Europe Travel - Part 64

Tamada: The Toastmaster, Patriarch of Traditional Georgian Feasting

Republic of Georgia

by E.P. Wohlfart

After eight hours in a crowded marshrutka our vehicle – one of the many dusty vestiges of Soviet Russia here in the Georgian Republic – is waved down by two men. On this empty road in the middle of nowhere there is a crossfire of words and I only catch “englesi” before I am shoved out and find myself traipsing behind my suitcase and two strangers, across a tea plantation, wearing the wrong pair of shoes.

I am soon seated with instant friends around a table and toasted with sweet Georgian wine as “the radiant woman who brings the sun.” “Emma gamarjos!” Not a bad welcome, I think, for a lowly archaeology student. I do not know it yet, but this is my first encounter with the tamada.

Our interpreter does not bother to translate this word, and she has good reason not to. The tamada is not a mere ‘toastmaster’. He is the collective soul of the Georgian people. He is warm and welcoming, a proud father and a dedicated son, a patriot, and an admirer of women. He is an incurable romantic, deeply nostalgic, and he has a kind word for everyone. There is not a feast too informal for him to attend. If there is wine – and there always is – there is a tamada.

Every evening for five weeks I watch in awe the oral dance of this ancient ritual. We sit down to supper and each glass is filled with local vino¸ which seems to me more like sangria or grape cordial, and beautiful Georgia is toasted – “Sakartvelo gamarjos!”- with the sensitive nostalgia of an aging lover. On occasion, the tamada calls out “Alaverdi!” to one of the more distinguished participants, who then rises and elaborates on the tamada’s speech. This lyrical exchange of toast and elaboration often takes five minutes or more and our interpreter struggles to keep up with the metaphors and nuances of poetic Georgian.

A glass half empty is immediately topped up and toasts follow in a succession as quick as speeches are long. Toasts go out to our cook, to family and in-laws or in-loves as Georgians call them, to love, to our guests, to women, and to each of us sitting at the table. We are addressed one by one and praised for our particular traits and accomplishments. During my all too short stay in Georgia I learn from a variety of tamadas that I am a diligent worker, a woman of most hardy stock, an eloquent speaker, and a pearl of Scandinavia. It is no wonder that all Georgians seem to have a strong sense of identity.

A good tamada makes his job seem effortless. After being called upon to give a few impromptu toasts, in which I stammer about hospitality and teach everyone how to toast in Swedish, I have no illusions left: being tamada is both laborious and an art form. Because Georgians only drink after a toast is made, it is up to the tamada to set the pace for the festivities. He must sense the shifting moods and make people drink more if they are too sober and drink less if they are too drunk. If he is losing the attention of a guest, he must engage and inspire her with a carefully selected toast or by encouraging the best singers present to perform. He must be forceful enough to take charge in every situation, without appearing commandeering or disrupting the romantic atmosphere. Perhaps most impressive of all is his tolerance for alcohol. The tamada must drink each glass “bolonde” – bottom up – and he must never appear intoxicated. That would be disgraceful.

After a few evenings with an experienced tamada it is impossible not to get swept up by the Georgian spirit. When we go out, even if only our little group of Anglophones, we invariably end up electing a tamada and toasting everything under the sky. When we invite our new Georgian friends along and toast them with Russian beer, we learn that when it comes to the sacred toast, beer is a sarcastic and insulting beverage. Oops! Luckily, they forgive us, and we immediately order more wine.

If You Go:

As a citizen of the United States of America, Canada or the EU you do not need a visa to visit the Republic of Georgia. The stamp you receive in your passport upon landing will be sufficient travel documentation for visits less than 90 days. If you do not speak Georgian or Russian, it is wise to arrange for a guide to meet you before landing. Even at T’bilisi International Airport it can prove difficult to find locals who speak European languages.

If you do not have a programme of your own, a variety of package tours are available:
www.travelguidetogeorgia.com
www.exotour.ge

About the author:
E P Wohlfart is an independent historian and writer with an archaeology degree, a laptop, and a maxed-out library card. Occasionally her line of work takes her out of the dusty library and into some very beautiful and hospitable places. More at: www.epwohlfart.com

All photos are by E. P. Wohlfart.

Cliff Side Temple Tombs of Fethiye, Turkey

by W. Ruth Kozak

I’m standing at the bottom of a steep flight of stone steps. High above me I can see the facades of the Doric-style temples that are cut into the cliff face of the mountain. I’ve waited years for this moment, but I’m ready to give up.

