Blue Cat, Orange Cat -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

To Dusha's!

Dusha and Renato have a house and garden in the Slovenian Alps and are in the habit of venturing into the mountains on the weekends to tend to their plants and enjoy Slovenian nature. I was invited to tag along for an afternoon barbecue on Saturday.

I am always happy to tag along on any sort of adventure that involves a barbecue.

I woke bright and early Saturday morning, said hello to Gregor and packed my crumpler bag for Dusha's. Every day at Sabina's is full of good coffee, excellent cheese, jaw-dropping, mind-bending stories and unique excursions into one of the most peaceful, rejuvenating, exquisite countries I've ever visited.

Saturday was no different.

We picked up Garfield on our way out of town, and I got to sit in the back with "orange cat" while we wound our way through the mountains, past Bohinj and rumbled to a stop at a waterfall. Half an hour of hiking later, I got to see this:

Garfield and Sabina. And the sweater I later "adopted".

After we'd taken enough pictures of the waterfall and had been sufficiently dampened by its frigid mist, we climbed up to the cliff-face cafe and ordered one of Slovenia's popular liqueurs and watched the water crash beneath us. 

Sabina found a stuffed lynx. Which she immediately turned into a family member and looked so damn cute with it that Garfield ended up buying it for her.

Deano also looks cute with the lynx

Garfield is too cool for lynxes (but he'd probably look cute with them, too).

We left the cliff-face cafe and continued in the direction of Dusha and Renato, making a quick detour to a rustic restaurant for the Slovenian specialty of "sour milk".

This is an average portion (Deano found himself presented with the large version). Once again, never trust Slovenians when they tell you portions are respectable. You will get an entire bucket of sour milk right before your afternoon barbecue and not know what to do with yourself.

This made me think of Albania. A large percentage of houses were oddly decked out with hanging, weathered teddies. Except for the trojan horse, which had a hanging, weathered doll.

Dusha has several small houses in her garden. They are the perfect size for vagabonds. I told her that she's going to arrive one weekend a few years down the road and discover that I've set up camp in one of them. I hope she took my warning as seriously as I meant it.

The dinner included wine, cheese, prosciutto, sardines, adventures into the absurdly playful realm of acro yoga and an abundance of cevapcici. Dusha later ransacked her art cabinets and gifted me with watercolors and paintbrushes for my minimalist art travel kit.

I napped on Garfield during the long drive back to Ljubljana.

Blue cat, orange cat. Is this what I've been looking for? this kind of home? I never even thought I wanted a home and certainly wasn't searching for one (Ellie is quite enough home for me)...but now I'm beginning to question. Questions are good, right? I live to ask "why". But this is a tough one because it completely undermines the very oddly structured life I live. 

But isn't that why I live this way? To be open to life? 

Blue cat, orange cat. Damn that Sabina lady. She's gone and made me attached.

Losing My Hippie Points -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

Friday was the day I lost nearly all my remaining hippie points.

I'm going to have to go back to Albania to earn some more if things carry on like this much longer. 

My stay with Sabina has proven to be less lucrative than most when it comes to the garnering of hippie points.

• Gregor steals my hippie points. That coffee machine is a dreamboat capable of making sublime coffee in approximately 57 seconds. 

Which is about as long as one should wait for sublime coffee.

• The bathroom steals my hippie points. This vagabond had herself a real bath this week. Complete with exfoliants (for face and body), bath salts and moisturizer. 

My body was so confused.

• The fridge steals my hippie points. That guy is chocked full of tasty cheeses (a hunk of Parmesan the size of Southern Italy, which I'm still working out how to properly grate onto my salad), blueberries, eggs laid by special chickens, smoked salmon, prosciutto, vegetables from Sabina's family garden and wine from Sabina's region of Slovenia. 

I don't know what to do with all the choices. I stand in the glowing light of the fridge, feeling the cool air wash over me and stare helplessly at the colorful goodies.  I close the fridge to save energy (because I'm a good hippie) whilst I contemplate the dilemma of too much choice.

I'm generally so overwhelmed that I choose the cheese.

• Sabina steals my hippie points. That lady with her damn perfect gifts. To add to the toothbrush, chocolate, sunglasses and moisturizer, she's given me a light sweater, a bar of lavender soap and a nail file. 

