Searching for Ancestors
We had a few errands to take care of before we could set out on the centerpiece adventure of our trip. After breakfast, we set out to find Patrick a suitable cash machine and also to pick up a good map of the country. Our Aunt Lois had done a bit of detective work (i.e. she called a Great Aunt in California, which I think is sort of like an Aunt-escalation plan) to locate the name of Nana’s family’s village. My dad sent it in an email and it looked like this: Hrovaca.
I’d been unable to find it on a map but had found a
short reference to it on the Slovenian Tourism web site. While Patrick handled his cash machine business, I went into the Tourist Information Centre where the most delightful young man helped me figure out where we wanted to go.
The first problem was that I was pronouncing the name all wrong, so wrong that poor David the kindly TIC worker had no clue what I was saying or how to spell it. The second problem was that I was remembering the spelling wrong: Hrovoca. And the third problem is that I didn’t have the email with me. I told David that I’d found reference to the place on tourism web site, that some famous writer guy was from there, and that I was pretty sure it was near Ribnica.
Patrick joined me in the TIC after his successful cash machine mission. I’d hoped he’d have the email, but he didn’t have it wit him. David tried searching the web site for my butchered spelling of the town but was coming up blank. He let me come around behind the counter and look up my email. Of course, I’d deleted the email but my
dad’s blog saved the day. David was quite personable and chatted with me about a cycling trip he took in Ireland. He particularly enjoyed County Cork.
After I’d unearthed the name of the place we wanted to visit, David immediately realized what the problem was. The town isn’t Hrovaca at all. It’s Hrovača. The č makes
all the difference. It also turns out that the town isn’t really on a map because it’s considered like a suburb of Ribnica. We bought a nice wire-bound driving atlas and a Slovenian phrase book, then said our good-byes and thanks to David.
As we were walking out the door, he told us that he’d learned a tiny bit of Irish on his travels. Grinning like an imp, he said “I know it’s not very nice, but it’s póg mahone. That’s it. That’s the Irish I know.” I had to laugh because it was clear he had been saving it up, not sure whether or not to use it since it is a bit rude. He was a fun guy and I know Nana would have loved him.
Patrick and I then walked nearly 3 miles in the rain to the hotel where we had to collect our rental car. I’d booked it online because it was cheap and hadn’t realized what a trek we would have. Under different circumstances, it probably wouldn’t have been a bad walk, but the weather was pretty bad.
When we got to the hotel, the rental car guy explained all of the rental details to us. He actually said things like "The deductible is 250 euro. That means if you get drunk and crash the car, you only have to pay 250 euro." He also told us that either of us could drive the car. I told him that we weren’t married and he said that didn’t matter. (In the States, it’s typical that either spouse can drive a rental car without having to pay the extra driver fee. But even then, they usually want to at least see said spouse’s license.) After going through the contract, he took us outside, introduced us to our little
Fiat Punto, and gave Patrick a thorough tutorial on the car’s controls and the laws in Slovenia. (The big ones were no right turns on red and you have to drive with your lights on all the time.)
We drove to the hotel, checked out, and got on the road for Hrovača. I was navigating and Patrick was driving and we weren’t doing too badly although we did have a couple of dicey moments. The problem was that the road signs weren’t really labeled (like M-50 or N-11 or I-77). They just listed destination cities. So, when you don’t know where Maribor is or how to quickly find it on a map, it’s difficult to make a quick decision on whether or not the road to Maribor is for you or if you should hold out for the road to Zagreb.
We made a stop at a petrol station to get some snacks and also picked up a couple of coffees. The station had a café-bar attached to it. Yep, in Slovenia, you can stop on the side of the road, fill up on petrol, and have a couple of beers before heading off onto the twisty mountain roads. Speaking of which, the 1.2 liter Fiat Punto is not the car you want to have on those twisty mountain roads. (Especially the one we were on, which allowed passing even though it was only one lane in each direction and it was, you know, twisty and mountainous.)
It took us about 2 hours to get down to Ribnica. We drove through the town centre, but didn’t see any signs for Hrovača. So we went a few miles outside town then drove back into the centre to ask for directions. We went into a supermarket and I asked the butcher (who was a big roly-poly man who completely looked like a butcher) in Slovenian if he spoke English. He looked puzzled for a moment and then grabbed another supermarket worker and shoved her at us, saying something in Slovenian.
I showed her the map and pointed to a sticky note on which David, our TIC hero, had written Hrovača. She nodded and took us outside, where she proceeded to give us directions in German. (This sort of linguistic bait-and-switch happened a couple of times during our travels, which wasn’t too bad because I have just enough German to understand basic commands and directions. At least enough to head in the right direction or complete simple transactions.)
