto also informed us on the bus that life is like a box of chocolates and he got very excited when he saw a Mcdonalds in the Slovenian bus station, making up a new song on the spot that he sang throughout the weekend.  It was a serious of deedeedee's followed by a two word hook,

"At Mcdonald's!"  

He also introduced us to some of his favorite English sayings including "Awesome Possum,"  and "Of Course my Horse."  Alberto makes me laugh more than anyone else on earth, and I could not imagine traveling without him.

 

We checked into our hostel which was right downtown and looked like the entire place had been purchased out of an Ikea catalogue, complete with pink walls, bunk beds, and very modern looking reading lights and appliances.  The staff was extremely friendly and patient with us and I highly recommend Fluxus hostel to anyone who finds themselves in Slovenia for a night or two.

 

We left our stuff and went out for a Kebab (delicious) and to buy some alcohol for the night. We discovered that Slovenians have two types of cheap beer which are quite tasty, one featuring a Dragon (an important symbol for Ljubljana) and a Goat (not sure of the significance there).  We bought a good number of Dragon and Goat beers and some wine and headed downtown for Botellon, which is the Spanish term for drinking outside in the town square.  We walked along the river for awhile, noticing people enjoying a drink or dinner outdoors, many bridges, and some beautifully lit up buildings.  

We arrived in a square next to three such bridges, and saw a large group of people bopping to loud house music.  On either side of the square were two phone booths, and in the center was a Heineken tent, a couple of large LCD monitors, and two good looking young people with microphones.  Before we had time to say "What the fuck?" a woman with a clip board grabbed us and ushered us toward one of the phone booths.

"You have to talk, thirty seconds,"  she informed us, in a thick, Eastern European accent.  I asked her why, and she explained to me in broken English that there were two teams, and whoever could get more people to talk in their booth would be flown to New York City for a Madonna concert.  This was completely unexpected, but I knew that we had to help, realizing that the stakes could not be higher.  We each had our turn in the booth, yelling things in our native language, hearing our voices on the loud speakers reverberate throughout the square.  I said something about being born in New York and people cheered when they heard the name of the city that they were trying to get to, so I closed out my thirty seconds by yelling MADONNA!!! to the delight of the crowd.  

After our booth time, we were handed a ticket and told to scratch.  I did so, revealing a long code of letters and numbers.  They pushed me into the Heineken tent, where I was handed a freezing cold beer and a free hat in exchange for my ticket.  Some won shirts and various other prizes, and to top it all off, the tent was full of gorgeous Slovenian women.  After a few minutes of oggling, I went back out into the square to see the Spaniards arrive.

 

We took over the piazza and had a tremendous Botellon which involved a lot of shouts of "Grande!"  some national anthems, some discussion with a Slovenian homeless man, and pictures with a big ladder that the Spaniards found somewhere.  After a few too many dragon beers and some strong Slovenian wine (the labels say 13% alcohol, but it feels like more), my American friends needed to be put to bed.  I was not happy, because it was only midnight and I was ready to hit the clubs.  Alberto and I walked Keith and Noelle back to the hostel with Alberto doing all of the work, because I refused to help them.

"They are 23 and 24 years old," I kept reiterating.

"They should be able to handle their liquor."  Keith began telling my to go fuck myself in Italian when I told him to walk straighter, which did cheer me up, and he begged me not to leave him alone with Noelle (a stereotypical American from San Diego), repeatedly telling me that he was going out with us.  As soon as we entered the hostel he was in a bed, asleep, while I profusely apologized to the hostel employee David who was very understanding.  After convincing a hammered Noelle not to go out alone to get food, Alberto and I went back out and met up with Lucas (from Germany) and Isabelle (from Belgium) at a club called Bacchus.  

 

We paid our five Euro cover and hit the dance floor, where beer was not too expensive, and the odd array of American pop songs kept coming, which were thankfully not remixed.  We heard everything from Love Shack, to Uptown Girl, to Eye of the Tiger, to One More Night by Phill Collins.

Alberto met some terrifyingly young girls and tried to get me to dance with them.