Properly filed nails are antithetical to all things hippie.

My nails are nearly properly filed.

She also gave me a canvas and told me that she loves trees, women, cats and ships. I managed to incorporate two into a painting I worked on for most of the night:

• Friday. Friday completely devastated, wiped out, demolished my few remaining hippie points leftover from sleeping on the porch of a semi-abandoned Albanian restaurant and in Macedonian Norwegian prison. The following blog post details how. 

 Friday started off with the usual loss via Gregor. Twice.

Gregor, I gazed at the robot fondly as it guzzled down the beans and burped out my coffee. I think I'm going to miss you. 

We packed a small picnic of cheese and vegetables, picked up Dusha (our constant companion) and then sped down the road towards Lipica, a tiny village in southwest Slovenia.

As I described in a previous post, the national tree of Slovenia is the linden tree, but the word in Slovene is "lipa".

Lipica is named after the linden tree.

As fellow horse-girls will undoubtedly know, Lipizzan horses are the white breed trained in the fine art of rearing on command and the remarkably subtle movements that are the horse world's version of ballet. Or tap dance. Something of that nature.

I used to think that Lipizzan horses were from Austria (due to the large riding school/ center of classical dressage located near the Hofberg in Vienna). Then I thought Lipizzan horses were from Spain (when I learned that the school was a called "The Spanish Riding School").

But now I know better. Lipizzan horses are from Lipica, a small village in southwest Slovenia named after the linden tree. 

Hippie points lost for visiting the birthplace of one of the most expensive horse breeds that competes in one of the most elitist sports my penniless brain can imagine: 6

 

After we'd finished oohing and awing over the graceful, grazing mares, we continued on to Dolina Valley of our Lady of Lourdes.

No hippie points were lost in the Lady of Lourdes expedition.

The outdoor church located in the valley was constructed by Karel Grunne, a Viennese lord who managed the farm in the 1800s. Grunne became seriously ill during his stay in Slovenia and went to live in the valley whilst recovering. Once his illness left him, he built this church out of gratitude for his recovery. Since then, it has become a center wherein many have experienced miraculous healing and is now a popular destination for a pilgrimage from Trieste.

I'm not sure about its abilities to magically heal serious illnesses (or minor illnesses, for that matter), but I do enjoy the fact that it's outside.

I would go to church if the congregation got to sit outside.

But I would probably spend all of my time watching butterflies. Or snowflakes. Or spiders. Or wriggling my toes in the dirt.

Yes. I would definitely spend the entire sermon wriggling my toes in the dirt.

Piran was our next stop.

This picturesque Slovenian coastal town is located in the southwest and is one of Slovenia's medieval tourist attractions. Before wandering into the city center, we climbed a wall for a picnic and a view.

Spending so much time with Sabina is teaching me a lot about pregnancy.

a) pregnant women are always hungry.
b) pregnant women are in constant need of the loo.

Sabina is a fabulous pregnant woman because --

a) she always carries snacks for everyone all the time (often in the form of dark chocolate).
b) she isn't afraid to pee behind trees or in bushes or just around the bend in the road. 

By the time we'd finished gazing at Italy and at the naked Slovenes sprawled on the nudist beach below, I was also as hungry as a pregnant woman.

After Dusha and Sabina and I had devoured avocado, chocolate and leftover steamed veggies, it only made sense that we join the naked Slovenes below.

So we did that.

Sabina assured me that there were no sea archers at this beach, so I even ventured into the water for a minute or two.

No hippie points were lost whilst sprawled out naked on the beach. 

I might have even won a few, especially as it was quite apparent that I was one of the hairiest women around.

Hippie points gained from being a naked hairy lady: 9

Not even this napping goddess (I'm the self-proclaimed goddess of naps. Just so you know. My places of worship are found in every preschool, kindergarten and Southern Italian home), so we folded our towels, hiked up the cliff and meandered into the main square of Piran.

Then we went to Portoroz to meet Sabina's brother at his place of work.

His place of work happened to be the resort town's 5 star luxury Kempinski Palace Hotel.