“Come on! You can do it!” my companion urges.

Ever since I saw pictures of them in the National Geographic years before, I’ve dreamed of visiting the Lycian tombs at Fethiye, Turkey. But can I reach them? I’m already exhausted from the 40C heat and the long slope I’ve walked up from the town.

These pillar tombs, carved in the rock face resemble small ‘houses’ and were modeled on the wooden houses of the Lycians. Important dynasts were laid to rest here. The Lycians who once inhabited this area were peaceful folk who founded the Lycian Federation, the first democratic union known.

I catch my breath and take a step up. I’d waited years for this moment. So I haul myself up the precarious two hundred steps until I am standing in front of the most predominant of these marvels, the Tomb of Amyntas, which dates to the 4th century B.C. The tomb chamber is empty and very small, but the magnificent view across the tiled rooftops of the village and town of Fethiye to the sparkling turquoise sea make a the long trek up worth the effort.

Below is the beautiful little town of Fethiye beside a sparkling bay strewn with islands. The town is built up the hillside, The ruins of a crusaders castle once occupied by the Knights of Rhodes crowns the hill. The rock tombs dominate the town, There are many sarcophagi in the town itself.

Fethiye is a traditional Turkish market town occupying the site of ancient Telmessos Although there are plenty of tourists about, most of them stay at the out-of-town resorts. My pension was located on the hillside overlooking the harbor. That morning, my friend and I relaxed on the roof terrace which was decorated in Turkish style, and were served a delicious traditional Turkish breakfast: boiled egg, cheese, tomato, olives, bread and honey and apple tea. Then we set off to explore the area and see the fabled Lycian tombs.

After accomplishing the long-awaited hike up to the tombs, my companion and I spent the day at Belceky Beach located on a bay surrounded by pine-forested mountains. The sea here is absolutely gorgeous, clear turquoise and very warm . The nearby village of “Oludeniz” is located on a lagoon of the same name that means “Dead” or “Calm Sea”. But the sea there certainly wasn’t calm. Big rollers crashed in on the pebbly shore. It’s a popular resort with lines of colourful umbrellas and lots of tourists. Parasailers soar out over the sea.

Behind the beach, a few brave people plummet off the cliff in what they call “tandem paragliding” with Turks hanging on their backs (or were they hanging on to the Turks?). Oludeniz is the starting point for the Lycian Way, Turkey’s only marked trekking route which winds along the coast to Antalaya.

At the village bazaar, I haggle with the jewelry sellers and watch a traditionally dressed lady rolling out gozleme, a kind of thin pancake, like a crepe but made with dough instead of batter, filled with shredded potato, cheese and onions. A delicious snack while waiting for the dolmus to take us back to Fethiye. I would have liked to have stayed longer, to go cruising down the Turquoise Coast. But that’s something I can look forward to on my next visit, for I will certainly return.

Private Trekking Tour in the Fethiye Mountains

If You Go:

Turkish bus service is excellent and there is a large choice of buses from most main towns on the coast.

Accommodations: Fethiye has a good selection of budget and mid-range accommodations. Resort hotels are usually booked in advance.

Entrance to the tombs is free. You just need a good set of legs to climb there.

The Fethiye Museum is open Tuesdays to Sunday 8.30 – 5.30 $2.00 entry

Lycian Turkey – Discover the Beauty of Ancient Lycia

www.colonialvoyage.com

About the author:
W. Ruth Kozak is a travel and historical fiction writer, and the former editor and publisher of TravelThruHistory.com. A long time ago she read about the Lycian Tombs of Fethiye in the National Geographic, but she never dreamed that one day she’d find herself at the bottom of the steep stairway that leads up to them and summon up the energy and courage to climb those steps for a close-up look.

Photo credits:
Fethiye amphitheater by Osmanyaylali / CC BY-SA
All other photos are by W. Ruth Kozak.

Meeting Fausto delle Chiaie (again)

The Unforgettable Street Artist of Rome

by Paola Fonari

A lean, bearded man is trailing a shopping trolley along the sidewalk.

‘Fausto!’ I call.

I have heard that Fausto delle Chiaie displays his work every day in Rome’s Piazza Augusto Imperatore, between Emperor Augustus’ Mausoleum and the Ara Pacis Museum, and I have come to seek him out. He turns and looks quizzically at me.

‘Brussels, 1980,’ I remind him.