"They are children,"  I kept telling him, "absolutely not."  He was convinced that they were much older, or at least that one day they would be much older, and therefore it was no problem. I found some British girls that were closer to my age and a lot of fun.  We did the twist and I was immediately reminded of my friend Brett's excellent impression of Chubby Checker, which made me wish he could be there to experience this with me.

I laughed as a watched a crew of Sovenians all dressed in orange jumpsuits, who danced on top of a balcony, and then came down to sneak into people's photographs.  Their leader sported a large afro and was one of the more interesting dancers I have seen in Europe, and I wondered if they dressed this way every time they went out or if tonight had some special significance.  At one point I looked across the dance floor and saw a gorgeous girl with blonde hair and my jaw completely dropped.

"I have to dance with her,"  I told my friend Lucas, just as a swing song came on and a guy started dancing with her friend.  I seized my opportunity, grabbing her hand and dancing with her until the song ended, at which point I was completely smitten.  A tiny man with a unibrow grabbed me on the shoulder and looked at me very seriously.

"Do you have any idea who she is?"

"What?  No, why would I?"

"You are unbelievable,"  he told me, shaking his head.  

"I'm sorry but I am not from around here.  Who is she?"  I asked.

"She is an actress, very famous in Slovenia...all of the movies.  How can you not know her?" I talked to her little handler for a while who kept calling me ignorant as he condescendingly informed me all about her film career, like I was a child who had never heard of Slovenia.  He seemed to be very surprised that I was able to dance with her, frustrated that I had penetrated his vigilant defenses against potential suitors.  I noticed a large group of men gathered around her looking to dance who were unsuccessful.  I felt pretty proud of myself for getting that far, but when the club closed, I became separated from her and her little minion before getting a phone number or planning to meet again, and I was devestated.  I had lost my Slovenian Princess forever.  

Alberto said goodbye to the children and we headed home around 5 a.m. for some much needed sleep...sightseeing in the morning.

Udine, Grande!

Yesterday my friends and I went to an Italian class for absolute beginners.  There was no need for us to go, I am going to take an intermediate class later in the semester. However, like we expected, it was a great place to meet more international students (especially female ones). We ended up abducting some from Poland who had just arrived in the city and were still living in a hostel...We drank wine all day and then thankfully, they finally found an apartment, which is very difficult in Trieste.  Later, we went to Piazza Unitá and then to some strange Carribean Bar that of course played Euro remixes to a variety of American songs including a disturbing techno rendition of Country Roads by John Denver.  But, as i am a few days behind on my blogging, here is last weekend's trip to Udine.

We got a call from the Spaniards telling us to meet them at 6:00 p.m. at the train station.  We arrived on time with a few bottles of liquor, some tonic water, and a lot of Fanta, and of course they showed up just in time to take the 7:30 train.  We were allowed to drink in the station and on the train, and people were very congratulatory to me as soon as they found out I was twenty.

"No, you can't in the States!  You can't!"  One of my Spanish friends had a Deep Purple shirt on and he told me he got it at one of their concerts in 1975, but I think he meant something else.

On the train we tried a bit of Alberto's tequila from Mexico, which made the tips of my ears turn red, but I find that Tequila improves my Italian, so I conversed the whole time with Isabel from Belgium and Sandra from Spain who both speak a bit of Italian but mostly Spanish.  My friend Lucas spotted a guy sitting by himself on the train with one of those shirts that has German flags on the sleeves.  We invited him to have a drink with us, and found out that his name was Raf and he was from Togo.  Raf had been living in Italy for a couple of months and was having trouble making friends.  Well he found the right group, and agreed to take the train past his stop to come to Udine with us and celebrate.

We arrived in the other major city of the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region to find thousands of people outside, socializing in and out of large tents set about the main piazza.  My new friend Fernando from Spain insisted that I speak English with him, which was a bit tedious because he only knows how to say a few things and he repeats them over and over.

"In my country we have this."  He gestured toward the tents and the groups of Italians.

"We have the people...outside."

"In my country we have more...soccer."

"In my country we have late eating."