Are hippies even allowed into places with "palace" as part of the name? I feel like there should be angels with flaming swords guarding the gates against harem pants and hairy armpits. 

Hippie points lost at Kempinski: approximately 7,382,569

There were no flaming swords. Instead, there was a perfectly charming butler figure named Ivan. Ivan brought us cheese with pepper, champagne cocktails, chocolate truffles and cappuccinos that would make Gregor question his reason for living.

I felt naked when we left Kempinski. Stripped of my final hippie points, it seemed like I had just cashed in my filled-out punchcard at Main Street Bagels Cafe, received my free Cuban Cremoso coffee and now needed to start all over again. The journey of ten cheap drip coffees before the reward of my free luxury drink.

Albania was my ten cheap drip coffees.

Kempinski was my Cuban Cremoso.

I need another Albania. 

One of Sabi's friends (I'm beginning to lose track of them) kayaked out to meet us.

Sign of awesome people: when your friends KAYAK to meet you. They don't take buses or trains or bicycles. They grab their oars and put on their life vests.  

Besides having perfected the art of perfect gifts, Sabina is also quite adept at awkward/hilarious questions.

"What do you think of Aimee?" she asked her friend as I dangled my toes in the sea, imagining another kind of church wherein the congregation could naked sunbathe whilst being preached at. "What is your first impression?"

"Well..." Sabina's friend looked at me, then said with his thick Slovene accent. "She seems... loose. A loose person."

"Loose!" I howled. "That might not be the exact word you're looking for.

"I mean that you seem relaxed," the friend clarified.

"Okay. 'Cos loose generally implies someone who's a bit sexually scandalous. Pants don't fit very well."

Sabina and Dusha shook with laughter. Sabina's kayaking friend looked more pleased than embarrassed.

These are the kind of people I want in my life forever. 

We finished off the day at the home of Sabina's parents  (missing two exits on the way). We got there so late (due to the two missed exits) that we had to gather vegetables in the dark. Prosciutto, wine and yoga followed.

Hippie points for gathering vegetables in the dark: 2

An Afternoon with Jesus -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

Simon returned me to Sabi's on Thursday morning.

"Your car still smells a little," I wrinkled my nose as I shut the door behind me.

"My car smells horrible," Simon said emphatically. "I don't know what it is."

"Well, I can't find my shirt. That grey tank."

"But I've looked everywhere. There's nothing left in the car."

"That's because your car ate my shirt. And now my shirt is giving your car indigestion," I sank back into the seat in defeat. "I loved that shirt," I heaved a mournful sigh. "Oh well, hippie points for losing my wet river shirt in your car."

For better or worse, I've fallen into the habit of justifying little inconveniences with a hippie point system.

Forgot the utensils for today's picnic?

Hippie points for eating with your fingers.

Didn't have time to bathe this morning?

Hippie points for saving water (and for not caring how you smell).

Sometimes people ask me how many hippie points I've accumulated through my years traveling (all two of them), and I cast them a deadpan glance and say in a deadpan voice, "I was in Albania."

I made myself a coffee with the coffee robot (whom I've named Gregor, because he's nearly as fabulous as the hostel owner who rescued us in Albania after a miserable night of hippie points overload) and felt immensely pleased that I knew how to operate Gregor, where to find the coffee cups and how to light the stove.

I'm becoming so comfortable here... 

Sabi had to work on Thursday, so she phoned one of her friends and asked if he'd like to come over to meet her American guest. The friend has a surname that sounds a little bit like "Jesus", and as Sabi loves nicknames and as this friend is skinny with long hair, Sabi's dubbed him Jesus.  

"I'm forgetting the real names of your friends. Garfield. Jesus. Raccoon. I'm going to leave Slovenia and think I stayed with a woman who befriended only deities and cats."

Jesus arrived ten minutes after Sabi's phone call, blowing through the door and filling the apartment with chaotic, unpredictable energy that managed to meld with a nonchalant demeanor in a way that left me feeling slightly on edge.

If I were a plate or a wine goblet or a lamp, I think I would be afraid of Jesus. Very, very afraid. I can't put my finger on it... but I kind of feel like this is a person who would casually toss his glass out the window if a) he didn't particularly enjoy what was inside the glass, or b) he randomly had the impulse to toss his glass out the window. 

