#9 Northwestern Slovenia: August 18 - 24, 2007
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Austria & Slovenia: Their Divergent Orientations
Austria
Unlike the somewhat blurry transition between Italy and Austria near
the Dolomites--a transition muted by shared alpine culture--you know when you've
crossed the line drawn between Austria and Slovenia. The differences in their
respective relationships to their histories are just as prominent as the differences from having been on opposite sides of
the east-west divide in the Cold War Era.
We are always a bit shocked at how, for the most part, the Austrians have swept the
World Wars under the rug. In Germany, their culpability in war, especially in
WWII, is ever-present. Museums, street memorials, TV specials, and international
cemetery programs chant the mantra: "We did this, don't let it happen
again--anywhere." In Austria, the national posture is more like "War, what war?"
The only roadside, war-related memorial we stumbled upon
during this last visit in Austria was to a
local, post-WWI struggle--a struggle that was resolved by a vote in 1920 rather
than by bloodshed. . It's a gentle, affirming
memorial celebrating a happy, orderly end to a bit of unpleasantness in which
Austria was able to take back a region that was formerly a part of Slovenia.
(The WWI outdoor war museum we visited in Austria required an hours-long
pilgrimage to a mountain top).
Slovenia
In contrast, in our first minutes in Slovenia, we
encountered a grim, stark memorial that echoed the horrors of WWII. It honored
the suffering of those who built the mile-long tunnel we had just passed
through, a tunnel built by prisoners of the notorious Mauthausen, Austria
concentration camp.
The
border between Austria and Slovenia is within this tunnel and yet there was no
mention of the ugly bit of history on the Austrian side, only on the Slovenian
side. Later in the week, we were pausing to read a memorial to a remote
Slovenian village massacred by the Nazi's in retaliation for partisan activity,
though we never saw mention of equivalent events in Austria.
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On the heels of traversing the tunnel that was built by
people literally worked to death, was the high road going over Vršič
Pass in northern Slovenia. It was built by WWI Russian POW's of the Austro-Hungarian
Empire, of which Slovenia was a part. A memorial
plaque at the pass and a write-up in our guide book made the sad bit of history perfectly clear.
My guilt in benefiting from slave labor was growing, but I was at a loss as how to
navigate in
Slovenia with a dark history hanging over much of their infrastructure--history that
other countries must politely ignore.
By Day 10 in Slovenia we were using our 3rd piece of
infrastructure that was built by forced labor. This time it seemed even more
bizarre, as the WWI Russian POW's had built tourist walk-ways within an enormous
cave of stalactites and stalagmites. In their honor, one of the
cave's bridges was named the "Russian Bridge".
Upon hearing of the Russian Bridge, I again
slipped into my tourist remorse for being a socially irresponsible traveler
in
benefiting from the forced labor of POW's. Nowhere else but in Slovenia is such
history of infrastructure mentioned, and another piece was just added to our growing list.
As a way of dealing with my shame and conflict and
of honoring the sad past, I engaged the young guide to tell me more.
She didn't
know any more details about the prisoner's efforts, but was quick to add that
Russian POW's had built roads, bridges, and all sorts of wonderful things all
over Slovenia. Contrary to our sense of shame, her tone was more of "Yes, they
were great--everyone should have a Russian POW." Her casual attitude conveyed
that they were an ordinary part of her country's history and that there seemed
to be no guilt but instead a demeanor that said they'd been a good asset to own, like we'd speak of a
modern convenience.
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Her casual attitude, perhaps just a product of her youth,
caused us to re-evaluate. There was no question that the Nazi's were
exceptionally brutal in their use of POW's as expendable labor but we wondered if
the plight of the WWI Russian POW's perhaps hadn't been so desperate.
We thought back to the freshly renovated chapel part way up
the tortuous Vršič
Pass. It originally had been built by the Russian POW's to honor the death of
their comrades and guards killed in an avalanche while building the road. Building a
memorial chapel to their fallen was not
something that Nazi POW's were allowed to do. And some days later, Bill pointed out a photo in
the Kobarid museum that showed the Russian POW's working on our Vršič
Pass road that were interspersed with their Austro-Hungarian guards. All looked
well clothed, well fed, and equally content. Without the group photo caption, one
wouldn't have had a clue that the subjects were other than peers.
