kindness of strangers

On Tuesday, we leave Slovenia. Such a simple statement, such a difficult set of steps to take! I'd fretted about it long before we even left for Europe: how to be on time for the train to Milan and how to then be on time for the Easy Jet flight back to Barcelona.

You say -- get up early! Oh, but I do! I've been leaving too little time for sleep in my effort to fit in every last bit of trip stuff. The thing is, I don't want to leave too early, because that would force our Slovenian hosts to rise early to fix us breakfast -- they do those kinds of good gestures. So I push back our departure to 7:15, with breakfast at 7 -- an hour earlier than their usual, but at least not at an indecent time.

Follow along with the tedious details of time and place here, on Ocean and you will understand how singularly incredible this day was. Otherwise, if travel details bore you, just look at the photos and call it a day!

Daybreak. The mountains pick up the color of the rising sun.





Up, showered, packed, with photos tediously loaded onto flickr for a post to be published later, in Barcelona.
Ready? I ask as we glance over the now empty room. Let's pack the car to give them a little more time with breakfast.
Have the car keys?
On the table.
Nope, not on the table.

Then where?

Maybe I put them in a pant pocket. Unpack suitcase. Not there. Damn.

Of course, they have to be somewhere, because the car is here. It's not like losing your house keys out on the beach and wondering if they can ever be recovered from under all those grains of sand. And Ed does find them -- I'd left them in the ignition -- a habit I have with the old clunker at home and I guess one I carried over to here. But the search set us back ten minutes.

Breakfast. Urska has made the coffee, put out the breads, jams, cheeses, yogurts.






We eat quickly, then look for her to say good bye.
And now she hands me a little packet. Embroidery from her grandmother.





They are lovely pieces! How much do I owe her? -- I ask.
No, I told you, she doesn't charge for her work. Nothing. A gift from her.

I'm so touched by this! How are these people so kind, so giving of themselves to strangers?
I thank her and promise a note to Taja when I get back home.

And we're off. 7:25. A tad off schedule, but hey, google says the drive from Kobarid (just down the hill!) to Monfalcone airport in Italy, where we'd picked up and now must return the Fiat pig, is only 72 minutes. (Italy itself is so very close -- just 10 kilometers from Kobarid.) Plenty of time to make the 9:05 bus from the airport to the train station -- for a 10:01 train to Milan. Cannot, cannot miss that one, or else we miss our flights home the next day.

A wispy fog settles on the Soca Valley. The sun will burn it off, but not yet, not this early. I think about this quiet place of gentle mists and peachy sunrise hues, of Alpine flowers and grazing sheep and cattle, and about a grossly turbulent series of events that placed it in history books even as it would have liked to remain as quietly anonymous as the next Alpine village in Switzerland or elsewhere...



 

We stop for gas in Kobarid. We'd estimated that the car can go for 80 kilometers before the gauge shows a drop. So filling it up now, 70 kilometers from where we drop it off makes sense.

And then step on the gas pedal! I have packed my camera so that nothing will distract me. Focus on getting us out safely, quickly. The road is nearly empty in these foothills of the Alps. Easy stuff. I make good time.

But it's not a straight shot and even though we pay attention (well, mostly we do: Ed is in the backseat fixing the zipper of his 45 year old back pack (I kid you not) -- it broke, spilling everything. Not the first time that I have seen him working on aligning the teeth and getting it to stay put) -- so, even though we mostly pay attention to signs, we miss one turn off somewhere and we lose five or ten minutes getting on track again.

And then it's just a race to the finish. We approach the airport, five minutes before the bus is to leave for the train station. But what's this? Shit! The gas gauge has gone down! How could that be?? To fill, or not to fill... Let's do it! I pull up to an Agip station, Ed fills and throws some money on the counter and we're off again, glancing nervously at the clock. Two minutes until bus departure.
At the airport, you take the keys to the agent, I'll take our bags to the bus and stall it a bit!
Okay!