This back and forth tested my patience because I was eager to practice my Italian, which I eventually did with Raf, who turned out to be the man.  He taught us a toast from Togo that we still use all of the time even though we are probably mispronouncing it.  We got a text from him yesterday, so I hope he comes with us this weekend to Croatia or Slovenia.  

The outdoor party in Udine had some interesting elements to it.  There was local food and Tocai, the white wine that his region is famous for, everywhere that you could sample for free and lots of remixed American songs...I think I heard Grease Lightning seven or eight times. African venders were walking around selling cowboy hats and sunglasses with crazy, flashing lights on them, which the drunk Italians bought in bulk wore proudly.  We received free T-shirts and I got some sort of sandwich from a girl who spoke to me in English and Italian.

"Your English is very good,"  I said to her in between mouthfulls. "Where are you from?"

"Denver," she replied.  Small world.

After seeing the character pictured above riding down the street I decided I had had enough...I needed to find out why they were having this ridiculous party, but it was difficult to get a straight answer out of anyone.

"Ciao, ragazze...forse potreste dirmi...perche questa festa...che significa?"

"Oh perche ogni anno...stasera, tutti vengono qua, e c'é un buona festa."

I got similar answers from everyone I asked.  Apparently they were having this party because every year on the same day, everybody comes to Udine.  They seemed to be troubled by the fact that I wanted there to be a reason for the party.  They were insistent that they festival occurred because many years ago, everyone decided it would be so.  After I received similar responses from a few groups of Italians, I was satisfied...who needs a reason to party?  

At around four a.m. we made our way back to the station to catch the first train back to Trieste at half past five.  My friend Fernando (who's last name is Torres, which you soccer fans will find interesting) found me on the way and was very apologetic because he wanted to speak more English with me, but he is from Southern Spain and he was far to cold. He kept rubbing his throat while smoking a cigarette, showing me that he was in pain.

"In my country, we don't have this, this cold."

"In my country..."  He couldn't go on, he clutched his throat and shook his head, I put my hand on his shoulder and told him not to worry, and then he proceeded to go on a thirty second rant in Spanish.  Apparently the cold was only affecting his ability to speak English.  

A few meters from the train station, a couple of the Spanish guys found some old abandoned bicycles and were riding them around the train station.  They would refer to everything as "Grande," which can be used to mean big, great, or awesome.

"Udine, Grande!"

"Espana, Grande!"

"Le biciclette, Grande!"

When I stepped onto the train, I found that the bicycles had been taken aboard and were coming with us to Trieste, prizes to remember an excellent night out.  They are still sitting in my friend Fran's apartment downtown, one with a homemade license plate that says "Espana 1"and the other with a plate that says "Italia 1."

I slept for most of the train ride, but did awake briefly to see Alberto standing at the front of the train car, eating pretzels and conducting the Spaniards in a spirited rendition of "Cielito Lindo."  Which involves a lot of Ay yay yay and something about Senores...I have to learn the words.  

Don't Worry...

To anyone who read that entire last post...Bravo.  It's long as shit at not terribly uplifting, but I wanted to include it, because that's how I felt at the time, and I wanted to show everyone that this trip really was difficult.  I have never felt more alone in my entire life, which is why now I have so much appreciation for all of the fun I am having, because I really had to earn it this time.  Yes, it has only been a week, but those first few depressing days seemed like a lifetime.  The situation reminds me of one of my new favorite quotes, a revelation during the film Into the Wild (featuring the music of the one and only Edward Vedder). 

"Happiness is only real when shared."

So true.  When I was alone, I doubted everything from my Italian, to if I was heading to the right office, to if I was getting the right piece of paper signed by the right person and returning it to the right office, to if I should have even left the States in the first place.  After the debacle that was my trip to the Segreterie Delle Studente, I returned to the Erasmus office, got the ball rolling on the absurd amount of paper work I had to do (every Italian who looks at my passport is amazed to see that I was born in New York City...one guy told me had a cousin who lived in the Hudson River.  I knew what he meant).  At the Erasmus office I also met my two best friends here, Alberto (Mexico) and Lucas (Germany).  Since then, a lot of new characters have joined our crew, including a couple of Americans, obviously a few Italians, and about 30 crazy Spaniards.  I am having the most amazing time exploring delicious local cuisine, swimming in the Adriatic, and visiting Castle Mirimare, which is the old residence of the royal family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and has a gorgeous view of the Sea and the City (Pictures on Facebook).