We ate breakfast together and then Jesus drove me to Tivoli Park, largest park in Ljubljana and located between Sabina's apartment and the city center.  

Tivoli Park has fountains --

-- ballerinas --

-- walkways lined with beautiful photographs --

-- ponds with lilies --

-- flowers, flowers, flowers --

-- and a good deal of other things (greenhouse, rose garden, hall and mansion) that I had no time to photograph because I suddenly found myself too occupied answering Jesus' spitfire questions. I usually prefer to leave conversations knowing about as much about the other person as he or she knows about me, but I'm afraid that after an afternoon with Jesus, the skinny god of eternal questions could probably count the hairs on my head (and on my legs, too. HIPPIE POINTS). 

"We need to make a plan," Jesus caught me off-guard with a non-interrogative statement and I nearly fell into the pond. "I show you the tanks, we drive to my apartment, leave the car there and walk to the city center."

"There are tanks?"

"Yes, Tivoli has tanks."

"Then let's see the tanks."

After ten minutes of walking, Jesus stopped in his tracks and looked about in confusion.

"They used to be here. Right here. Jesus Christ, where are the tanks?"

I dissolved into a puddle of laughter.

"Jesus Christ, where are the tanks?" Baha. 

We never found the tanks. I think this was the most flustered Jesus became during our seven hours spent together.  Although I suppose it's understandable that a handful of absent tanks can cause a few moments of minor distress.

Phase two of the Jesus plan went according to plan. We drove to his perfectly located apartment and parked the car. Then Jesus gave me the grand tour of a flat that was bursting with TVs, computers and various electronic paraphernalia, but completely devoid of germs and unnecessary furniture such as kitchen tables. When Sabina gave me the tour of her apartment, she introduced me to the piano, the toilet and Gregor. When Jesus gave me the tour of his apartment, he introduced me to his TVs, the malfunctioning toilet door, and the pasta he'd eaten for breakfast that morning (before the second breakfast he'd shared with Sabina).

This Jesus guy... don't quite know what to think of him, I tried to piece together the odd puzzle of Jesus whilst telling him that I didn't really want to eat his leftover pasta, answering more questions about homeschooling and sipping some sweet concoction of his grandmother's.

"Do you want something to drink? My grandmother made this. It's kind of like juice. I don't know what it is."

"Do I want to drink some unidentified grandmother juice? Yes, please."

I was disturbed when the juice appeared to possess the texture of jelly, but Jesus assured me that jelly-juice was normal as he diluted it with water and stirred the slimy blue chunks with a spoon he'd double rinsed.

This Jesus guy...

As I'd begun to suspect, the tour of the city turned out to be something other than conventional. Jesus fulfilled his tour guide obligations by taking me to the main square and helping me to check monuments off the list Sabina had prepared for me, but he was less than enthusiastic about wandering around the market or popping in and out of shops.

I adore less than conventional tours. We spent hours people watching and sharing stories and hanging out under Jesus' umbrella.

This girl's got pizzazz. And very nice overalls that I want for my own.

France Preseren, Slovenia's best known poet.

At Ljubljana Castle

View from the castle.

My tummy began to grumble at about four o'clock. I looked down in absolute shock.

You haven't grumbled since Skopje when I was so determined to eat melted cheese that I dragged Tessa past a zillion kebap shops... why are you making noise now? 

Answering Jesus' questions must make me hungry. 

My new friend took me back to his apartment and his mother prepared creamed mushrooms, steak and eggs for the two of us.

"If you can't finish it or you don't like it, just throw it out the window. That's what I do," Jesus confirmed my original suspicion.

I would not want to be a plate in Jesus' house. Or anything that goes on top of a plate. 

Jesus drove me back to Sabi's a little after five, inviting me back on another occasion to watch E.T. with him (a film I still haven't seen).

"Well, I'm going to Italy in a couple of days, but I know I'll be back in Slovenia. How about in five years -- give or take -- we watch E.T. together? I'll save it for you."

Jesus didn't promise to save the film for me, but he did say that we could watch it together upon my return to the green, mountainous, friendly, castle-infested country of Slovenia.

The castle at night