We pull up, quickly get out, take out the bags and witness the blue bus pulling out and leaving the airport.

Damn.

It's not a tragedy -- there is the Very Expensive Cab as a back up plan. But what a shame. Missed the bus by less than a minute. Slowly we empty the car and... but wait -- what's this? Another bus has pulled in. Could it be that we witnessed the departure of the wrong bus?

Run!

I run to the rental agent, Ed goes for the bus with our packs. I throw the keys on the agent's desk, run back -- the driver is sympathetic, but he has a schedule -- hurry, hurry, he tells me as I climb on and collapse in the seat.
Bravo --- this from Ed.

From the mountains of Slovenia, to the needed bus, without a second to spare. Remarkable.

And the genial driver does us another favor: he pulls over to a city bus in downtown Monfalcone (where we will catch the train) and shouts many rapid Italian words to the driver. Then to us -- get out now and go on that bus. He will take you directly to the station.
Kindness of strangers. Thank you. Thank you so very much.

And so we are at the station in plenty of time -- enough time to pick up a coffee at a cafe bar across the street. All in red.





A leisurely stroll and we're at the track, watching the train come in (as couple a few feet away says a poignant goodbye).





The train is lovely, there is a plug for the computer, I write my post. Good. All that I need now is to slap the words and photos together when I'm again online and click "publish." In Barcelona.

Now, this one and only morning train to Milan would have us in Milan with five hours to spare before our flight leaves for Barcelona. Even figuring in the hour for the bus ride to the distant airport, that's too much Milan time. Why not break up the journey and spend a couple of hours elsewhere, arriving in Milan later -- just in time to make our various connections?

All these decisions were made way back -- in Sorede, in fact. The tickets for the trains, roo, where purchased in France. So easy -- buy anything for anywhere, get on the train and go. So now, after three-fourths of our train journey, we get off at Descenzano -- the least city-like stop along the Trieste-Monfalcone-Milan line.

Descenzano. You wont remember it, but it is the town at the tip of my beloved (from March travels) Lake Garda. And so now here we are, on a sunny warm day -- in Descenzano. True, with two packs and a small wheeley, but who cares -- life has been brilliantly good to us on this day and it continues to be so.

We walk down from the train station to the waterfront. Descenzano's streets here are delightful, with plenty of color...











... and in case that doesn't satisfy you, there is also an incredibly vibrant market.



how big can a cheese be?
















how many tomatoes can you fit on your bike?



Ed suggests that we pick up some fruit and take it for a lunch by the water. And we do just that. Cherries and strawberries.











There are deep mists over Lake Garda, so that you cannot see the mountains that slope down to its shores -- only faint contours of them as they twist toward Gargnano and beyond.







And I have to say, it all feels a bit unreal -- I come to the lake in March, when no one walks in shorts and few flowers are blooming. It's entirely different now, in the thick of summer.





On the little square just off the waterfront, we find a cafe where we have part two of lunch: A shared dish of ice cream (three flavors: berry, coconut and melon -- you see a lot of good will toward the other in that combination) and an Aperol Spritz. Because.





A hike back to the train station, where we wait for the local to Milan and then  it's just boom, boom, boom: so straightforward! Get off in Milan, hop on the bus to the airport, wait in the tedious Easy Jet line (it's always just one line for all flights), board the plane, take off more or less on time (this is important: Easy Jet has notorious delays; we see on the screen that only half of tonight's flights take off within three hours of scheduled departures), land in Barcelona at 9:35 (on time!) and I breathe a sigh of relief. Not only will we make our connection tomorrow, but -- perhaps equally importantly, we will have time for a dinner, a beloved dinner in our beloved Barcelona.

And here it gets even more remarkable: we are on the fantastic, efficient and stopping quite close to our hotel airport bus and walking now through the rhapsodic light and love filled streets of the city...