This particular look at the Slovenians' relationship to
their darker 20th century history was jangling to say the least as we swung from
tourist remorse for using infrastructure built by POW's to looking at the rather
calm attitude the Slovenian's seem to have about their past. At the very least, it is
clearly a part of their history and however it is internalized, it certainly
isn't ignored like it is in Austria.
Wrong Side of the Wall
Cream of the Crop
Slovenia was the northwestern-most corner of the former
Yugoslavia and was just east of the Iron Curtain dividing Europe after WWII.
Though it was always the more prosperous region in Yugoslavia, it clearly suffered from
being on the wrong side of the wall, and it's a difference that shows as you cross
the border into Slovenia from
Austria.
That being said, Slovenia is
the star of the Eastern European batch of countries to join the European Union (EU).
It is the only of the newest members so far allowed to officially use the Euro
currency on the street, as of 2007, and that is because it has the most solid
economy of the bunch. And it was the first of its group of 'transition
countries' to move from its borrower status with the World Bank to becoming a
donor partner.
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Slovenia's historically better times continues to show as it has that buzz of an energized society on the move. The purple and then
hot pink, tricked-out, VW bug's that we saw in the first town across the
border seemed adapt symbols of their "let's get going" mind set.
Slovenia's rate of smoking
is down in the range of the US's at about 23%, which must be one of the lowest
rates
in Europe. As of this month, it's joined several other EU countries in banning smoking in public places. The average
age of women having their first child is now almost 30. Condoms are marketed at
the grocery check-out counter with the bubble gum and candy bars. Their 100% literacy rate
is easy to believe and,
luckily for us, English is taking hold as the unofficial second language. The
roadside litter and general management of garbage is outstanding, especially in
comparison with their more Mediterranean-minded neighbors. Long distance bike
routes are being built and recycling bins are springing up. These and other social indicators
that are easy for us to spot reinforce
their image as a prosperous, focused country.
Eastern European Markers
But as before when in Slovenia, we immediately knew we were
in Eastern Europe. The one-lane width of some sections of the through roads, the
sometimes very shabby condition of the pavement, and the disregard for pedestrians
shown by many motorists were early reminders of their different heritage.
The poor quality of materials used in public and private spaces also spoke to a "catching-up"
mindset. Our fairly freshly remodeled little room in the resort town of Bled
probably wasn't right from the beginning. There was nothing unusual in what was amiss,
except for how long the list was. The problems with just the bathroom included:
a shower curtain that was too short and too
narrow; a bathroom floor drain that was at the highest point on the floor
instead of lowest; a shower head assembly that was just too cheap to have ever worked well;
a
toilet seat would only stay in the "up" position if held; a tiny speck of a sink
that didn't
hold water; and a bathroom light that only worked for about 10 minutes each day after
the host fiddled with it. Hey, but we did have hot water and the toilet worked
predictably.
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The standard of care for public spaces also repeatedly
triggered the "Ah, we're in Eastern Europe" response. Here, like
elsewhere east of the old divide, shattered concrete stairs with exposed rebar
were a usual sight. And the all-metal playground equipment in the schoolyard
where we paused for lunch our first day in the country could have
been plucked from our 1950's childhood memories. Once painted in primary colors,
none of it looked inviting today. Though they had added a classroom-sized,
covered sandbox to the grounds. (However, the young lads on this Saturday clearly
preferred playing on top of the roof, rather than in the sand.)
.
The "almost, but not quite right" button associated for us
with Eastern Europe was pushed at the tourist sights too. The town of Bled and
its glacier-formed lake is the #1 tourist destination in Slovenia, yet it wasn't
as polished as we expected. It was developed and heavily used, but didn't exude
the grandeur and pride we've come to expect when we are where the old money
of Europe used to vacation. Among other things, the lack of a cohesiveness in the lake-side
architecture detracted from the overall look. And elsewhere, like in the Italian
Lake District or along Bodensee of Germany, one is greeted with occasional
formal gardens, well-designed sitting areas, and uplifting promenades around the
water. At Bled, the mostly functional quality of the loop around the lake left us
wondering why they couldn't do better.
And as we sat on a bench in the park outside the touristy
16th century castle above the Lake, one of our first Eastern European castles in
the Czech Republic came to mind. It was the same "almost, not quite right" look.
At both castles there was an unfortunately seamless transition between the dry, dusty, and a bit worn-out look
of the naturalized grounds to the "maintained" grounds, instead of the sharp
demarcation. Again, it was that functional, good-enough look instead of the pleasing, inviting-to-linger ambiance
that we expected. .