‘Of course! Paola!’

In the eighties, he was living with a friend of mine in the trendy commune of Saint-Gilles, once home to the art nouveau architect Victor Horta, and now a hub for artists in Brussels. The whole third floor of my friend’s beautiful maison de maître was his studio. I remember the walls were covered with paintings of dark, macabre figures. He never sold any. And like his paintings, he seemed depressed back then. But today, under the bright afternoon sun, he seems delighted to see me.

He looks fit and well, and younger than his sixty-six years. ‘This is where I am now,’ he says, arms outstretched to his surroundings. ‘I’m just about to set up.’ He takes a shoe-box out of his shopping trolley. It’s filled with cards, each with a few words scrawled on it in various languages. There is a low wall all along the sidewalk, supporting the railings surrounding the mausoleum.

I amble with Fausto to one end. An outline of the lower half of a woman’s body is chalked on the street. The upper part of the shape disappears under barriers which surround road works.

‘This is where my show begins,’ Fausto says, and places a card on the wall just near the chalked figure. ‘Mezza nuda,’ I read. ‘Half naked.’ We stroll along the wall, and every few metres he places another card on the wall.

‘My exhibition is called ‘Roma Oggi – Rome Today,’ he tells me. ‘Some people call it arte povera – poor art.’

When all his forty-five cards are in position he goes back to his shopping trolley, and near every card, he places objects. Simple, everyday bits and pieces. On the wall above the half naked woman he puts a high-heeled silver sandal. A map of Rome, crumpled and rolled into a ball, takes its place beside ‘Two Thousand Years After’. ‘That’s how the map was when I found it,’ he says. A faded picture of Christ’s face is beside a ‘Sold’ sign. Below the face are the words ‘30 denari.’ A snipped bicycle lock is labelled ‘It was beautiful!’ Beside a severely smashed toy car, the sign says ‘Visit without rushing.’ ‘It’s a warning,’ he says. ‘People go about their business in too much of a hurry, and it’s dangerous.’ Near a ‘Tour Guide’ sign, he places a tangled jumble of earphones and a twisted piece of wire holding up a white flag. ‘You see them all the time in Rome,’ he says, ‘groups of tourists, just following their guides. They listen, but they don’t see. And here, too, most people just rush past. But I can pick out the ones who are interested – the ones who understand. They take their time, they talk to me, they ask me questions. Like you.’

It occurs to me that were he a stranger, I would probably be one of those hurrying by, dismissing his Open Air Museum as rubbish, but I feel privileged to have the artist talking me through each work and what it means to him. Every piece is meticulously linked to its sign, to Rome, and is an essential part of his social commentary.

‘This is my homage to René Magritte,’ he says, stopping beside a large square piece of cardboard on which are the words ‘Ceci n’est pas une émission de télévision’ – this is not a television programme.

‘Do you sell your work?’ I ask.

‘No, I don’t. If anyone likes a particular piece, I’ll sign it for them. But it stays here. This is my studio now. People can make contributions if they wish. Look, this is one of my favourites.’ It’s called ‘Doppelgänger’. It’s a photo of himself, standing against the wall of the Aria Pacis Museum across the road. ‘I’m part of my exhibition,’ he says. ‘Sometimes I go and stand over there for a while.’ He crosses the road to demonstrate.

I stop to look at a large gold-embossed Bible. The sign beside it says ‘Non metteteci la mano sopra – don’t put your hand on it.’ ‘It’s for the politicians, he says.

They’re a bunch of liars. All of them.’

‘Are you happy?’

‘I’m lucky. Many artists think it’s great if they put on a dozen exhibitions. I’ve been coming here every afternoon for the last twenty years. Three hundred and sixty-five times twenty. Just do the maths; that’s a lot of exhibitions.’

I ask him about a sign that says ‘Zoo.’ It doesn’t seem to belong with any particular object. ‘There’s a mouse that scuttles behind the railings at night,’ he explains. ‘He’s not here now. But I’ll draw him for you.’ He takes a card and a felt tip pen from his trolley. His fingers dance across the page, and it’s ready. ‘I’ll sign it. It’s yours.’

Having spent an hour discovering Fausto’s work, I head back to my bus, clutching my personal, original, signed mouse picture.

