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.
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