We were less than half a mile away from Hrovača, so we got there in about 2 minutes. It was a nice little collection of houses and other buildings, all grouped very close to each other. I looked for a day care centre, but didn’t see one. I have no idea which might have belonged to my grandmother’s grandparents.
We drove through the town, then turned around and drove back through it. We parked the car near the church and had a wander through the graveyard.
It was very cold and blustery and I despaired of how we would ever locate any of the people on my grandmother’s family tree. There was no caretaker or directory and I’d guess the cemetery had at least 500 graves. We wandered through the first few rows and then Patrick noticed a headstone with my grandmother’s maiden name: Prelesnik. We spent the next 30 or 45 minutes searching for names and taking pictures.
We walked back to the main road and left a bit of Nana in a field. It didn’t seem right to leave her in the cemetery (weird, I know, her being dead and all) so we left her in a spot with a view of the distant hills.
Having completed our chief mission, we got back in the car and decided, since we were more than half-way there anyway, to go check out Croatia. At the border, we had to go through 4 separate checks – 2 by Slovenian officials and 2 by Croatian officials. The last guy came out of the little guard hut and told Patrick to open the boot. Patrick popped the release button and sat there, waiting for the guy to look in the trunk. Then the guy bellowed “OPEN!” and you could see Patrick flinch, no doubt envisioning the hardships of months in a Croatian work-prison for defying a customs official.
The guy poked our bags, felt up my hurley, and then declared us free to go. We drove across the border with vague plans to maybe drive to the next large town on the map, Delnica, and then head straight back. The Croatian countryside was gorgeous if a bit desolate. The road, narrow to the point of one lane in some places, wound along the path of a river, so we had river on one side and mountains on the other. It reminded me a little of driving in Scotland, only the roads in Scotland were in much better shape.
When we’d driven for 30 minutes and hadn’t found Delnica nor seen any signs for Delnica, we decided to turn around and give up Delnica for a bad job. It was starting to get late and our goal was to be back in Ljubljana safe and sound before nightfall. We did stop the car and walk around in little in the border town, Brod na Kupi, but it was a complete ghost town. Both the restaurant and the hotel were closed. I went into the shop but I didn’t have the right money. The shop keeper said I could change money in the police station around the corner, but there really wasn’t any reason to do that.
Our return trip into Slovenia was nothing – 4 sets of officials waving us along and our drive back to Ljubljana was uneventful. We arrived at Hostel Celica just before it got really dark, so our entire mission was a big success.
I’m Too F***ing Old To Stay In a Hostel
I selected
Hostel Celica based on a recommendation in Lonely Planet. For an EU-accession state, Ljubljana’s hotel rooms aren’t all that cheap. Maybe it’s a capital-city thing. In any case, it seemed like the price for a double room in a hostel in Ljubljana was about the price for a double room in a B&B anywhere else in Slovenia. So I resigned myself to having to live like a backpacking 20-something.
Hostel Celica wasn’t a bad choice. Architecturally and historically, it’s a fascinating place. In its past life as part of an Austro-Hungarian military complex, it was a prison. Then it was taken over by squatters after the Yugoslav Army abandoned it and now it’s a hip and happening hostel. Almost too hip and happening.
On the ground floor, there’s an airy café and darker and more atmospheric Turkish hookah/water pipe bar. The water pipe bar is all cushions on a raised wooden floor and low-slung tables. Anyone can visit the café and bar, but you need a key to get up to the first floor where there are 20 renovated prison cells.
Teams of artists and architects designed each cell, so they are all completely different although I am pretty sure the dimensions are exactly the same. Each cell has two doors – an outer solid door and an inner prison bars door. (The doors are right up against each other, like a screen door and a regular door. It’s not like you have to go through an airlock to get into your room.) One of the house rules is that during the day, you can only lock your barred door. This is because they give tours of the hostel. There is a lot of peeking into other people’s cells as they are locking and unlocking the barred door.
Patrick and I were staying in
Cell 107, which I’d selected because I was taken with the mural and I wanted to sleep on the top bunk. You can sort of see the top bunk
in this picture here. What you can also see in that picture, or rather can't see, is a ladder. The ladder was a freestanding deal that wasn't the most stable ladder on the planet. It also didn't go up as high as the bunk. The pole that you see, went through the bunk, but it did not go up as high as the ceiling. It was also broken and unstable, since previous guests probably used it for leverage and balance when trying to get into the top bunk. Like most of the hostel, the room was designed for looks, not for practicality and usability.
I thought long and hard about the top bunk and decided that it would most likely be the cause of a broken limb in my near future. So I claimed the top bunk, dragged its mattress onto the floor and slept there for the duration of our stay. It actually wasn’t bad although I missed the up-high-thrill of the top bunk.