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The even farther-east memories of Turkey were triggered
several times while in Slovenia. The poor quality of maps in both countries was
wildly disappointing. In Slovenia, our road marked as a fine secondary
road on the map turned out to be gravel instead of asphalt for most of its length.
And the same road lacked any grade markers on the map unlike the smaller
adjacent road, although there was a disappointing 18% grade sign that greeted us
mid-way. (Fresh off of what was probably a mile or 2 of mostly 15-17% grades on
an Austrian pass, we did surprisingly well, but that's not the "clean out the carb's" event we go looking for.) Oh, and then there
was the matter of the names on the towns being switched on the road map, which adds to the
challenges of orienting oneself.
Easy Going
We do appreciate what Slovenia lacks in the
stereotypic, Eastern
European repertoire, and that's the residue of communist-era paranoia.
Their long-time, post-WWII ruler Tito was less oppressive in his control of Yugoslavia
than his communist counterparts and it shows. In northern-neighbor Czech Republic, some villagers would withdraw to their doorways
when we rode through town, making us feel like the outlaw riding into town in
the cowboy shows of our childhood. And in Czech we were careful not to be construed as
photographing locals--people still stinging from the surveillance of secret
police. None of that comes to mind when in Slovenia.
In contrast to other former communist nation peoples, the Slovenes seemed at ease and trusting.
Rental bikes weren't locked up in front of the shop, nor were they locked when
we saw the same bikes at a trail head. Our Lake Bled host explained that we had
a key to the front door, but it was never locked. The shed where our bikes were
stashed at night wasn't locked either. And when it came to evaluating whether I dare
blatantly trespass on a homeowner's property for a photo, I decided it wouldn't
be considered a threat. There was no gate or a fence and my sense was that it
would be OK in Slovenia. It's not even an option in some places like Italy and
Corsica where the heavy use of fencing made it hard to
even pause in the shade and such trespassing would seem far too traumatic to
risk on some Czech's.
Our general impression of Slovenians continues to be that they are a
confident, optimistic, and up-front people which makes it easy to be guests in their
country, despite the hopeless feeling their language elicits in us.
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Scenic Beauty
As travelers coming
from the stunning natural beauty of the US West and Pacific Northwest, we have
learned that we
are hard to impress. We try to contain our snobbery and still visit the local
"must see's", but not surprisingly, as we made our north to
south arc of western Slovenia's premier tourist areas, it came up short like that of many other
areas
before it. .
The raved-about Lake Bled area had its Vintgar Gorge walk, just like Austria had
their developed gorge walk 30 miles
away. We don't have exactly the same kind of scenery in Oregon and Washington,
but all of the components are oh-so familiar: short segments of rapids in
rushing creeks, small waterfalls, water-carved and tumbled rocks, and the lush
greenery of a damp and shaded river. What is different about these compressed
components in Europe is that unlike at home, they are spruced up for tourist
sights, complete with entry fees.
The Europeans build overhanging wooden walkways,
install stairs and sell refreshments at one or both ends of these little gorges.
At Vintgar Gorge, the almost 1 mile of walkways were in place by 1893. They don't go as far
as to make them suitable for "handycaped" as the most recent Austrian sign
stated, but they definitely make them suitable for family outings. So, the
Vintgar Gorge
walk like Lake Bled itself with its island with a church on it, left us less
than dazzled. But, it's what they've got and that's what we'd come to see so we
saw
it.
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The Julian Alps (named after an early visitor to the area,
Julius Caesar) were the real "must see" on Bill's list for
this visit to Slovenia but they, like what we'd seen of Austria's Alps, came
up short. Yes, they were pretty and may get a second visit, but they didn't make
it on to the Top 10 List of Destinations but rather are a site to see on the way to
something else.
The Show-Stopper
This Can't Be Happening
It finally happened, it was as we were exiting Slovenia's
Julian Alps that I was suddenly living one of the
many little nightmare scenarios that my planner/worrier mind had scripted: I
was rolling down the road in a camper or "caravan" with a couple of
strangers and Bill was left in the dust on his bike. My bike was strapped onto
the roof of the vehicle; my bags on the floor around me. Bill and I said
"Good-bye" expecting to
meet in front of the tourist info office in the next town.
