Barcolananananana-na

I just finished celebrating the 40th Barcolana, and boy is my liver tired. The festival is centered around Europe's largest sailing regatta and is hosted annually in Trieste, providing us with beer and food tents, free concerts, Italian style revelry, and oh yeah, over 2,000 mahfuckin' sailboats, perfect ingredients for shenanigan stew.  

Friday night led me to my first ever European house party, thrown by my Spanish friend Adrian, which included home-made twister and of course American dance songs.  The theme of the party could be best described as "What Spanish people think the American '70s were about," although there were plenty of guests dressed as hippies and in '80s fitness gear, so I think they were just happy to represent an American decade..  Listening to Spaniards hum and deedeedee through the verses to songs in English like YMCA, We Will Rock You, and Mamma Mia is always a good time, especially when they finally reach the chorus and sing their little Spanish hearts out (See Video below for Spanish Summer Lovin').

Saturday involved walking around the harbor and observing intense Italian sailors, with steadfast expressions and awesome outfits.  The night brought visitors from all corners, including our abductee from Udine, Raf (originally from Togo), and my friend Sarah, from Vermont, who is currently studying abroad in Spain.  Sarah arrived just in time to have a Triestine 21st birthday, prompting many Europeans to sing to her in different languages and to shout things like "You can, you can!"  and "Hooray to you Sarah, drinking, drinking, you drink at home now!"  

We watched some fireworks and a free concert in Piazza Unitá, which included a performance by a strange Italian ensemble, which Keith aptly described as "reminiscent of a bunch of 7th grade parents trying to be hip."  One lyric, translated from the Italian, went something like this,

"My cousin, he is a bit worried...he is in prison."  I gave a puzzled look to my  friend Eric (from Trieste), who chose this moment to tell me,

"I do not prefer this band." 

After staying out all night, we snagged two hours of sleep, met at the supermarket to buy some supplies, and took the old streetcar up the mountain to Opicina to view the regatta.  We found a decent, albeit partially obscured view and had our picnic, with brie, wine, french bread, prosciutto, olives, and some cookies bearing the same name as Raf's home country.  After watching Lucas take his fill, Raf yelled down the line to him.

"Lucas if you have any more, I will have to invade Germany and eat your country."

We walked a few feet to the right and realized there was a much better view, with no trees in the way, we had been completely overzealous in choosing our picnic spot, laughter ensued.

Wine, heat, and sleep deprivation led to a very silly afternoon involving a lot of dancing and daydreaming.  At one point, my Polish friend Kamila and I had a quick foot race then sat on a concrete wall for a minute where we completely passed out, strewn all over each other.  I awoke some time later to the sound of an Italian family, complete with Grandparents, pointing and whispering about us, no doubt warning the wee ones about the consequences of having mountaintop picnics with international students.

Of course, the Poles came prepared for Sarah's birthday, providing Mickey Mouse birthday hats, and one balloon, which popped on the tram ride home, and I feared, surprised an old Italian  woman to death...thankfully she survived long enough to give us an awesome look of disapproval, I don't think she was into birthdays.

Thumbing My Way

My Polish friends invited me to hitchhike to Slovenia with them.  I was a bit intoxicated when this invitation was presented to me, so of course I gladly accepted.  However, when a follow-up phone call ensued the next day, surprisingly, I was still just as interested in going.  I justified the whole thing by reminding myself that I had only one more day before lessons began, and I really should go on another adventure before I had any real responsibilities.  The funniest part was that I wasn't exactly sure where we were going, I assumed that the Poles simply wanted to venture into Slovenia because they absolutely love the place.  They had raved to me about how they could understand all of the street signs and everything in the supermarket had the same name as in Poland.  I did notice when I was in Slovenia, how consonants seemed to be thrown around with reckless abandon just like Polish, and my friends confirmed my suspicions about how similar the two languages are.

I made my way down-town and met the five Poles, who's names I will not try to butcher at this point.  We took a bus up the mountain to Opicina, which is a suburb of Trieste, and even closer to the Slovenian border.  They assured me that this would be the best place to hitch and also informed me that we would be breaking up into teams of two, as the six of us would surely have a difficult time catching the same ride.  The plan was to meet up in Pistonja, a Slovenian town about forty kilometers away (I still have no idea how many miles that is), because apparently, "Pistonja Jama" is one of the largest caves in Europe.  Perfect, I thought, we at least have a common destination, now we just need a ride.