Every Wednesday, the international students gather in Piazza Unitá, one of the most beautiful squares I have ever seen, that opens to the sea.  Each group brings their own drink and cups and we make an outdoor bar, conversing in five different languages with everyone finding a way to communicate.  My Italian gets drastically better every day and I can actually understand a bit of Spanish as well now.  Whenever we are interested doing something ridiculous, we just call the Spaniards because they are a giant mobile party, and they always know where to go.  Last Wednesday, we entered the local disco at about 2 am and danced the night away to one long techno song, crawling home around 5.

The people here are so relaxed, it took me a long time to get used to offices only being open for a couple of hours a day, but now I love it. Everything takes time and a ticket here, but nothing needs to be on time. If you walk into the post office and you are the only one there, you take a ticket and you wait until your number is called, if at all.  The Triestine way of doing things is incredibly inefficient, but it's not about being efficient, it's about enjoyment and satisfaction, it's about not worrying about every little fucking thing like in the States.  For example, my classes either start October 1st, October 6th, or in November, and none of the classes have schedules made up for the entire semester, because they change weekly or monthly, making it impossible to choose classes without conflicts and prompting my advisor to tell me, "Don't worry, you will go to class if you can."  

I have come to the conclusion that unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, I will never become an old Italian man.  I have decided that they are the coolest people on Earth.  They stroll down the street with jackets hanging over their shoulders, hands behind their backs or sipping glasses of wine, even when there is no bar or cafe in sight causing me to wonder where they get the drink and the glass.  They discuss everything from politics, to soccer, to when the Borra (the strong wind from the mountains that Trieste is famous for) will arrive.  

I witnessed one such man having an argument with a cat on the street. Yes, this looked exactly like you might think, the cat sort of meandering back and forth, rubbing up against the man's leg and then moving away.  The man in a nice suit waving his arms around, talking loudly, and pushing his index finger right between the cat's eyes at times for emphasis.  I walked over to discreetly capture a picture, but he caught me and gave me the most mortified look, as if I was the son who had just walked in on Mom and Dad having an argument. After a while, the man threw his hands in the air, admitting defeat, and left the cat to cross the road.  The cat watched for a minute and then raced across the street where they continued their discussion.

Last weekend I had a silly night in Udine, a nearby city, which I will explain in detail when I have some more time...those pictures should also make their way onto Facebook soon, but now I have to go to bed because in the morning I am going to a supplementary beginner's Italian class and then we are planning this weekend's trip to either Slovenia or Croatia, so until then...

Mi Chiamo Noah.

Le Segreterie Delle Studente

I woke up promptly at 8, made my way to the dining hall, which is called a mensa here and had an amazing cappuccino.  I love the coffee in Trieste, it is much sweeter than in the states and is a great way to start the day.  I headed in the direction of the main campus building, and when I saw it, I was astounded.  It's enormous, definitely one of the biggest single buildings I have ever seen.  It's not too tall, but it's wider than a football field and deeper than a major hospital.  It's all made out of white marble and has statues and an impressive set of steps in front.  When you get to the top there is again an incredible view of the sea.  It is fashioned in some sort of Byzantine style that I know I learned about in my art history class last year, but I can't really remember any relevant terminology or history of this type of architecture...I will include a picture when I take a good one.

I walked inside through a giant revolving door and was immediately the picture of a flustered foreigner.  There were Italian students all over the place, talking at a riduculously fast pace, sipping espressos.  A giant board was mounted in the corner of the lobby with different electronic letters and numbers that beeped every time a number changed.  I found a sign that said, "Segreterie Delle Studente," listing all of the different offices.  Letter I seemed good for me,

"I servizi per studenti stranieri"-"Services for foreign students."  

I tried to ask a girl in broken Italian where to find this office.  She showed me to a machine in and pushed a button.  A small, white ticket came out that read I-23 on it.  I had no idea at the time that this would be the first of many tickets I would have to take for various things in Italy.  She told me something in Italian and pointed over toward another revolving door.  I thanked her and headed through the door, which took me outside.  What the fuck?  This can't be right.

