Riddle Me This, Riddle Me That...

Location: LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA


My mother looked at me through her steamed-up glasses over her steaming glass. "This is likely the most expensive hot chocolate I have ever had," she acknowledged, probably in reservation to her current situation. I nodded, realizing that 500 Euros is pretty expensive for hot chocolate, give or take a few Euros. The chocolate was good, but it wasn't that good. The bar stools were comfy, but not that comfy. The service was cute, but not that cute. I looked outside the cafe at the pouring rain and silently mourned for our one and only day in Slovenia. 


My father once brought me home a souvenir-shop t-shirt with SLOVENIA printed in big red letters across the front with the Bled Castle depicted in yellow and black. At about ten years old, I had no clue where this country was located. Or why he chose this as my souvenir. At the age of 23, I hadn't learned much more about the country and many of my contemporaries even failed to point it out on the map or mistakenly picked Slovakia instead. All I knew about Slovenia was while Dad had "been there, gotten the t-shirt", I had gotten the t-shirt, but not been there. 


I also knew that Slovenia's capital, when its name is spelled out, looks a case of Tourette's on a keyboard.  In fact, I picked the country solely because of the capital's name: Ljubljana. Pronounced lou-be-on-na, our trip was as discombobbled and unusual as the city's name. 


En route recounts are always a matter of "you had to be there" and therefore, our trip from Munich to Ljubljana required your attendance for the full effect. Everyone has troubles with their travels and everyone thinks their misadventures are cause for alarm and an hour long story about a minute detail, which during the event, probably felt like the weight of the world. Ours was no different, though forgetting our non-refundable tickets at home, purchasing brand-new tickets at nearly double original price, nearly missing our train and a language barrier sure did add some spice to the story. 


As our train sped along the tracks, stopping ever so often, my nerves finally began to unwind. We transversed through Germany, with its many red-roofed buildings surrounded by lush, green parks and mountainous backdrops, into Austria, which looked very similar. We had to change trains in Austria and when we stepped from our train to the train bound for Slovenia, I suddenly felt like picking up chain-smoking, donning a dirty newsboy cap and saying things like "Mother Russian". At least I would've fit in better than I did in my polo, jeans and Coach tote. 

Our train dropping us in Ljubljana...thankfully

"Where the hell are we supposed to go," my mother swore, in probably one of the only cases to which I had ever borne witness. She was watching people take their luggage, rolling bags and all, across the tracks to join their transports. Thank goodness I had told Mom to pack light.  Our cattle car, luckily, awaited us at the adjoining platform. We stepped onto the closest car, walking past the inquisitive stares of some older gentlemen and their unfiltered smoke clouds, as they both spilled out of the smoky, film-covered windows. The car we happened upon was the dining car. The rest of the train seemed to be overpacked, so we took the first seat, bags tucked tightly next to us. 


Now, I am not a skittish traveler nor do I judge a country's status by whether it is subjectively "pretty". However, the look of subtle terror on my mother's face quickly regressed any of my initial recoil. Without letting on to my mother, I kept looking at the Slovenian language section in my travel book, hoping some of the words would suddenly reveal their meanings to me in German. I wasn't being picky. 


"Would you care to sit with us? We couldn't help but notice you speaking English," said a man in a lovely South Britain-accent and seated in the table behind us. Leave it to Mom to find the only Brits (probably the only other English-speakers) on the train. The two gentlemen were on their way to visit friends in Sarajevo. The idea alone of spending more than a few more hours on this train frightened my mother; the idea of going to a former and still dangerous war-zone intrigued me. I couldn't help but notice one was missing a finger. The idea alone that perhaps I was sitting next to a master bomb-maker frightened me; his real occupation, a yachtsman on something like the 20th largest yacht in the world, intrigued my mother. But the fact that he was more secretive about his job than I had to be about divulging my internship at the State Department,  only intrigued my mother more. 

As the train chugged along, the sky became grayer and the buildings became more concrete. All in varying shades of gray, taupe, sand and beige. It almost reminded me of living in USAF base housing when your options for paint colors were white, eggshell, off-white or Elmer's glue. Painted letters depicting the long since forgotten, yet still being advertised, household goods or automotive parts, cracked and chipped, revealing the more vibrant color from the original painting, circa 1950. The familiar yellowing lace curtains attempted in vain to add some delicateness to the stone facade while assorted pieces of laundry dried in tiny alcoves and concrete balconies.