...checking in at our preferred little hotel -- the Villa Emilia (where I snagged a cheap rate just on the one day this spring that they posted it!) in such good time! 10:30 and we throw our packs down in our room.

We're jubilant.

The day has been a miracle of, in the end, perfect connections. So many could have fouled the mood. None did. Risks taken, rewards reaped. You don't often get such a run of good dice rolling.

We head out for dinner. Not far -- it may not be late for Barcelona, but it is late for us and tomorrow we have a rather early start again.

We go to our nameless favorite. With the friendly proprietor and the sympathetic waiter from Honduras. I am sure there are 100 places in Barcelona (the capital of fantastic eating) that are as good, maybe better, but this place has been a reliable friend and it remains so today. Across the street, down the block and we're there. Ed and I drool over the menu, then share tapas and a seafood paella and Ed is so in the mood to roll with the flow that he even sips on the house Cava with me. Rare.



































It's close to midnight. Life has treated us well today. We go upstairs to our spiffy room. Almost ready for sleep. Almost. Just one thing left: slap those photos and text together and press "publish." (Meaning -- post on Ocean.)

And the Internet proceeds to shut down and not work.

Well now. We patiently try this, try that. Nothing.

I go downstairs and talk to the desk persons. I'm feeling a tad incredulous. Far in the mountains of Slovenia, in a hamlet where cows and sheep are led to pasture for the summer, I could post. Here, in high tech Barcelona I cannot.

Perhaps I should have let it go, but the irony was too great, my frustration too strong. I have the text, I have the photos -- all worked on during a day of tight movement. And now surrender? No.

In the end, the staff makes a few calls and the Internet hiccups it's way to some form of functional status so that in the haze of sleep and no sleep I am able to finally, at a hugely late, or early hour -- depending which part of the day you straddle, press "publish" and have it take.

There is a moral in there somewhere. More than one perhaps. Something along the lines of letting go, about not sweating the small stuff. But as I think back to the history of Ocean -- all the years when it was so hard to find any Internet service at all, when daily posting required the kindness of strangers and finding corners on the floor somewhere where a phone line would reach, I have to say -- spending "only" half the night trying to successfully "publish" an entry is really not a big story at all.


The next morning, this morning, in fact (I'm caught up!) the smooth sailing resumes. Leaving the hotel at 8:30, walking the Catalan walk one last time to catch the bus...
















...being at the airport in plenty of time for one last unhealthy breakfast...





 ...and for the flight to Atlanta.

I'm posting from Atlanta. And hoping that the Madison flight wont be too delayed. We'll be home soon. Home to Isis, to the mosquito population born in our absence, to the farmhouse. Home.

Slovenia, considered

It's 17:07 and we are in the parking lot of something that looks like a military barrack. Or is it that my mind wanders to military barracks here, in Kobarid? The building before us is actually the Planika Dairy Museum of Cheese.
We'll give it five more minutes -- I say to Ed. The sign says open from 17 until 19. We'd already wiled away twenty minutes at a cafe across the street waiting for the gates to swing open.











It's strange that we should bother waiting. It's not as if we're museum-hungry. We'd given over plenty of time to the Military Museum in the village. Though perhaps I shouldn't start there. Because the day for us didn't start there. So, as always, let's go back to the beginning.


When you are given the best view room in a beautifully positioned Alpine guest house, you have to start each day with a reverent look outside. The way the mountains reflect the light (the sunrise is behind us), the way the clouds arrange themselves around the summits -- each morning it's all different. Fresh and beautiful.






Breakfast downstairs is between 8 and 9 and we are, as usual, the laggards. It's not that we sleep late. We've begun sleeping irregularly again. Sleep, wake up, write, read, sleep -- it's all confused and off schedule. It must be that we are gearing toward a return home, to a different time zone.

The breakfast at the wonderful Turisticna Kmetija Kranjc is always a little different, though always with the farm cheeses of the region and home made yogurt, home made jams, local honey.