Besides my inability to get into the top bunk, there is the whole bathroom situation. I'm too old and weaned on comfort to find sharing a bathroom was 20+ other people a tenable situation. The hostel bathrooms were mostly clean, at least during the day. At night, they became a lot less clean and that's all I'm going to say about it. There was also the issue of getting to the bathroom – unlocking two sets of doors, relocking at least one door, walking the long, narrow prison hallway… It was all undeniably creepy.
Patrick is a nightlife kind of guy and we fell into an easy routine in our three nights at Hostel Celica. After our joint adventures were done for the day (usually after dinner), Patrick would go out for a beer or two or to spend some time and money at the casino. I'd retire to our cell and read until my eyeballs gave up. Then I'd fall asleep and Patrick would come in sometime after midnight saying "Hello, it's me. It's Patrick. It's me" because he knows about my propensity for waking in a panic and trying to hit perceived intruders with my hurley.
Caves, Castles, and Careening Through the Snow
On Sunday, we took the Fiat out to Postojna, which is about 40 kilometers from Ljubljana. It's the site of one of the most fantastic caves in Slovenia.
Postojna Cave is immense and the entire system covers 21 kilometers although only the dry parts are accessible to the average visitor. Peter's father once derisively referred to a cave in Ireland (I think it might have been Ailwee) as being "too housebroken." Postojna Cave takes housebroken too a whole new level. It is, in fact, the Disneyland of caves.
The visit starts in an indoor waiting area where you can rent a heavy wool cape to wear while you're braving the wilds of the cold, dark cave. When it was time for the tour to start, we were ushered through the doorways and down the stairs to the waiting tram. The tram travels through about several kilometers of cave. It's a twisting route through breathtaking stalactites and stalagmites, each formation more beautiful than the last. The tram moves at a fair clip, which adds an extra chill to the subterranean air. The tram also goes through formations that seem like they have a bit of a low ceiling. Poor Patrick spent most of the ride ducking.
After about 15 minutes, the tram let us off in a staging area where we were directed to language-based waiting areas. We set off for the English area and then waited for our guide. The tour of the cave took about an hour and we moved through various areas of the cave with names like the Concert Hall, the Red Room, and the White Room. We also went over a narrow bridge that Russian prisoners built during WWI. After the tour, we got to see the human fish, a weird little white salamander that only lives in these caves. Then it was back on the tram to the exit area, where you can see the river that carved out the cave. The exit for the cave is the natural opening to the cave. I think the impact would be greater if they'd used it as the start of the tour.
As it had been for the whole of our trip in Ljubljana, it was raining as we drove to the 9 km to
Predjama castle, whose location alone is worth the trip to see it. The castle is perched high on a rocky outcropping over a river. If that's not enough of a cool factor, the castle is built into the mouth of a cave into the mountain. The mountain is apparently full of caves and secret passage ways.
Lonely Planet had a great little story about Erazem Lueger, who lived in the castle during the 1500s. Erazem apparently sided with one royal over another and his attacks on the other side were taken quite seriously. The bad royal lay siege to Predjama Castle in an attempt to put a stop to Erazem's marauding. Only Erazem was a tricky, resourceful chap and he was able to use the caves and secret passages to come and go as he pleased, sometimes raining cherry blossoms down on the attackers just to taunt them with proof that he could leave the castle at will.
Erazem met a bad end though when one of his workers accepted a bribe from the bad royal. The worker explained where the toilet area was (back in the day, you pretty much just hung your bottom out the window and let fly) and sent out a prearranged signal when Erazem went to do his business. One well-aimed cannonball later and Erazem was history.
This is about all I know about Predjama Castle. Unfortunately, in the off-season, they don't really do tours of the castle although you can pay a couple of euro to have a look-see. The thing about castles is that they all look more or less the same and it’s the extra information about history, architecture and the personality of past inhabitants that you can get from a knowledgeable guide that can add to the touring experience.
We tromped around the castle until we'd seen it all. On our short walk from the castle to the car, the relentless rain changed to sleet. We didn't think much of it, figuring that the sleet wouldn't last for long. Sleet usually doesn't, after all. Patrick did a good job of keeping calm and driving appropriately for the weather, along some pretty twisty roads. When we got onto the highway in Postojna, there was at least an inch of white stuff on the ground. We were a bit unsure about whether or not it was snow or sleet. At a certain point, I guess it doesn't matter.
The ride back to Ljubljana was a bit treacherous. We saw cars spun out and saw people using their hands to try to clear tracks so they could merge onto the highway. In an hour, we got about 4 inches of snow. Patrick managed to get us back to the hostel without any major incidents, although we did nearly get stuck pulling into the hostel driveway.