If You Go:

For more information (in Italian), see it.wikipedia.org
To see a photo of Fausto in his outdoor museum, see www.flickr.com

About the author:
Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. She has lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, speaks five and a half languages, and describes herself as an “expatriate sin patria”. Her articles have featured in publications as diverse as “The Buenos Aires Herald”, “The Oldie”, and “Practical Fishkeeping.” Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, thus making each new destination a real home. She currently resides in Belgium.

France: Finding the Real Paris

by Julie H. Ferguson

On a June morning, my husband and I munched warm brioches in a Paris brasserie and talked over ideas for my seventh visit, his ninety-third. It was too short a stay for ambitious projects and we were determined to discover new places and events.

“Let’s shoot for cheap or free things to do,” I said. “And history.”

“Food!” James said. “I want to show you the best supermarket in the world for foodies.”

“With only a week, I want quintessential Paris, not tourism.”

James turned to the hovering waiter, “Encore, deux cafés.”

The big cups of creamy coffee arrived and soon James had sketched out a plan. Our week was to be intriguing, filled with authentic Paris that any tourist can fit around the obligatory sightseeing. We paid our bill and headed to the Left Bank for our first mini-adventure.

We meandered down the oldest street in Paris, the Roman road to Lyons and Rome. Once the haunt of Balzac and Hemingway, La Rue Mouffetard is an eclectic collection of small specialty shops on a short lane that ends in the Square St. Médard where open-air stalls sell local fruit and vegetables. La Mouffe was bustling with Parisiens shopping for dinner and gossiping. The selection of French delicacies overwhelmed me: displays of food – wild boar sausage and honey from Corsica, sea urchins and silver sardines, soft goat cheese and blue Roquefort – overflow across the sidewalks and into the narrow cobbled street. I wanted them all.

Our mouths watering, we pounced on samples bursting with flavour. As the wares are often unavailable in North America, I wished I had a kitchen. We did load up with olives, unusual cheeses, and a small duck terrine for dîner en chambre at our hotel and later bought a decadent French dessert from a patisserie.

Restaurants featuring food from many nations line the side streets leading off La Mouffe. As we tend to make lunch our main meal of the day when travelling in Europe, we pored over the menus trying to decide where to eat – the smell of Greek moussaka clinched it. A pichet of wine was all that reminded us we were still in France. Savouring my last mouthful in the sunshine, I said, “It’s not hard to imagine what La Mouffe was like in the Middle Ages. All you have to do is visualize everyone in medieval clothes and carrying baskets full of live chickens.”

Early next day we walked to the Quai d’Orsay, outside the famous museum on the Seine, to take a cruise that few tourists consider worthwhile. The boat sails up Le Canal St. Martin in the heart of Paris. The Seine delivered misty morning views of the Louvre and the Left Bank, and after passing Notre Dame to port, the boat entered a lock that led into the Paris Yacht Basin. At the far end, I could just see a black hole – the opening to a 2.4 kilometer long tunnel below the Place de la Bastille where the infamous prison once stood.

Napoleon ordered the canal built in 1802 to supply a growing Paris with fresh water and food. His tunnel is an eerie place, musty and cold. With no electricity, it is pitch black too except where light streams through large holes in the roof. I listened for the ghost said to play a clarinet but the echoes were silent; all I could hear was the steady chug of the diesel engine.

Back in the sunlight again, we entered the residential part of Paris called St. Martin. This old district is now the home of fashionistas and graphic artists. We glided on jade-coloured water under a canopy of trees, listening to an excellent commentary from our guide. Parisiens thronged the banks walking, cycling, or simply hanging out. Bridges for cars, trains, and foot traffic slid overhead or swung up to let us pass. The boat passed through 19 locks, each with its own keeper, before we disembarked at Parc de la Villette.

Returning to the residential part of the canal by cab, we strolled along its banks, and stopped for lunch at La Madonnina.

We always try to be in Paris on a Sunday because that is the day musicians from the top orchestras of France gather to play chamber music for an hour before dinner. Not only is the music superb, the location is divine. La Sainte Chapelle, close to Notre Dame, is the Chapel Royal of France. Built in 1248 for the saintly Louis IX to house holy relics, it is a double-decker, Gothic marvel. Peeking into the lower chapel, once used by the court’s servants, visitors see the vaulted ceiling decorated with tiny fleur-de-lis on an azure background. Gold leaf and scarlet heighten the opulence. We climbed a spiral staircase to the upper chapel where only the monarch and his family worshipped. It is quite different – the soaring, slender columns and tall stained glass windows are elegant and refined. It is here the concerts take place amid exquisite acoustics.