I came back in and noticed that there were cats strewn all about the building.  Some sunbathed in chairs that were located next to the windows, while others roamed the halls.  I wondered if somebody fed them here, or if they just came and went as they pleased.  Perhaps the cats owned the building and the University  leased it from them.  Either way, they seemed quite comfortable inside.  I asked somebody else where to find office I, and they showed me to the elevator and pointed down.  I had to hunch over to fit in l'ascensore, which was hardly big enough for two, and I noticed that there was a little sign that said that the elevator could take a maximum of four people.  Maybe they meant four cats.

I went downstairs and saw a giant hallway with another electronic board at the end of it, and some large glass doors that led into the segreterie delle studente.  I took a seat among some Italians and watched the board change.  There were a lot of letters and numbers, but never I.  I asked somebody and they assured me that I was in the right place for the office for foreign students.  After about forty-five minutes, my heart skipped a beat when I saw I-1.  I knew this was going to take awhile and decided to change seats, moving away from the intimidating doors and the giant board.

I noticed some interesting shirts as I watched the Italian students come and go.  Many of them said random things in English, my favorite being a hoodie that read, "Alcatraz Psycho Ward," in huge letters, worn by a guy drinking a coffee with comically large purple sunglasses, tight jeans, gelled hair, and tiny pink sneakers.  After another forty five minutes, when we had made it to I-10, an Italian student sat next to me and started a one-sided conversation that gave me a chance to practice my language skills.

Pretty much all I could manage was to tell him that there were too many people here and that Monday morning was a bad time to see the segreterie delle studente.  He agreed and kept elaborating in fast Italian, leaving me nodding and saying "Sí" a lot in that confused foreigner kind of way.  His number came up and he ran down the hallway and through the glass doors so that they wouldn't skip him.

In the next couple of hours, I took to watching the ticket machine crush people's dreams. Usually somebody would walk up to the machine in mid conversation, enjoying their morning. They would take a ticket, look at it and then up at the board, and then they would begin shouting and waving their hands around, knowing they would be waiting all morning.

My favorite ticket taker was an old man wearing a checkered shirt tucked into khaki pants, with reading glasses hung around his neck and a small, red book tucked under his arm.  He paced around talking to himself, shaking his head back and forth.  Every once in a while he would read one of the signs placed around the hallway while touching the wall with an extended index finger.  He would finish reading the sign, look back at his ticket, and then continue muttering angrily under his breath and pointing at people, trying to make them understand his pain.

Finally, at about 11:45, I saw I-22 appear on the screen and I made my way toward the glass doors.  A loud beep followed and I-23 was requested at window 14, it was my time.  I walked in confidently and a young girl stared back at me behind the desk, which was exactly the same as the other 19 desks inside.

"Prego," she said, and I began reciting the lines that I had carefully been practicing in my head for the last few hours.

"Sono un nuovo studente degli Stati Uniti, e ho bisogno un username per l'internet e ho bisogno scegliere i miei lezioni."  She said a few things very quickly that I could not understand. When she saw my look of confusion she asked me my name and I told her.  She disappeared for a moment and returned, again speaking rapid Italian.  She typed something into her computer screen and showed me some information about non-EU students who wanted to take a class at the university.  I think I told her something about being an exchange student, similar to Erasmus, the European version of my type of program that everybody knows about here.  She went back into the office for a bit and emerged with another woman who tried to talk to me. 

They asked me if I was looking for a masters degree, and when I told them I wasn't, they disagreed with me and handed me a bunch of paperwork about a masters program in international economics.  When I finally convinced them that I was only twenty and still an undergrad, they showed me a list and asked if I was any of the three students on there.  Two were from The Congo and one was from Iran.  I wanted to ask them if I looked like I was from either of those places, but I didn't know how.

After enough broken English and Italian to test anyone's patience, they told me that I should try some other office.  Fuck. I worried about taking another ticket and waiting for so long again, which would probably result in me breaking into tears.  The only word I remembered was "mobilitá," and I think they told me that it was on the second floor.  

