Lou-bljana

I’d never even heard of this town before seeing it in a book about weekend trips around Europe. Considering A) the book included an article on New York, and failed to mention it was about 6,000 miles from Europe, and B) within it, casually mentioned that “Bungalow 8 is a pretty good club option, though you should ‘dress for success’ or feel the bouncer’s wrath”, I didn’t put much credence in what the book was telling me about what a quaint little town Ljubljana was. Given its cavalierly understated attitude about the Bungalow scene, I was expecting anything between a concentration camp for out-of-work prostitutes, and a concentration camp for out-of-work fluffers. Basically, I opted to go into it with an open mind, and hope for the best.

First off, the train ride from Vienna to Villach was easily the most beautiful ride I’d ever had. I hadn’t seen that much green since Scrooge McDuck moved off the gold standard. Secondly, I had the “good” fortune of being laid-over in Villach in the train station from midnight until 4:30am. I threw my huge bag into a storage locker, and brazenly pranced out into the street with my laptop draped over my shoulder, looking for the nearest hotel bar where I thought I’d get started writing about Vienna. Turns out, Villach is a nasty place where all the bars close early. Except in the train station. Which did more than enough to explain the dregs that were shoveling cigarettes, coffee, and beer into their face hand over fist. I pretty much followed suit. After, of course, I lockered up the laptop as well.

We all sat around a television watching the Czech Republic smack the hell out of the Austrian soccer team. Austria is downright awful, by the way. And I don’t speak any German/Austrian, but I can tell everyone in the room was thinking exactly that. Or maybe it was “I hope this kid passes out with his storage locker ticket sticking out of his mouth. I have dibs on the ipod…” It’s hard to tell the difference after that much cigarettes, coffee, and beer.

I arrived in Ljubljana at 6:30am. Miserable. Though I got up around noon and canvassed the town rather well by about 6pm. Ljubljana is a town of about 277,000, so I guess it shouldn’t surprise anyone that it took me as much time to learn the town as it took me to learn the West Village. Hold on, where is Morton St. again? Exactly. I was lost all weekend.

Slovenia just happened to be in the midst of a massive heat wave while I was there. This prompted a move on day two to Atlantis, Slovenia’s baddest ass water park since the Roman invasion. I assume Rome invaded at some point or another. I paired up with an Aussie named Lou, since waiting in line for rides behind 7 year-olds by yourself is clearly the apex of tragedy. In Atlantis, there was not only a hidden city of water slides and otherwise overt awesomeness, but a room called The Cave which was exactly the room I needed at my prom, under about 1.3m of water. People pretty much went in there to bone. And oblivious others carted their kids along in inflatable swimmy conga lines. It was rather nefarious, but still way too excellent to warrant any criticism. Especially from any of you that didn’t feel the throbbing baseline. Wait. Throbbing what??

Speaking of throbbing whats, my very scientific and even more heterosexual inspection of the Speedos in Europe has led me to the classification of two separate Speedo-wearing species: the up-tucker, and the down-tucker. This is not a question of nature or nurture, as this is clearly a personal preference. My question is: what leads one to the preference of the up-tuck? That seems like a most unusual, and uncomfortable option, unless of course you were planning on going to the Cave with a date… or even just to watch. Then I suppose it makes sense, in a peacocking sense. Aggressive, but I respect the effort.

The next day, we rolled out to Lake Bled, which is about a 90 minute bus ride from Ljubljana. This was probably the best looking lake I’d been to since growing up near a petri dish like Lake Kinnelon. There was a small islet in the middle with an even smaller church (um, duh) and about four other small buildings on it, along with a castle (surprise!!!) waaay up on a cliff. I have no idea how something like that gets built. Then again, I have no idea how a douche like DJ AM gets so much ass, so I suppose mine is not exactly a position of omniscience.

The water at Lake Bled was amazing. Beautiful. Perfect for a hot day, and as clear as the tragedy that is Lindsay Lohan's butchered opportunity. There was also a long, steep toboggan ride down the side of the hill/mountain, which absolutely had to be done. And was.

I had a 7:10am train on Sunday to Pula, which, after a 4am night the night before, I miss brilliantly. After waking up around 11:00, I head out to Postojna, home of the world’s second-largest underground cave network. Guess who forgot their camera? Anyway, it’s an hour by bus, and after sleeping through my stop, I wake up about five km away from Postojna. I schlep back the five km, only to find out it’s another three km to the caves. These things better be pretty fucking incredible. Once there, I am modestly ridiculed for my ignorance in thinking there would be a bus back to Ljubljana on a Sunday. Why would I be dumb enough to think the busses ran in both directions? I have no idea. Apparently, in this part of the world, I am a huge running joke.

So, a train is my only option back to the city, and it’s a full kilometer further than the bus station. Why wouldn’t it be? There is one at 6:50 and one at 9:13. Not wanting to get back to town around 11pm, I make a conscious effort to roll back to town on the 6:50. Little did I know, that after a positively incredible cave excursion, where the temperatures dipped to about 10 degrees Celsius (as I was the only one unaware, I was walking around with my arms inside my short sleeves and my toes turning purple and black), it would be 6:30 by the time I reached ground level again.

It is a four km walk to the train station. All uphill. And why not? God’s a dick. So, I decide to hitchhike. An old Slovenian or some other weather-beaten Balkan picks me up and drops me off halfway, where I start trucking it up the hill. I make it, with about a minute to spare. My cock is fucking huge.

A real good town, and Slovenia itself is incredibly beautiful. For never having heard of Ljubljana before, it is a surprisingly trendy, cosmopolitan little city. Not to mention, if you ever see “cevapcici” on a menu, fucking order it. They are the most delicious little beef sausages marinated in salt, pepper, beer, and some other shit that everyone I ask refuses to tell me about. Maybe its shaved unicorn tusk or rhino scrote or something. Either way, I don’t care. The shit is amazing. Get some.