James and I arrived early for this performance so we could enjoy the chapels again and get seats near the front. In June, the audience was mostly locals with only a handful of tourists. We heard Mozart played on strings and a bassoon, and the notes were still whispering in our ears as we walked slowly along the Seine afterwards.

I had long wanted to visit the legendary and largest flea market in the world, Les Puces. We arrived as the vendors were opening up their permanent stalls. The narrow alleyways are crammed with antiques, junk, jewellery, furniture, art, clocks, and anything saleable, old and new. We happily rummaged for hours and even found a marble staircase for those who could afford it. Our efforts turned up a “real” Russian tiara for €10,000, an 11th century suit of armour for €3500, and a complete set of vestments for a bishop. We bought antique silver-plated soup spoons and two pashminas after spirited bartering. By 11:30 a.m., the markets were getting busy and we took a break to people-watch.

“Only in France,” I said, as three vendors got ready for lunch. One man found a table, smoothed out a white tablecloth, and laid cutlery and plates. A second produced three wineglasses and opened a bottle of Burgundy. The last man set out cheeses, a baguette, and a pot of soup. Sitting in the sun, they ate and drank, oblivious to the crowd milling around them.

We had lunch at the boisterous Chez Louisette where Edith Piaf got her start. This café is tucked in a corner of Marché Vernaison and took a while to find. Dark, noisy, and covered with Christmas decorations all year, I had the time of my life. Lousiette serves French fast food, so this is not the reason we went. In a corner was a miniscule stage that held one accordionist and a singer. We listened to a young chanteuse belt out French bar songs and two sets of Piaf favourites. The patrons went wild – standing-up, yelling, and throwing pieces of baguette at her, the barman, and anyone else who took their fancy. When, at 2:30 p.m., the wine bottles were empty, the food eaten, and the singer gone, we left to find the markets too crowded to enjoy. Besides, we were exhausted.

Our last outing was to the supermarket for foodies my husband had promised. La Grande Epicerie is the astonishing food floor of the Bonne Marché on Rue de Sèvres. Standing in front of the deli, my jaw dropped. James had asked me to buy a couple of items for our diner en chambre that night, but I couldn’t choose – the deli section was bigger than my local supermarket. Counters groan with salmon en croute, quiches, boeuf Wellington, 29 different kinds of olives, and items I couldn’t recognize. Customers wait three deep for a turn to buy. About 350 kinds of cheese grace another part, and hundreds of sausages are in the next. My husband, prowling the olive oils from around the Mediterranean, wouldn’t help.

“Surprise me!” he said. And grinned.
But it was the patisserie that undid me. I surprised James all right, but with the final bill.

Literary Paris: Private Book Lovers’ Tour

If You Go:

La Rue Mouffetard is in the southern part of the Latin quarter, close to the Pantheon.
Metro: Censier Daubenton (Line 7) is the closest, a block from Rue Mouffetard. Place Monge (line 7) and Cardinal Lemoine (line 10) are also options.
The market is closed on Sunday afternoons and all day Monday. Just before it closes on Sunday noon, the streets erupt with singing and dancing. Everyone can join the fun.

Several companies offer 2 ½ hour cruises up Canal St. Martin. We think the best is ParisCanal as they sail along both the Seine and the canal. Boats depart at 9:30am beside the carpark of the Musée d’Orsay (Metro: Solférino – line 12), arriving at Parc de la Villette (Metro – Porte de Pantin). Visitors can make the return trip from the Parc at 2:30pm, but we recommend spending time on foot in St. Martin and having lunch there. Take a cab back, it’s a long walk.
Cruises run daily from mid-March to mid-November with English and French commentary.
€16 for adults, €13 for 12-25 year-olds and over-60s, and €9 for 4-11 year olds. Infants and toddlers are free. Reservations are required: phone 01 42 40 96 97 (English spoken) or go to www.pariscanal.com.
Catch the Metro home from République, which is a hub for 5 lines.
Another cruise line at www.canauxrama.com has a shorter itinerary and different departure points.

To reach Sainte-Chapelle, take Métro to Cité (line 4) and walk a block up the Rue de Lutèce to the Palais de Justice. The entrance to Sainte-Chapelle is to the left of the Palais and its gilded iron gates.
For concert schedules and to buy your tickets (€25) online, visit http://www.classictic.com.
If you don’t have time for a concert, all the details you need to visit Ste. Chapelle can be found at sainte-chapelle.monuments-nationaux.fr.