I meandered around the giant building for a while looking for mobilitá, walking up many different sets of stairs and taking more small elevators, while running into a few more cats along the way.  At some point I took a set of stairs, and found a small sign that said something about a mobility office, and it also hadthe word Erasmus on it, which I took to be a good sign.  I found the office and saw a few people waiting there with tickets.  You have to be fucking kidding me. More tickets.  At least there were only about five people waiting here, but still, I didn't understand why the people in the office couldn't just ask who was there first.  

A nice guy with a pony tail showed me the ticket machine, but it stopped dispensing tickets at 11:30 and it was almost 1:oo now.  I saw a sign with the hours of the mobility office on it, and it was similar to how things worked at the Visa office in Boston, completely inefficiently.  This office is apparently only open for about two hours in the morning, two more on Monday and Thursday afternoons, and closed completely on Wednesdays.  I wondered how they could possibly deal with all of the international students if they were only open for 15 hours a week.  I suppose they can't, and that is exactly why I received no information about where I was supposed to go when I arrived and why there is no orientation for new students.

 

I watched each person wait until their number was called, some forcing their way in when it wasn't their turn, usually resulting in an argument with a lot of hand motion and ridiculous facial expressions.  When his number wasn't called, the guy with the ponytail, who was wearing red wind-pants yelled something that was probably profane and then threw his notebook against a file cabinet. After everybody had left, a blonde woman opened the door and I didn't have the energy to try to speak Italian.

"Parli ingese?" I asked.

"A little bit, yes."

"Thank God."  I told her who I was and once she knew that I had my room key and my meal card, she told me to return at 3:15 when the office reopened after a conveniently long lunch break.

"Don't worry," she told me.  "We will explain everything."  I hope so, I thought to myself, because I am fucking depressed.

Trieste

So after a stressful train ride, where I had to pay for my ticket with my emergency credit card (apparently my ATM card does not work in Europe), some small talk with an awkward Greek girl, and a lot of sleeping while clutching my fashionable messenger bag, I made it to Trieste. It's beautiful here.  The mountains and the scenery are incredible, almost like somebody moved Rome to Burlington, Vermont.  The bright greens and the wind remind me of home, but as with Italy in general, every piece of Trieste could be it's own museum, there is so much history here. I haven't really met anyone yet, which is incredibly depressing, but at least I managed to get into my room which is pretty standard but the bed is much more comfortable than any dorm room I have ever been in.  I ate in the cafeteria once, which has a beautiful view of the Adriatic Sea, but I only got a little bit of food and when I tried to get more and they refused to swipe my card again.  They told me I had to go get some sort of ticket or something, but I couldn't figure out what they were saying so I just left.  After two years of getting A's in Italian classes I am sort of surprised that I understand nothing here, not a word.  My Italian also gets worse when I'm flustered, which I usually am.  However, people are very patient with me and hopefully tomorrow I can figure out if there is any sort of orientation or anything, but I am guessing not.  The girl who let me sign on with her internet password told me to go see the Segreterie Delle Studente in the morning, which is in the main building on campus so wish me luck.

Dr. Miguel A. Guillén Alcalá

Soooooo traveling here by myself was a bit of an ordeal, although I did meet a lovely Dutch couple on my flight from Amsterdam to Rome who gave me puzzles to do and candy that tasted like Jagermeister...I know what you are thinking.  But really, the candies tasted like Jager and not like licorice, it was different.  When we landed in Rome and I got onto the shuttle, I spotted a very short man with dark skin and tiny, perfectly round glasses covered from head to toe in Chicago Bears apparel.

"They looked good week one," I said, gesturing toward his matching jacket and hat that read "Monsters of the Midway,"  The Bears had unexpectedly beaten the Colts the previous Sunday.  He looked down at the jacket and then up at me.

"Yeah."

"I'm from New England so we were hurting week one, it was tough."  Tom Brady's torn ACL and MCL fresh in my mind. 

"Yeah," he replied again with a big smile and nodding this time.

"I think Matt Cassel will be ok though. I mean, he has been there for a few years so he should know the offense."