Kamila and I, being the youngest and least experienced hitchers, were to go first.  The other Poles hid a ways back from the road and the two of us got started.  I used the thumb out, big smile technique, while Kamila perfected the jumping up and down approach.  Many people returned our smiles and outstretched thumbs, but no offers for a ride.  After about twenty minutes, we heard a yell from the concealed Poles.  We turned to our right and saw that a small, blue Volvo had pulled over a few feet ahead of us.  We ran over with delight as we were greeted by two Italian men.

"Where are you going?" One asked, in decent English as he shuffled some of the car's contents into the trunk.  Kamila and I looked at each other, we had said the name Pistojna over and over so we would not forget.

"umm Pis- Pis-,"

"Pis-tojna Jama!" thank God she remembered.

"Oh belissima."  The Italians beckoned us into the car, where a small wooden ladder occupied the seat between us.  I asked them how to say ladder in Italian.

"Legno, diciamo legno."  I proceeded to ask them why they had a ladder in the car, and could not get a straight answer, they preferred to answer my questions with some of their own.  We told them about being exchange students in Trieste, and how I knew a bit of Italian and Kamila did not.  

As we crossed over the border into Slovenia, the driver (who spoke no English) told me that they could not bring us all the way to Pistonja, but that they would bring us about five kilometers in the right direction.  We thanked them and came to the unfortunate realization, that this would take more than one ride.  The mountains surrounding us had a bit more color than the last time I was in Slovenia, and again I was reminded of Vermont.  I listened to the Italians speak, picking out bits and pieces of their conversation. 

The passenger was complaining about someone smoking cigarettes in his house, the driver could not understand the problem since he claimed everyone smokes in the house.  The passenger added the fact that this was in the morning, when he first woke up, which seemed to make the driver understand his pain, and then there was a bit about running or chasing that I did not quite understand.

As time continued to pass, I got the feeling that we were going farther than the five kilometers we had been promised.  At one sign that showed a fork between Ljubljana and Pistonja, the passenger beckoned the driver to go toward our destination.  The Italians even drove the extra 2.5 kilometers from the town center and dropped us off at the cave itself.  We thanked them profusely, and had a coffee while we waited for the others, patting ourselves on the back for being professional hitchhikers.

After about half an hour, Voytek and his girlfriend Agata arrived (I have seized my opportunity to terribly misspell their names, I apologize).  Like us, they had only required one ride and considered themselves lucky rather than skilled.  We waited a while for the other duo, all female, who called at one point to let us know that they were waiting for their fourth ride, and had been propositioned for sex by two separate drivers.  We had let them go last because they were by far the most experienced, one of the girls had hitchhiked all the way from Poland to Spain.  Outside the cave entrance there was a skeleton of a prehistoric bear, which was mildly entertaining, but a better way to kill time lay beyond the extinct creature.  

Voytek and I dove into the giant blue and yellow legos and then began constructing man-sized robots.  When we were finished we had a father with no hands and very square features, standing next to a child with no neck.  We posed for some pictures with our creations until at about five minutes to two, the girls arrived and we hastily bought our tickets and hopped onto the tram to enter the cave.  The tram raced us through the beginning of the jama, with Voytek repeatedly turning around to tell me,

"Noah, there is no safety on this roller coaster!"  We all threw our arms into the air and then quickly pulled them down, the cave had very low ceilings.  

Kamila and I sat very close to each other to take advantage of body heat (only eight degrees celsius inside the cave, which means absolutely nothing to me).  After the tram ride took us through chambers past stalactites and mites, which were very impressive, and a few rounds of humming the theme music from Indiana Jones, the tram stopped inside the cave, and we were beckoned to get out and find a guide.

We stood in a vast chamber, and looked around at signs advertising tours in various languages. Since the Poles don't speak any Italian, and I am not yet fluent in Slovenian, we compromised on an English group, which included of the six of us and about forty Japanese tourists.