It Just Doesn't Work
In the middle of Touring Season #7, we finally had our
first show-stopper of a mechanical failure. Bill's diligence as a self-taught
bike mechanic had
prevented all of the customary ailments from occurring over the years, like brake
or shifter cables snapping, chains breaking, or broken spokes incapacitating a
wheel. And we'd been lucky with the uncommon failures, like a couple of cracked rims,
as
we'd been able to limp into a town with the injuries. But this one was different. This
time I was stuck with coasting on the downhills and pushing on the flats and
up the hills.
Hours earlier when I was on the final stretch of 17% grade
near
the summit of the Vršič Pass in the
Julian Alps, my gears had started slipping. Jarring
and unruly, I didn't think much of it beyond feeling decidedly un-cool as the day-cyclists passed
me by. Bill was some distance behind me taking photos so I settled on asking him for yet another rear derailleur
tweaking at lunch. But eating in the warm sun and
the hubbub of tourists and sheep at the scenic summit were enough for me to forget
about the needed consultation.
It
was only upon resuming pedaling after miles on the steep descent that was I reminded
of the problem.
The Diagnosis
Bill was puzzled when we finally stopped for the tweaking as he'd already made several adjustments
in the last week or 2. He checked for other maladies, like frayed cables and
broken teeth on the chain rings. But as classically happens at the doctor's office,
everything looked fine, it just felt terrible. I impatiently assisted in what
surely
must be a trivial problem as Bill buried his nose in the guts of the drive train
as he turned the pedals and we slowly rolled the bike downhill. "All is in
order" in German and Italian came out, but still no answer as to the cause of the
malfunction.
Bill rode slowly behind me to watch the rear derailleur and
validated my symptom reports as the metallic clanging became startlingly more
frequent. Then, the dreaded "Let's swap bikes" test occurred. Side by side, our
bikes look quite similar but I feel like I'm riding a child's tricycle when on Bill's
bike and he answers back with "How do you pedal on your toes?"
The always-quick
swap advanced his thinking from the derailleur to the hub: either the grease was
gone or an improper grease had been used in the hub assembly and it had now become too
thick. It was beyond me how a dab too much or too little of grease could so
suddenly cause the banging, clanking, and spasmodic lurching, but the logic held
for the trained diagnostician.
I pedaled on as best I could as the slipping and clanging
progressed from an occasional event to one that disrupted about half my strokes. As Bill was
working through the scenarios of attempting a repair on the road, I was plotting
how to get off the road as quickly as possible. Bill flagged a passing cyclist
who informed us that there was no bike shop in our next overnight town, nor for miles
around. He also incorrectly said that after the next rise, the remaining
3-4 miles into town were all downhill. The town was definitely in striking
distance, but being late Friday afternoon in high season meant getting in before dark wasn't
good enough--we risked having no lodging if we didn't make it in before dinner
time.
In minutes, the status of my bike's ailment was changing from
"annoying symptoms" to "inoperable." I soon found myself optimizing coasting
on the downhills and having to push even when it was flat.
Amazingly, pedaling wasn't producing any forward motion at all. I put out my
thumb in the universal hitchhiking position as I trudged down the road pushing
my bike. I thought an old lady pushing a bulky bike would be a compelling sight,
but no one stopped even to inquire.
I told Bill to start
looking for someone to ask for a ride, perhaps friendly looking folks parked for a
snack at a picnic area or a rural homeowner with a suitable vehicle. I wanted to
get a ride rather than risk hours on the roadside jury-rigging a repair. I had
great confidence in Bill's diagnostic and repair abilities, but just didn't feel
we should risk the small chance of failure if there was another option.
Bailing Out
I'd spotted a camper with German plates parked across the road
but the very athletic, middle-aged man hopped in his cab too quickly for me to
engage him. I coasted on and watched in my mirror as he made a U-turn and headed
my way. He obliged me by stopping when I flagged him down and his
college-aged son responded with a clear "Yes" when I asked if he spoke English.
Another clear "Yes" came back without discussion when I asked if they would give
me and my ailing bike a lift to the next town.
Bill pedaled back to us and helped me load my gear into the
camper while the German duo tied my bike on the roof where their kayaks would
soon be. Bill jotted down the license plate number and waved good-bye as he was
left to pedal into town. I felt quite comfortable with my situation as I had
decided that the likelihood of mischief from tourists was lower than that from locals who
had more resources to draw upon to make trouble. The father and son were on a
kayaking trip and their bikes strapped on the back were a reassuring symbol of
shared interests. The son had gone to school for a year in Nebraska and papa's
English was up to staying in the lively conversation.