"Yeah."  Same big smile and complete lack of comprehension.  Something is amiss here...perhaps this Superfan is not from the States. Lets try Italian.

"Sei di Roma?"

"No, no, no, sono di Mexico."  Definitely not the response I expected, but few are when one travels.  He asked me if I spoke Spanish and unfortunately I don't, so I spoke to this Mexican Chicago Bears fan in broken Italian for about 5 minutes until we arrived at the next terminal to get our luggage.  It turns out he is a doctor who is in Rome for "Doctor Things."  As the shuttle came to a stop he handed me his business card and shouted,

"Email me!  You have to Email me!"  I don't know exactly what I will write to Dr. Miguel A. Guillén Alcalá, but I don't think it could hurt to know a doctor in Mexico city.

Amsterdamnit

So I've been in the Amsterdam airport for far too long, and I noticed a few things.

There are no baseball fields in Europe.

I could have told you this before I looked out an airplane window at 30,000 feet, but the thing I always notice when flying over the United States is how many freaking baseball fields we have.

Last time I few to Europe I was listening to a Discman.

I believe at the time I was raving about how it was way better than a Walkman.  Now I can listen to whatever the fuck I want on my Ipod, and if technology continues to advance at this rate, then next time I fly to Europe, I will most likely be listening to a live robot band that fits in my pocket and can be taken out to entertain my entire row at any given time during the flight.

There are a lot of Connecticut fans in Holland.

Both of the guys on the tar-mac who taxied my plane up to its gate were wearing Uconn hats.

Men's rooms in Amsterdam are called "Men Toilets."

As in "This Men Toilet is out of order.  Please proceed to the next Men Toilet."

Dutch children are adorable.

Ok before I get to this point, an entire team of attractive Dutch flight attendants just sat right next to me and I can't stop staring at them.  What was I saying?  Oh yeah...

Dutch children are adorable.

I think that their appeal is mostly due to the fact that when they talk I can't tell if it's baby talk, or if it's Dutch, or some sort of combination of the two.  When I hear people speak Dutch it makes me laugh...I can't help it.  Earlier there was a little Dutch girl running around and clapping with everyone waiting at my gate. Two old Scottish ladies took to her and while they were playing patty cake, the well-dressed, elderly gentleman they were with struck up a conversation with the little girl's father.  They were speaking English to each other, the Scottsman and the Dutchman, and I couldn't understand a word of it.  I knew it was English but I couldn't tell you what the conversation was about, although they seemed to be on exactly the same page.

At some point a small Indian boy entered the picture, holding hands with his mother who was wearing a multicolored sari and sporting a red jewel between her eyes.  He gave the little Dutch girl a death stare as if to say,

"Yeah you're cute.  I'm cute too.  All little kids are cute.  Get over yourself."  Her bright smile dissolved for the first time.  She looked up at her dad and pointed over her shoulder with her thumb at the Indian boy as if to say,

"Who the fuck does that Indian kid think he is?  This is my gate, this is my crowd, and I have those Scottish ladies in the palm of my hand, so he can sit here over my dead body."

Then a few things happened very quickly.  The Indian boy seemed to wink at the Dutch girl, but I don't think he did it on purpose, and then the Dutch girl started laughing, and then it was more like cackling, until it progressed to shrieking.  She took off with a wobbly sort of sprint toward the Indian boy who ducked for cover behind his mother.  Just before the cross-continental collision, the Dutch Daddy swooped in a grabbed his daughter preventing an international incident that I was sort of hoping for, but the Indian boy and his mother retreated.  By my tally it's the Netherlands-1, India-0...but something tells me this isn't over.  However, this blog post is over.  I'm going to go drink a beer.  Why you ask?  Because I can.

My Mom Called Me a Metrosexual

So my mom called me a metrosexual today.  It's actually a longer story than you would think. Last night I tried packing, and my plan was to put everything in my giant hiking backpack, leaving enough room to fit my little backpack and laptop in there once I got off the plane.  After rolling clothes into vacuum bags and shoving pairs of socks and random electronic cords into all the nooks and crannies, I realized there was no way I was fitting my school bag with a laptop in there. Fuck.