Our guide was a red haired Slovenian woman (reddish-purple to be more accurate, the Slovenians are very fond of dying their hair) who spoke completely broken English.  I am sure that her amazing sense of humor was lost on everyone but me.

"OK so it take ten sousand year for stalactite and stalagmite to meet and form a peelar, so we come back in ten sousand year with new haircut."  These hilarious one-liners were delivered in a spectacular monotone, making it impossible for anyone but me to realize when punch-lines arrived.  Our guide took us through various, impressive chambers, describing the history and geology of the cave.

As we walked, she repeatedly told the Japanese tourists not to take photographs.

"OK no pictures please, because you will disturb the animals.  We have over eighty-five specie of animal."

"What sort of animals?" I asked, curious because I had not yet seen any sign of non-human life down here.

"There are many animal.  Eighty-five specie.  They are below us, in the river.  They feed on spider."  As the Japanese tourists continued to snap pictures left and right, our guide became more forceful, which was impossible to tell as her tone never changed.

"OK if you do not respect nature, please respect me, because my eyes are accustomed to dark and the flash iz very bad."  After a while she gave up and returned to being hilarious.

We reached a small corridor where we were forced to walk single file.

"You want to see natural beauty of cave?"

"Yes,"  I replied alone.  Our guide walked over to a small breaker and shut off the lights around us.  The place became so dark that I could not even see Kamila's blonde hair in front of me.

"OK see you later," said the guide and I laughed hysterically.  

When the light returned, she showed us a small tunnel, blocked off by large, steel doors.  She explained how the military used to hide troops and supplies in these caves and how they had built this escape tunnel some years ago.

"OK, so if anything bad happen, we run through there.  Small problem, we lost key many years ago."  This time I could not contain myself.  I started crying I was laughing so hard, and had to steady myself by placing my hand on an old Japanese man's shoulder.  He paused from his prohibited picture taking to give me a look of disapproval.  I removed my hand from his shoulder.

Our tour ended in the concert hall, which was an enormous chamber, capable of holding eight thousand people.  There was a small stage on one side, and a tremendous echo to anyone who wished to shout, whistle, or clap.  The Japanese politely clapped in unison as if they were at a golf match, and then began a chorus of "Ahhhhs" when the sounds returned, pointing their cameras up toward the ceiling to snap pictures of the echos.  I tried to ask the guide to explain to me how flash photography bothered the mysterious animals below us, but loud concerts were not a problem, but I don't think she understood the question.  I could not even get her to tell me if the animals were birds or fish or bears or what.

After the enchanting jama, we had a kebab and prepared to hitch home.  Again, Kamila and I were to go first.  We tossed our thumbs out and again were greeted by honks and smiles, but no rides.  The most excited people to see us seemed to be Slovenian farmers, who drove their tractors past us and waved madly.  One such tractor, pulling a load of what looked to me like the wood chips found in the bottom of a hamster cage, stopped and beckoned us inside.

"Where you go?"  The driver asked, as his overall clad son looked on.

"Italy."

"No, no, not Italy, come I take you one kilometer."  We declined, although I sort of wanted to check out a Slovenian wood chip farm.  

Like clockwork, after about twenty minutes, a blue Volvo pulled over to the side of the road, and sure enough it was the two Italians again, this time with Voytek and Agata in the back seat. We squeezed in, forcing the guy in the passenger seat to hold the ladder between his legs.

We exclaimed for a while about the unlikelyhood of meeting twice and told them about how much we enjoyed the cave.  I asked them what they had done that day, and the Italians told me that they had some lunch somewhere in Slovenia and then walked somewhere else, they could not remember the name of the place.  When we reached the border, Kamila had to duck as there was one extra person in the car.  After avoiding trouble with the polizia, we returned to Trieste, discussing everything from the upcoming sailing regatta (the largest in the world) to the daily stress caused by Italian Wi-Fi, or lack thereof.  

Alessandro, the driver, dropped us off at the train station in Trieste, and we thanked him repeatedly, agreeing that this would not be the last time.  Maybe Croatia next?  As I exited the Volvo, I tried one more inquiry about the ladder.

"Perché il legno?" 

"Sí, legno...our legno."  We slapped hands and I was satisfied with his answer, the first English word I had heard from Alessandro all day.  

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.