Our hope in tatters, we stopped into a downtown hotel to ask for directions. To our surprise, the receptionist spoke English (the first of two dozen I’d asked) and signed us in to the hotel’s private network. Score! However, waiting for us was a message from our host, explaining that she’d left the country that day to tend to an emergency. All circumstances indicated that, unless we found a substitute host, we’d be car sleeping again.
So we ran through the dregs of our Couchsurfing contacts in a desperate search for nearby profiles. Of the hundred screennames we scanned, only one was online – a stern-faced Andrej Curk of Sezana, Slovenia. It seemed counterintuitive to travel East again, but a glimpse at Google maps revealed that he lived only twenty kilometers away. We reached out and he immediately responded; within ten minutes we were out of Trieste’s grip and into the peaceful dark of the countryside.
* * * * *
We met up with Andrej at the bus station in Sezana, where he was eager to show us the local kebabs. If there’s one thing we’ve learned on this trip, it’s that quality kebabs (and ridiculous petrol prices) are the only true constant between each country. If it isn’t the European Union’s founding principle, it ought to be.
Andrej soon asked us the question that any traveler unknowingly longs to hear: “Want to come to a death metal tent party in the woods?” A Slovenian death metal tent party, you mean – yes, absolutely we do. And the only proper precursor to such an event is narrowly missing a 500-lb boar on the drive there. I apologize for the lack of evidence on this claim; my shutterfingers were busy guarding my face from a potentially painful and unkosher collision.The tent party rocked at least three or four Casbahs. I’m not partial to metal of any sort, but the hair-whipping, shirt-ripping performance more than captivated my interest. With three bass guitars, an umpteen-piece drum kit, and the wattage of a football stadium, the band had nowhere to go in that tent but through our ears – almost literally. Their opening act, a flammably ironic Guns ‘N Roses tribute band, weren’t bad either. I can forgive them for botching the mimicked English lyrics, considering the source material. Here’s a taste:
* * * * *
We awoke the next morning in a silent chill. After a hefty breakfast of ham, toast, and wine (!), Kyle told me that he hadn’t slept very well. I asked him what was wrong. “I think this place is haunted,” he answered, proceeding to reveal that he’d suffered some highly unusual night terrors. This was news to me. I’d seen and heard nothing during the course of my blank sleep. The conditions, though, seemed ripe for anxiety; we were, after all, not sleeping in Andrej’s house with he and his mother, but in the nearly empty WWII military base they owned across the street.
Our end of the structure was unheated and unfurnished, save for the twin beds we slept in, and at the other end, up another flight of echoing, concrete stairs, lived Andrej’s father, though we never once saw him indoors. The yard held the property’s only functioning restroom, as well as a blind, stiff-legged German shepherd. It seemed plausible that we were the first people to stay there since the Italian forces occupied the area some sixty years ago. Our afternoon was spent ping-ponging between the local attractions, all of which being refreshingly unlike those of our previous destinations. Among the noteworthy stops were the castle gardens, designed by an ex-professor of Adolf Hitler, a fresh honey stand where we sampled what I both lovingly and accurately referred to as “bee booze,” and a breathtaking observation point above this subterranean river:
* * * * *
That night we found ourselves sharing stories, drinks, and joints with Andrej and friends in their nearby recording bunker (which, as if to top our lodgings, was formerly a train station during communist reign). They’d cleaned out the old rubble, repainted the walls in psychedelic orange, brought in a few couches, and stocked the cupboards with snacks and beer. In an adjacent room, two guys were syncing loops out of a funk session they’d recorded earlier. In ours, Kyle proceeded to bury the locals in strange stories from his travels – most involving sharks, mortal danger, or both. “Any friend of Andrej is welcome in Hawaii; I’ll hook you up!” he offered, but the room was either too stoned or too conscious of their remoteness to believe him. We wasted away the early hours and left them smoldering in a pile of empties and cigarette butts. On our drive out of town, we stopped at the house of a different Andrej – a friend who’d promised us tea before we left. There, he and his sister Alenka gave us a sample from their garden, as well as a quick demonstration of the exotic instruments that Andrej had either collected or constructed during his career as a street performer. I realized that I’d mistaken their shyness the night before for contempt; however divergent our lifestyles might have seemed, everyone was friendly and generous to the two dumb Americans. As we headed out to the car, Andrej handed me a small reed-like bundle of duct tape and straws. “It’s a Mad Max instrument,” he admitted with a proud smile. “I was bored one day.”
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Photos: 10/27-10/28: Slovenia
Overheard dialogue: “I could get paid $1000/mo. to dream about Dr. Pepper” [Kyle]
Listening to: The Weakerthans, Reunion Tour