When we collected our keys from the front desk, I asked the girl if the snow had been forecast on the radio. She told me yes, that they were expecting up to half a meter. (Which is about a foot and a half.) She said it had been forecast for a couple of days and that more snow was expected on Thursday or Friday. To Patrick and me, this was shocking news. We'd been quite happily operating along in our little news-and-weahter-insulated cocoon. We'd listened to the radio in the car, but since we don't speak Slovenian, we'd had no clue what was coming.
Alone Day
After a good few days of family-togetherness, Patrick and I decided to spend our last day in Ljubljana alone. I got up early and shoveled out the car so that Patrick would be able to return it. Then I decided that I would spend a good chunk of my alone day at Klub Zlati, a sauna spa in Tivoli Park. I love a good sauna and it seemed like it would be a nice way to relax. The Lonely Planet listed opening hours as being Women only: 10 a.m. - 10 p.m. Tuesdays, 9 a.m. - 1 p.m. Fridays and then various open hours other days of the week, usually from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. during weekdays and 10 a.m. to midnight during the weekend. It was a Monday, so off I went, arriving a little bit after 10.
The woman who was working the front desk told me that she spoke a little English and was able to sell me an entry ticket and a towel. She gave me a locker key and pointed me in the direction of the locker room. I went into the vast locker room, where only a single elderly lady was getting change. I changed into my tankini swimming suit and went in search of the sauna.
All of the signs were in Slovenian and I really had no idea where I was going. I ended up opening a door and walking into a waiting area, where a receptionist stood at a desk. I asked her where I was supposed to go. She explained to me that this was the massage place and that she really didn't work for the sauna club, but that she would help me find where I needed to go.
She led me back through the changing room and out a different door into a place that looked like a café. We were now directly in front of the place where I'd entered and my new guide had a long conversation in Slovenian. I can only imagine what they talked about because the first thing my guide said to me when she led me back into the sauna club was "No clothing is allowed in the sauna. Nothing. Not even bathing suits." She showed me around the club – a hot bath, a cold bath, a whirlpool, an outdoor pool, two Finnish saunas, and an infrared sauna whose lights were so bright the man inside looked like he was baking in an oven. The steam rooms were being repaired. The place was a bit odd – the equipment was old and had a bit of a Soviet-era feel to it.
The place was also full of men. Mostly big, mostly old, and uniformly completely naked men. I saw two older ladies in one of the Finnish saunas but that was it. I was easily, by at least 20 years, the youngest person in the place.
My guide finished the tour back in the locker room where I now had to make a very difficult choice. I'd already paid my tolar. Would I get nekkid and give it a go Continental-style or would I put my clothes back on and make a hasty retreat? The temptation to run away was nearly overwhelming. But I do so enjoy a good sauna. So I sucked it up, stripped down, and tried not to be too embarrassed about it.
I nearly forgot –the creepiest guy wasn't naked at all. He was an artist working on a mosaic on the wall over the whirlpool. The whirlpool was still in operation but his close proximity and innate creepiness guaranteed that I wouldn't be using it. So, instead, I got into the hot pool.
I didn't quite know where to go in the pool, so I just went into one of the corners where I could look out the window at the outdoor swimming pool. I watched as, at various intervals, a guy would leave the Finnish sauna, go outside and jump in the pool. One guy was outside for ages, trudging through the snow while the steam rose on his body.
I knew my corner had a big downside for me because it contained a big black dial. I had no idea what the dial did, but I knew it was only a matter of time before someone joined me in the pool and needed to do something with the dial. Sure enough, a guy got into the pool and after 10 minutes of standing in his own area, going through the a routine of stretching exercises, the guy came over and said something to me in Slovenian. I stepped aside, expecting him to do whatever to the dial and then move off, but apparently you have to be right on top of the dial to get any benefit from it.
I found another corner to stand in for a few minutes more and then I got out of the pool. My next stop was the Finnish sauna. I picked the one that clearly had two women in it, thinking that there was a woman's sauna and a men's sauna. I was wrong, but that was okay. The guys were so not interested in me. They were there to take care of themselves and to do their little health routines. I was probably the biggest pervert in the place (save the creepy artist man) as I just couldn't help but peek at packages.
After 15 minutes in the sauna, I decided my only course of action was to go outside and jump in the pool. It was
FREEZING in the water, but it was also weird because when I got out of the water, it didn't feel cold at all in the air. I stood outside for while, admiring the snow on the trees and clear blue sky. When I went back into the sauna, it took me a few minutes to register the heat. I also had a strange drug-like experience of being able to see the heat and feel an absolute stillness and relaxation in my head.
I repeated my sauna routine two more times then had a nice shower and decided to call it a day. I was proud that I'd managed to get over my reluctance and self-consciousness. I also felt incredibly well-rested and calm.
I spent the balance of my alone day walking around Ljubljana. I had a trip up to the castle and a wander through the old town. It was a good way to spend my time and when I retired to my cell, I was very tired.