I gulped as we rolled up and down several hills on this
"downhill" route--hills that I would have been pushing up were it not for their
kindness. It wasn't long and they were unloading me, my bike, and gear on the
corner near tourist info as I'd requested and they were off.
Lodging was tight but Bill (with his ever-useful German
language skills) found us a room for 2 nights, which would give us a full day to
work on my bike. If it wasn't repairable, we'd stay longer and take a bus on
Monday to a major city to buy a new wheel. Fortunately, the tourist info folk's
huddle had yielded an outdoor adventure shop that they thought had a bike
mechanic and we were on their door step when they opened the next morning.
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The Moment of Truth
We didn't really want the mechanic, but instead wanted
access to his workbench. As expected, the mechanic didn't recognize our exotic
hubs as the non-factory-sealed "Phil Woods" that could be repaired. He did
however allow us to use his space, and Bill dug into the hub. Just as he
expected, the several year's old grease was now so thick that the springy
"pawls" were frozen in place and couldn't engage in a gear-like fashion as the
wheel went around.
Amazingly, all of my pedaling effort was dissipated as wasted
energy because of an 1/8th of a teaspoon of the too-thick grease. Bill's
diagnosis was right-on, as was his confidence in being able to fix it. In
hindsight, he would have been able to make a swift and complete repair on the
road. The cure didn't even require the solvent bath we'd hoped the mechanic
would have but didn't--persistence with our pile of paper napkins was good enough
to remove the glop. And the mechanic also didn't have the specialized light
weight grease that was needed so Bill was stuck using our chain
lubricant.
Sidewalk Consultation
Our string of good luck continued to come on the heels of
this unfortunate mechanical failure, as later that afternoon we ran into a
British couple we'd spoken with a few days earlier. They'd traveled over the same
steep passes in their rental car and endured the same horrific downpours since
parting and were eager to compare notes. At the end of the conversation, we
learned we'd been talking with an engineer who was quite able to explain my
sudden mechanical failure.
He said that grease is really a soap that serves as a time
release capsule for a lubricant, and that the lubricant does its job by slowly seeping out of the
soap. At some point, the last of the lubricant is gone, leaving only the
now-stiff soap behind. The grease the mechanic had used on my hub was likely too
heavy to begin with and time plus the heat transferred from my nearby disc
brakes had finally stiffened the soap to the point of locking my "pawls" in place. The
heavy braking on the last, steep descent from the pass had triggered the rapid, final failure of a
grease already on its last gasp.
We knew that Bill's wheel had been assembled by a different
mechanic and weren't surprised when breaking into his hub revealed acceptable,
though aging, grease. Undoubtedly his hub had the right, or at least a better grease
in it. Had his wheel hub had the same product as mine, it would have
failed earlier as he both uses his rear brake more than I do and his total load
is heavier. Not only had Bill been able to readily fix the problem, we now had
more clarity about the cause and the solution that we'd ever hoped to get from
the mechanics once back home.
The next morning we headed out of Bovec, our bike-repair
lay-over village, with confidence that our mechanical problems were behind us.
At this point, we'd completed our westward journey across half of the northern portion
of Slovenia adjacent to Austria and would now be touring south along its western
border with Italy. The "must see" sites that seem to be weighted to
this end of the country came up almost daily as we headed south in this country that is about the size of Wales.
Where We Are Now, September 26, 2007: Makarska, Croatia
The online and TV weather forecasts predicted that the
storm which caused flooding in Spain would hit hard in Croatia, bringing heavy
rains, lightning, and high winds. We followed the reports for 3 days and decided
to find a nicer tourist apartment and hunker down for 2 days and 3 nights rather
than be on the narrow roads in the storm. But....it seems that the storm was a
bust. Heavy overcast, a few showers and a few gusts today made us feel a bit
foolish for sitting it out. But once again, another unexpected Croatian
lay-over has been good for catching-up on our chores. So another webpage update
was completed, another "roll" of digital photos has been culled, and Bill is
pleased with his time spent studying German.
We'll be in Dubrovnik in a few days. After sightseeing there
and checking the weather report, we'll board a ferry for Bari, Italy. There
we'll bike across the "boot" of Italy, then take a ferry to Sicily. There is
even talk of flitting over to Tunisia for a few weeks without the bikes,
depending on the late fall weather.
We haven't sorted out how we'll get to Frankfurt from Sicily,
but we'll be back in the States at the end of the first week in December.
Love,
Barb