We eat well here.

The plan for today is to hike close to the village of Kobarid. The clouds suggest that it may rain. Or not. In any case, we don't want to be caught in it high in the mountains. And we had our grand hike yesterday. Let's do something different. Ed suggests the trail that would take us from the Military Museum, to landmarks scattered just to the north and then, crossing the Soca River -- to the falls that create another water source for the Soca.

It's a great little itinerary, though we decide to do it backwards -- the falls first, in case the weather turns on us.

We drive down to Kobarid, leave the car by the Napoleon Bridge (his army crossed here at one point and so he gets to have a bridge named after him), and head upstream along the Soca.






It's lovely here!


 


In the flower studded meadow, there is a row of beehives (unusual to see them unstacked here) and not surprisingly, the bees are extremely active. Lucky guys: they don't suffer a lack of blooms in Slovenia (our honey bees, on the other hand, have been deprived of them; our vast fields of corn and soy, lawns sheered to a crew cut, even our orchards with short blooming seasons, don't do them any favors).











The trail now turns toward the forest and climbs just a little. And again we come across the remains of the Italian line of defense, left over from World War I.






Still climbing up, we see that we are entering a ravine. We're not the only ones on this particular stretch. Several families make the trip up very slippery surfaces to see the Kozjak Falls. I'm left thinking -- would I take my kids here? You really have to hang on to the cable to get to the best view of the falls. Would I say "be super careful" too many times?






The falls behind us, we cross the wooden foot bridge over the Soca. A bridge had been built on this spot during that awful war. Today's bridge is meant for the innocent traffic of visitors.





On the other side, we do a steep climb to a hill ridge line. The walk now is through the forest - one that offers a perfect amount of shade for when the sun occasionally cracks through the clouds. In general, clouds dominate, but it's much warmer than it was yesterday. Summer weather.





And finally we arrive at the Italian Charnel House. Mussolini had it built in 1938 to honor the fallen Italian soldiers from the awful war (Kobarid was in these years under Italian rule). As if there would be no other war. As if Kobarid was heading toward a peaceful era, where one could look back and reflect on the horror of past aggressions.





Mussolini had moved the remains of 7014 known and unknown Italian soldiers who lost their lives in the Soca Front -- taking them from local military cemeteries and honoring them here, in this house of corpses. We walk slowly around the edifice, reading the names, understanding the pain that each death caused to those left behind, feeling the irony of this Mussolini gesture and the exclusive pride in the Italian sacrifice, ignoring the pain felt, too, by Slovenian people who lost lives as well, in addition to losing pasture lands, cattle, a livelihood that had been very much centered on the mountains towering over the Soca River.






We are alone at this monument that looms over Kobarid. Somehow I'm not surprised. (We read that the monument is maintained by the Italian government -- adding another layer of strange complexity to the place.)

 From here, it is a descent along the road to Kobarid itself. Oh, let me remember the encounter with a this time familiar animal -- one who also enjoys raiding the meadows.






Back in Kobarid now, we need a break from history. Where else to take it if not on the bench in the center of the village. With cookies from the same store that we visited on our first day here.





And now we're ready for the Military Museum. And it looks like it is ready for us. The attendant tells us that she will do a showing of a film, in English , on the Soca Front. We sit through it, alone in an small auditorium with empty chairs.

And then we look at the numerous photos depicting not only the Soca Front, but, too, the disruption of life in Kobarid itself. And, just as you think you cannot take in any more sad photos and heart wrenching photos, there are yet other rooms, moving forward in history, right to World War II and the fighting between the Partisans and the Nazi invaders.





Ed is hugely interested in detail. Me, I've reached my point of saturation and so I wait outside as he finishes his scrutiny of the exhibits.  And this is how it comes to be 16:30 and we are now with only one last possible visit on our list -- a visit to the cheese museum.

Except that, despite the posted hours, it's closed.