Thank God for my mom, who came to the rescue with the brilliant idea of buying one of those messenger bags with just the one strap.  I could carry that on the plane and then keep it over one shoulder with the backpack on and my travel guitar in one hand.  This set-up would make sure my big backpack stays under fifty pounds and would give me a free hand for waving, itching, slapping, or whatever else becomes necessary while traveling from Rome's airport to the train station and then all the way up to Trieste.

I returned home triumphant with my purchase, ready to tackle Europe in a classy way. My dad greeted me when I got there.

"Hey what did you end up with?" He asked.

"Check it out."  I took the bag out and put it over my shoulder so he could see, just as my mom came inside.

"My God Noah, you look just like a..."

"Metrosexual," my mom blurted out.  I didn't even know she had ever heard that word before.

"I was going to say lawyer," finished my dad.  "What's a metrosexual?"  After a lengthy explanation that left my father still scratching his head, I placed the bag in my room and chuckled to myself.  Definitely did not see that one coming...but she does have a point. 

She Calls me Goliath...

I just got back from my last night at UVM for a while. I'm glad I got to walk around campus and see some people before I left, including my favorite professor who is helping me with my thesis project.  We'll see if I still want to do it after a year in Europe.  I saw so many officers with badges, I feel like Burlington has become a police state.  There are usually cops everywhere the first couple weekends of school, but I have never seen it this bad.  Last weekend my buddies received a $200.00 noise violation when their TV was on really loud and the windows were open, no party or anything.  A lot of underage kids have gotten drinking tickets, and I'm really glad I don't have to deal with another year of dodging cops and trying not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  It was really interesting to see how when we were down by the bars, there were drunken idiots everywhere, but no cops to be seen.  As if they were all saying..."Oh those kids are 21...it's fine."  Because it was assumed that I was 21, I could stumble around as much as I want, but the second I got a couple of blocks uptown I had to have eyes in the back of my head, because every other car is a cop.  It just seems so arbitrary.  

At about 10pm I tucked in my friend Dave who had started and finished the night early, loudly playing the first verse of Cumbersome by Seven Mary Three on his computer over and over again.  Then I headed downtown with some people where my recently expired ID was surprisingly effective.  After having a few drinks at RJ's, and escaping from a girl who kept inappropriately rubbing my inner thigh and buying me tequila shots, my friends Indy, Glenn and I moved over to What Ales You, and despite the issues we had getting in, it was a great time.  The bouncer grabbed Glenn's ID and began bending it back and forth like the home-made, poorly laminated piece of shit that it is.

"This is fake," he informed us.  Indy was about to step in and try to say something helpful when Glenn through his arm up in the air to stop him and said the most unconvincing thing I've ever heard. 

"No it's not...that's my ID...I come here all the time."  He sounded like a little kid with crumbs all over him, claiming that he hadn't stolen the cookies from the cookie jar.  Then, for some inexplicable reason they let him in, and the three of us had a few shots, I managed to get bumped into and spill a drink on myself, and somebody bought me a Jager bomb that made me throw my arms into the air and yell "Done."  After some pizza and a failed attempt by Indy to take home the coach of the women's lacrosse team, we really were done, and made our way back to Indy's house for some late night Mario Tennis and passing out.  All in all, an excellent night, and though I couldn't imagine spending this entire year in Burlington, I will miss a lot of the people.

Hepatitis

I went to the doctor's office today to get a check-up, and my doctor, who is the man by the way, told me that I was perfectly healthy and there was no real need to have a physical.  Once he found out I was going to Italy we ended up talking for over forty-five minutes (he is very proud of the fact that his ancestry is 100% Italian) about everything from books I should read, to wine and vineyards, to how I should wear a condom when I am over there.  He did end up giving me a Hepatitis-A vaccination which has given me a serious dead arm, but it reminded me of that old saying...

"I'd rather have a dead arm today than get Hepatitis-A."

I also just bought a sick rain jacket, my new camera and my visa came in the mail, and I found out that I will be living on Via Fabio Severo, one of the main streets in Trieste, so things are coming together...10 days people.