If it were a sitcom, they would show the credits and play the theme song while I went out each morning to grab coffee and a roll. Since every morning is the same.
The scenes would alternate between me in the cold streets passing Soviet-era statues and Sara stretching out in the warm room. I'd put Euros in someone's hand and get a greasy brown bag, she'd roll over and pull the soft comforter over herself.
Then I'd walk back in, place the coffee down on the table and turn the cup to reveal the name of the episode written in barista-script. This week: Ljubljana.
The song would probably be Nina Simone's version of "Work Song" for no reason other than it's been in my head since the plane. At odd moments, the lyrics come out. The part about holding the rock and the part about leaving the grocery man breathing. It doesn't really fit, but we are all servants of the Ear Worm.
I've been here once before, with my brother. It was still Yugoslavia then. On the coffee-run, I'm almost positive I saw the hotel we stayed in. We were in our late teens. We ate pizza with hard-boiled eggs and threw condoms full of water at policemen.
Sara was awake when I got back, and we drank the coffee and ate the yogurt. A fried thing I bought turned out to be an enormous fish stick. Gross. I ate it up.
Fortified, we packed up our action for an afternoon at Lake Bled, a little postcard of a town a few hours West. The weather was ideal for this. We expected castles and islands, boats and mountains. On the walk to the station we passed an hilarious little public sculpture called "A Hologram of Europe."
It was three dozen six- or seven-foot stone slivers arranged in a kind of spiral. We called it "Slav-Henge" since we're hilarious. But we're not funnier than the loons who made this thing. They call it an example of "lithopuncture, acupuncture for the Earth." The idea, I suppose is that the different countries represented by the stone slivers are tapping into ancient energy lines and taking great benefit from it.
Lithopuncture! The "Work Song" lyrics about holding the rock came back to my mind. No escape.
Long line at the bus, everybody wanted to be in Bled on this day. And who can blame them. Pure, blue skies after a week of grey.
We were polite, let all the orange-haired old ladies, anemic young ladies, and hungover dudes board before us; just matadored them right past us, and we paid the price. No seats! Standing room only. A rattling little lurch toward paradise on creaky ankles.
This vantage point let us judge the reading material of the other passengers, many of which were in English. Spy novels, self-help books, and tour guides with pictures of Bled on the cover. I found a way to prop up a book called "Suffled How it Gush." Kind of stuck it in the luggage rack and pinned it there with painfully hooked fingers. Some kind of anarchist's diary about his travels in the former Yugoslavia. He interviews Serbians and throws condoms full of water at the police.
Eventually the crowd thinned enough for Sara to grab a seat and then, oh and then, then then then, (then), I got a seat. Glory! Colorful fields, old church spires, happy little farms clustered around happy little villages. This same soil has been pumping out potatoes and fish sticks since Tito was a pup.
Pulled into Bled right on schedule. It's the off-season, so the little tourist kiosks that hook you into zip-lining or hot-air spelunking were shuttered. Leafy, bright walk past them toward the glittering lake. The sun danced on the water like something from a 70's Summer's Eve commercial.
The closer we got, the larger loomed the pletnas. These are the covered boats that row you across the lake and out to Bled Island. Happy dude in Ray Bans and a black turtleneck beckoned us like a strip of film from one of Fellini's early projects. He was framed by two giant oars.
We just got right on. From bus to pletna. When I asked how much it was, he shook his head and said, "Later you will pay."
Boat filled up with Slavs, and we were off. A leisurely pace. The water seemed thick, and the oarsman grunted in his labors. We were ringed by mountains and in the shadow of a castle. It was exceedingly beautiful and just what the brochures had promised. In the distance, the bell tower of the church grew larger.
Lovers rowed beside us in smaller boats, their orange oars splashing irregularly.
We disembarked at the foot of 99 marble steps that led to the church. But.. before the church... a gelato stand. A holy gelato stand. The body of christ in twelve strange flavors. We got waffle cones and sat on a marble bench in the sun. In our dark glasses and striped shirts, we looked like the label on a bottle of cheap shiraz.
Opted not to climb the bell tower or put money in the "wishing bell" box. Rambled instead in tiny circles and marveled at the distant Alps and the little castle that whispered to be watercolored. A peaceful half an hour. We talked about primeval fish.
Back at the boat, we were asked to pay. So, that's it -- they'll take you out there for nothing but strand you if you don't cough up the dough. We paid, rode back, and we left the oarsman breathing.
Sara pulled some sort of scam at the lotion store while I bought a magnet at a little boutique. When I told the shopgirl the usual California lie, she got very worried and asked if I had fled "the fires." The people in this tiny town are more clued in to the news back home than I am. I'll have to start saying New York or something. Philadelphia?
Coffee at an outdoor cafe with a bathroom hidden deep in the earth at the bottom of a long spiral staircase. I half expected to find poor Merlin down there frozen in crystal. Easy walk back to the bus stop where the only peril was an old woman smoking a pretty smoky cigarette.
Seats! Read more of the "a punk travels through Croatia" narrative and dozed. Back home to Laibach where everything was as we'd left it. Took a different way back just for the novelty. It's a really rewarding town for architectural surprises.
Home to dump our bags. I tried to plan the next day's trip to Pula but kept running into snags. Decided to deal with it after dinner.
Wretched meal at a beautiful place by the river. The red wine had been chilled, and that may be all I need to tell you about it. The bill hit the table like a condom full of water. O' that wicked chef. O' that wicker server.
But the evening was very cool, and we were very happy to be out in it. We took a walk in the dark to the famous Dragon Bridge and marveled at the cunning, curling tails of those magnificent beasts.
It's a place of wonders, this city. Large enough to holler in and small enough to hide. Smart enough not to get too bombed in the last few years, and secret enough that few can pronounce it. Hail to thee, City of Dragons, hail to thee City of Day Trips.
At home, I scrapped the Pula plan. Some things just ain't worth it. That place is cursed. I'm like Moses leading the tribe to the promised land but doomed never to see it myself.
I'm basically Moses is what I'm saying, O' Diary.
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