Now, I love urban decay. I love to photograph it and walk through it; I just don't want to stay in it. The cabbie from the train station smelt like onions and drove us through the cinder-blocked Ljubljana. Because neither Mom nor myself speak any Slovenian, the cabbie turned on the radio to kill the silence. “This Love” by Maroon 5 filled the taxi and I felt a bit more at ease. When he pulled us up alongside the nicest hotel in Ljubljana, I felt even more relieved. 


After checking into Hotel Slon, which proudly displayed a picture of Bill Clinton from his visit in 1999, we went to unpack in our room. We really only had the remainder of the day and part of the following morning to get in all the sightseeing. However, sometime in the fifteen minutes it took for us to unpack and unwind, I had managed to loose our room key. I went downstairs to replace the key and while retrieving a new key from the front desk, I heard an all too familiar West-Coast accent.


I turned to see a handsome, tan gent in his early twenties, dressed in a white v-neck t-shirt, jeans and a black blazer. His spiky blonde hair and huge grin only furthered my suspicions that I was running into a fellow countryman.


"Hey, are you from the States?" he asked with a broad grin, like it was some pick-up line.
"Yes, are you?'" I asked, like it wasn't obvious to the both of us.
"Hey cool, I'm from California. LA area. Where are you from?"
"Oh, Florida. Daytona Beach"
"Really?? I almost went to school there. Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. You know it?
"Yeah of course. That is where I go to school"
"No way! I went to the Prescott campus" [ERAU has two residential campuses, one in Florida and one in Prescott, Arizona]


About this point, I thought, "These types of run-ins really only happen on television or in corny romance novels". I was in neither and was fully aware of that fact. My internal commentary was noting nothing more than a passing observation, which had been strongly influenced by the Disney movies of my youth. We spoke for a few more minutes about the coincidences of running into a fellow alum so far away from home. And then, my passing observation passed just as quickly out of my life.

Drinking dulce at Dulce

No sooner had Mom and I emerged from the hotel lobby doors, but it started to pour felines and canines. Mom and I grappled for our umbrellas, but determined to make the best of the short time we did have, continued to walk along the now deserted streets. After our pant legs had soaked up quarts and we had snapped a few pictures, we found refuge in a coffee bar aptly named Dulce. 


We ordered two hot chocolates with whipped creme. When it arrived, it was not quite as thick as chocolate syrup, but not as thin as hot chocolate to which I am accustomed . “This may be the most expensive cup of hot chocolate, but it is by far the best” I commented, peering out again at the unapologetic weather beating on the café’s glass windows. Mom smiled and said, "I'm just happy we made it here and are together." Like a sappy television show, the rain abruptly stopped.

Now, in comparission with my three months of interaction with German and Austrian hospitality workers, the Slovenian personnel were something unusual: hospitable. The waitress provided translation help, gave us ideas for dinner once the hot chocolate buzz subsided, and sighed a huge relief at the end saying, "Ah, I did it". We smiled at her, reminded her that her English was great, tipped well and walked out into drying streets. 

We visited the Ljubljana Castle and captured some creative panoramic photos of the city. We soaked up more water in our pants walking around Town Square, simultaneously giggling at the flamingo-colored St. Franciscan Church of the Annunciation (what a strange color for a church). We walked many times across the uninspiring Dragon Bridge and the beautiful, carved stone Triple Bridge over to St. Nicholas' green domes and imposing twin towers. But, it was the nooks and crannies of the city that enchanted me. Ljubljana was graciously decaying. Paint peeled in long strips off of concrete walls colored by green moss. Wood doors warped, revealing their wrinkled cracks and the sepia tones glittered next to the rusting industrial tones of the windowsills and rain gutters. 

Before dinner, and needing to change out of soaking clothes, we went back to our room. And there sitting on the desk was a handwritten note from the "Riddle Guy" asking my mother and I to dinner with him that evening. Again, I thought "Well, now we are going to have dinner, have a long distance courtship, and it is going to end in marriage. Underneath the stars at a castle. Isn't that what the fairy tales told me as a child?"

After walking around, albeit slightly lost in downtown, we finally settled on the most Slovenian of restaurants: the local Italian immigrant pizzeria. We talked about aviation, which is almost a prerequisite for any Riddle conversation. "Riddle Guy" talked about his campus; I talked about mine.  I had spent a summer semester at his campus, so we tried to determine what friends we might have in common. But without Facebook, who can tell the endless possibilities these days?


After dinner was over, we said our brief goodbyes. Nothing fancy. Just blocks away from a castle. Under a striking full moon. 


My encounter in Slovenia didn't end in a fairy tale, though I still have regular contact with "Riddle Guy". And he is still just as handsome. But it was the next 24 hours paired with my time in Slovenia that would make me again believe in the reality of fantasy and fiction...

Follow-up with the April 3rd Salzburg entry