I see a man in the freight area and I wave him down. Ed shakes his head -- maybe you should let it go? But even though I was only mildly interested in walking through another museum, the fact that I couldn't do it, made me determined. It should be open, it should!

And in fact, in a few minutes, the gate does open and a young woman rushes over from the market across the lot. Sorry, I forgot to unlock the gate. We come over only when there are visitors.

She proceeds to tell us about the story of cheese, as made from milk collected from dairies up in the mountains that tower over Kobarid. A diet of Alpine grasses gives the milk a special taste -- she explains. The cheeses? First class! Protected now and produced here, some in the style of an emmenthal, others with brine using salt from Portoroz!

Here's the funny thing about this visit to the cheese museum -- it pulls things together for me: the cheese, the wars, the meadows, the mountains, the farm animals, the people in the village which has been our home for three days -- it's all part of the same story. Our wonderful young "cheese guide" shows us a map of pastures in the area. She shows us ones that never recovered from World War I: families moved on to other work, the fields, once full of sheep and cows, stand bare.

One pasture, however, that was restored is the Planina Zaprikraj -- the place we visited on our hike, where the farmers also make their own cheese.
Is that cheese sold here?
Oh no! They do their own thing in the summer, up there in the mountains. In the winter, they bring the heard down and then they sell us their milk.
Where do they bring the herd to? 
Their home is really in Dreznice. 
Oh, we know Dreznice! We are staying just outside of it!
Where?
With the Kranjc family.
Are you? Irena (Urska's mother) works here -- she is in management. Her mother makes beautiful lace. Lovely people, aren't they?
Indeed.

We can't buy cheese -- there's no point to it. We're leaving in the morning and besides, the Kranjc family gives us plenty for breakfast. But a bottle of kefir made from this special, non-homogenized milk? Most certainly!





And I don't know if I am simply impressionable, or maybe it is true that the Alpine meadows create a luxurious, special milk, but honestly, that is the damn best kefir I have ever tasted.

As I look at the shelves of the little shop within the museum, I see that they have honey, in jars painted by hand by local artists. If I buy a jar, that means I'll have to send my suitcase through on the flight back. Is it worth it?

Yes it is.

As I make the purchase, she asks the inevitable: how did you find us, out here in this corner?
Ed says -- oh, it's easy you're right here on the tourist map.
Again the confusion. He thinks cheese museum, she thinks Slovenia.


We walk back to our car across Napoleon's bridge, where a French tourist snaps the following photo.






And now it's 7 and we are back in the hamlet perched above Kobarid...


 


...sitting now on the deck of the Kranjc farmhouse, eating dinner prepared by Urska and her mother, Irena.

Vegetable soup (a mixture of garden spinach, kohlrabi, cauliflower, cabbage).





And salad and for us (the no red meat types), a special course of Soca trout. Which is beyond wonderful.


 


At the end of dinner, I ask Urska if anyone in the family still crotchets.
Yes, my grandmother Taja does. 
How old is she?
Oh, 92.
Would she sell a small piece of her work?
I'll ask her, but I don't think so. She never sells her stuff.

Urska and her mother are the ones you'll likely see most of at the guest house. But there are other family members who help out as well: Urska's brother (and his wife and their two girls), her father, her partner. And now I see that the Taja is there as well, living here all these years when Kobarid switched from being Slovenian then Italian then occupied by the Nazis, then under the rule of Tito's Partisans, then split in half -- between the Americans and the Yugoslavs, then purely Yugoslav and now, finally, since 1991 -- Slovenian again. Taja witnessed it all. And, too, the avalanche and the earthquake that demolished homes in the village (the last big one in 1976) -- in this tiny hamlet where you would think nothing ever changes, she lived through all that.

I'm wasting my time writing about a childhood in Poland. I should be writing about Taja instead.


 


Except, there's the matter of the language. And, of course, I do not live here. I live in a farmhouse in Wisconsin and I'm going home on Wednesday.