Part II: Planes, Trains, & Automobiles-The End Of The Story.
Friday April 23, 2004 approximately a week from the beginning of my summer trimester at NWHSU.
Compared to the near perfect weather in Venice, Ljubljana already started out on a bad foot. It was cold and rainy, and to make things ‘better,’ the city seemed to be right out of a documentary on “developing nations” or “lifestyles of the industrial class.” I actually felt like an American tourist—I had skipped learning the language, anything about the money and less about the culture. Immediately after this realization, I concluded to shorten my visit by a day and a half. It was I had finally gotten to the last part of a multi-country European vacation. I had traversed through Iceland, England, the Netherlands, Spain, Italy and now Slovenia. I visited old friends, places and memories of trips past while managing to take an inventory of my life. I was to turn 30 in six days. Not a big deal, but by certain standards in the world, I had nothing to really show for the time except life experience and a pile of school loans and a small plot of land in Spain given to me by my father as a “keep quiet bribe.” It was a subject I was attempting to remedy with an updated life plan.
Before long, the train stopped at the Italian customs depot. Located about a 100 yards from the Slovenian one, the two depots sat as mirror images of each other across the Italian/Slovenian borderline. “Double stamp Friday just like Subway,” I thought pulling out my passport and train ticket. As the customs officers made their way up and down the train isles, I polished off a cocktail took in the outside scenery. Mountains rose overhead making their contribution to the picturesque skyline. Large rock formations and an evergreen tree line covered their base. As the train began to pull toward the next depot, an obvious fog-like mist started to form on the foothills. The sun disappeared behind the train seeming to stay behind in Italy. The sky grew dark ahead, and in the distance, it was raining. I had hoped for better weather during my visit.
Exiting the train car, I ripped out a quick text alerting Jana, my Slovenian friend and contact, of my arrival. Raindrops fell heavy upon my head bringing to my attention to all the people eagerly awaiting their loved ones along the platform. The scene made me miss home and a certain someone I purposed not to extend an invitation to join me on the trip. A text message alert interrupted my thoughts and reasons why it needed to be the case bringing the scene around me back into perspective. “At the ‘meeting pole’ inside the station,” the text message read. Most train stations and airports in Europe have an area or zone called “the meeting place” where people coming from different parts of travel or new to the country could easy find their friends and family or be found by them if necessary. I started my way there again noting of my lack of enthusiasm about the weather.
After a quick reintroduction, we made our way to a pub scene in the north side of the city. Jana’s friends awaited our arrival and their chance to test their English skills. The night passed in a pub where the country’s classics where belted out in utter drunken happiness. “Ode to being alive and happy,” I thought as the Verve’s Bitter/Sweet Symphony played in my head muffling the singing to a quiet roar—it was soon silenced by violins playing in my mind, Cause it’s a bitter/sweet symphony that’s life, try to make ends meet ..you’re a slave to money than you die. I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down. You know the one that takes you to the place where all the veins meet- Yeah.
The next day and a half passed in similar scenes with many of the same people. I admit the poor weather inhibited my ability to enjoy the culture’s finer aspects or even fully appreciate the hospitality I was being afforded. The hospitality, as it is, comes with an understanding that you will return the favor if possible. The understanding was enough for me to continue in my disconnectedness. “Back to Venice,” I thought as Cold Play’s Clocks played again in my head putting this part of the trip behind me. Home. Home. Is where I wanted to go. Home. Home. Is where I wanted to go.
At the Italian depot, an over zealous officer asked me for my tickets and identification. As he looked at the passport and then me, he had come to the conclusion I was an illegal immigrant trying to make my way into Italy with a stolen American passport. He attempted to see if the picture seal had been broken while continuing to ask me questions on the purpose of my travel to Slovenia. After calling in the passport to the authorities and finding it clean, he said, “ You American’s think you can go where ever you please without any consideration of others.” Recalling a piece of graffiti in Venice that seemed to reflect the man’s sentiments (Gangster Bush.) on the matter. I replied, “That’s why I’m proud to be an American.” I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to hear that kind of response. Annoyed and being too proud to exchange any unnecessary conversation with me, he angrily stamped my passport taking note of its robust and diverse stamping history. I replied in Italian, “Good evening and thank you for doing such a thorough job. Certainly Italy is safe with strong men like you protecting her borders!” Again, he looked at me unimpressed. “Bastard!” I thought.
I was back in the sun. “Good evening,” I managed to yap at a coffee vendor in Italian. The scene was wonderful. Old buildings, warm people and the liveliness of tourist walking the streets made the extra day worth it. I sat and wrote in my journal with my friend Major most of the day. As I sat, a tall and thin platinum blonde walked by instantly catching my attention. Realizing the foolishness of whom I thought it was, my decision to not share the experience with my best friend Janey came back to mind.
It was my tradition to travel alone. The typical Let’s go to Europe book drives me nuts as it renders people perfectly capable of avoiding any danger/adventure in traveling. It’s also too easy to avoid speaking to anyone other than your travel mate(s). It was another reason I traveled alone; it requires me to do both—be social and remain open to new things. You can easily short-change yourself an adventure by having too much control of a trip experience. The remainder of the day was spent wondering if I had made a mistake in this instance by not inviting her despite her interest in joining me. The next day would remove all doubt of my decision.
Wednesday, April 28th. I was on my way home to celebrate Janey's birthday with her and end my European ‘fantasy’. That’s just it--it can be just a fantasy. Without sharing the experience with someone else, one might as well look at pictures and read about places, as your experience of them is more or less the same. Without ever really going and sharing the experience of a trip with someone else, it may as well not be real. In traveling alone, one learns the quick value of companionship—it brings meaning to the experience of travel and anchors you to reality. Companionship creates a special bond between the people/person who elect to share their experience with and you. I have yet to have a conversation with any piece of art, any famous building, statue or grave, but I have had many wonderful discussions with people around me bringing life to the adventure.
I’ve gotten to enjoy a rich and rewarding number of friendships that have sprung out of these types of travel experiences. Having known this about travel and expressing it over and over again to my friends and family, was why Janey wanted to make the trip. No number of text messages would make up for one shared moment of the experience and any flavor it might have put back into the relationship. I would attempt to rectify my mistake that day and in the weeks that followed to no real avail. I found myself on a plane to Seattle after the summer trimester following up on a personality I met in a grocery store in Venice. The Seattle trip would eventually kill the functional part of my relationship with Jodie (Or so I thought.). And I went home. Where I wanted to go. Yes, I went home. Where I wanted to go. And I went home. I phoned Sierra within an hour of my arrival. There it is.
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