Les Puces (the flea markets) of Paris cover 7 hectares and are open every Saturday, Sunday, and Monday all year (9am to 6pm). Some vendors accept credit cards, but take cash too.
Aim to get there early (9:00 a.m.) and leave after lunch when it’s too crowded. Wear comfortable shoes, as there are few places to rest, carry water, and beware pickpockets.
Metro – Porte de Clignancourt (line 4) and follow the crowd. Rue des Rosiers is the main street from which you access the separate markets. Some are covered, but most are in the open.
A map of the markets is at www.antikita.com, then click on “Access” on the top menu strip. Chez Louisette is in a corner of Marche Vernaison, which is on right-hand side of the map.

La Grande Epicerie
38 Rue de Sèvres
75007 Paris, France
01 44 39 81 00
www.lagrandeepicerie.fr
Metro: Sèvres-Babylone (line 10) or Vaneau (line 12).

About the author:
A non-fiction writer and avid photographer for 40 years, Julie H. Ferguson is the author of 17 books, including four on Canadian history, and countless articles that have appeared in national and international markets. An addicted traveller, she is intensely interested in the history and culture of foreign lands, as well as food and wine. Julie is a proud member of the BC Association of Travel Writers and Photoclub Vancouver. She can be reached at info@beaconlit.com and invites you to visit her website at www.beaconlit.com.

Photo credits:
Paris Metro station sign: DIMSFIKAS / CC BY-SA
Vaulted ceiling of Ste. Chapelle’ by © Jim Barton 2007 (Creative Commons)
All other images © Julie H. and James S. Ferguson 2006

Hiking Mount Golica

Northern Slovenia

by Larry Zaletel

“Go walking or go hiking up a mountain” my doctor said, “your knee replacement is fine.” When I visited my cousins in Slovenia four months later I learned that hiking there is a very popular sport. So I decided to take my doctor’s advice and participate.

Slovenia, located south of Austria, is an alpine country with plenty of mountains and places to hike. These include the Karavanken Mountains, Ljubelj Pass the gateway to Austria, Kranjska Gora also known for its skiing, and Mojstrana to name just a few. Hiking trails in the valleys and in the mountains attract visitors from all over the world. The best time to hike the high mountains is from April to November when the hiking hotels and mountain huts are open. Hiking hotels and hut accommodations are usually very basic without showers and have small rooms.

Begunje

Situated in the province of Gorenjska in Northern Slovenia is the small idyllic village of Begunje. This is the home of the Elan Company known for sports gear, especially skis. Begunje is also the home to the Slavko Avsenik Ensemble, an internationally-renowned Alpine folk music group. The Ensemble has been known for over the past forty years for their original Oberkrainer sound. The group is very popular in Slovenia, Germany, Austria and Switzerland. The most popular song of the Ensemble is the polka titled “Na Golici” in Slovenian or (On Golica) in English. In the music world it is also commonly know as Trumpet Echo. The title Na Golici is taken from the mountain of the same name, Golica which lies on northwestern edge of Slovenia on the border with Austria.

From Jesenice the road leads north and we drive with my cousins towards the mountain. The road is plainly marked and as we wind our way up the mountain we pass small farms situated off to the left side. The road is narrow in places. The mountain and the trees creep close to us with just enough room for us to pass as we twist and turn. The car climbs higher through the forest until we come upon a mountain guide who shows us the trail where we begin our hike.

We begin to climb at a farm where cows are grazing in the sunny fields,their bells clanging in the cool autumn mountain air. The narrow trails through the woods traverse ground studded with rocks, in places so large we have to gingerly climb over them. Every once in a while the woods open up into a clearings where in the distance the green valleys and mountains are visible. We stop at one location and face north toward the gray stone and granite faces of Mount Triglav (Three Heads) visible in the distance. Along the narrow rutted trail the valley floor is only a few centimeters down the mountainside. We stop occasionally to rest and to enjoy the scenery so it takes about three hours of climbing to reach the tree line at the top of the mountain. We stop to rest and my cousin’s wife provides sandwiches, tea, and water. My cousin unpacks some Slivovitz (Slovenian Plum Brandy) and we toast to our success.

A short distance up at the top of the mountain in a clearing is the remnants of an American B-17 bomber and a monument that was erected in 2002. The plane crashed there on March 19, 1944 near the end of World War II. Luckily the crew was rescued by Slovenian partisans.

On the mountain summit there is a rustic homemade wooden marker with the word Golica imprinted on it. On the ground concrete markers identify the border between Austria and Slovenia. The valleys below are green with hints of color as Mother Nature begins painting the red, yellow, and orange hues of autumn.

From the peak of Golica the panorama view seemed almost forever. It is a clear dayso the view of the adjacent mountains and valleys is unimpeded. I look down the mountain into Austria and see mountains, valleys, lakes, streams, and villages in the distance. Towards Slovenia lie the peaks of the Karavanken Mountains, the Kamnik Alps, the Ljubljana Basin, and the Julian Alps. Overhead in the sky the checkered pattern of contrails was visible from the many planes that fly over the area. As I stand in wonder straddling the border, with one foot in Slovenia and the other in Austria, never have I ever felt so insignificant. I gaze out over the countryside inhaling the smokiness of the fall air, and feel as though I am on top of the world.

Slovenia Off-the-Beaten-Path Day Trip from Ljubljana

If You Go:

There are guides available for hiking in Slovenia, www.slovenianalps.com. For further information and booking arrangements, Email: info@navacos.si, Telephone: +386 1 510 62 97, Fax: +386 1 510 62 95.

The legend on the illustration officially claims that the peak of Golica is 1834 meters or a little over 5000 ft.

Getting there:

There are no direct flights from the United States to Slovenia. However air travelers can go to Frankfurt, Munich, Paris, or London and connect with Slovenia’s Adria Airlines to Ljubljana Joze Pucnik Airport. Adria Airlines www.adria.si. Roundtrip fares average $1000 – $1500

Where to stay:

In Slovenia there are many places to stay including hotels and gostilnas. A gostilna is a modest country inn serving home cooked meals. There is not a hard and fast rule but many gostilna’s have sleeping arrangements especially if there is a picture of a bed hanging out in front of the establishment. They usually include breakfast in the morning. Slovenia also has many bed & breakfast (sobes). Throughout the country there are signs along the roadsides advertising them. The local tourist bureaus usually have list of sobes with prices and further information. They are highly recommended as a delightful way to meet the people and make new friends. Usually the price can be negotiated. Prices average about $45 – $80 per night and they are much cheaper than hotels and normally include breakfast. We have stayed in sobes in Novo Mesto, Lake Bled, Postojna, and Kranjska Gora and have revisited them on several occasions.

The Gostilna Pri Belokranjcu, Kandijska cesta 63, 8000 Novo Mesto, Slovenia is situated almost in the center of town across the street from the Renault factory and is close to two shopping malls. This family bed and breakfast has 28 rooms with double beds. The owners Branko and Mojca Vrbetic offers daily menus with home made bread and a local wine called Cvicek. Refrigerators and laundry services for extended guests are available. Slovenian, Serbian/Croatian, Russian, German, Italian and English are spoken. Tel 386 7 30 28 444, Price $60-$80 per night. Very good home cooked food. www.pribelokranjcu-vp.si

Where to eat:

Gostilna and Restaurant Ansenik
4275 Begunje, Slovenia
Telephone 386 4 530 70 30
www.avsenik.com

After spending over an hour on the mountain top taking photographs and videos we walked back to the car and drove down the mountain to a local Gostilna (bar, restaurant) where we enjoyed a Lasko beer. In front of the Gostilna is a wooden signpost that describes this area called the Valley under Mount Golica (Planina Pod Golico). This is a genteel family establishment that includes very good home-made Slovenian food, international cuisine, venison, fish and other seafood dishes. Additionally, they also offer both vegetarian and grilled dishes. Prices: Moderate. There is a children’s playground, conference area, and dance-floor. There is music on Wednesdays and Fridays evenings in the multi purpose hall which seats 220 persons. Hours: Daily 10:00 AM – 11:00 PM, Sunday: 10:00AM – 9 PM, Monday: Closed.

Pizzeria & Spaghettarija Don Bobi
Kandijska Cesta 14, 8000 Novo Mesto, Slovenia
Tel 386 7 338 24 00
don.bobi@siol.net

Extensive menu and moderately priced $8 – $18. Complete with indoor and outdoor dining. This is one of our favorites. Very good pasta and pizza.

About the author:
Larry Zaletel is a retired government auditor, freelance travel writer and an avid and dedicated traveler.

All photographs are by Larry Zaletel.