Yann has explained his kettlelessness. He generously donated his kettle to the bike shop and has been boiling water in a pot on the stove ever since. He also said that he’d found that railroad spike while bushwhacking between logging roads. I hope that his next found treasure will be something a bit more useful, like a kettle.
There is somebody on his floor with a sign on their door that reads “Paradise.” The word is glittery and backed by flamingos.
Could paradise exist in this 70s-era low-rise residential building? Why not?! The lobby has a full wall of mirrors on one side that arbitrarily corrugates into the corner. Fun!
The seating area is behind the partition wall. It features a pleather—short for pleasure leather—loveseat and a particleboard coffee table adorned with a pot of plastic foliage.
But wait, elegance doesn’t stop there! Two tall side tables flank the entrance, holding more fake plants, an empty vase, and a bowl of decorative spheres. Who was the first person to think to glue stuff to balls and sell them as home decor? And did they get rich off this idea?
The glitz and glamour extend all the way to the back of the lobby, where an inoffensive abstract print hangs over yet another ledge supporting a pot of fake plants, garnished by a lone pinecone.
This is paradise as managed by CAPREIT.
While I don’t personally find the building all that inspiring, Yann’s suite has positives. For starters, the cats live there. It’s also nice to have immediate access to scalding hot water instead of waiting 30 seconds to wash my hands with tepid water like at home. One of the items Yann has found for free (albeit not while bushwhacking) is an obscenely large tv which he has mounted on swing-out brackets. On it, I have access to three streaming services, which, honestly, overwhelms me since it’s been over a year since I’ve subscribed to any streaming service. That said, I’ve discovered the serenity that is the Ambient Expiration YouTube channel. It’s the deaf version of background music.
Currently, I am enjoying a rainy hike through the Kodama Moss Forest in Yakushima, Japan. Now that’s my idea of paradise.
While visions of Japan play in the background, I shall resume my recap of my adventures in Slovenia! Two months ago, our group headed to Nova Gorica, which loosely translates to “new hill.” This long overdue post is about our journey to that new hill.
Day 7: 60km and 1,475m of elevation gain.
930m of that day’s elevation gain happened within 10.6km in 30-degree heat, and I was still battling a cold. Day 4’s Vršič Pass climb had a majestic payoff, lending to the illusion that it was the most epic climb of our trip–and at the time, it was. As it turned out, the true quad burner of our tour was this day’s climb: Kolovrat. As far as tough climbs in Slovenia go, Climb Finder ranks Kolovrat at #4 while Vršič doesn’t even break into the top 10.
| ⛰️ | Kolovrat | Vršič |
| Length | 10.6km | 11.8km |
| Average Gradient | 8.7% | 6.9% |
| Steepest 100m | 15.4% | 12.7% |
| Total Ascent | 930m | 815m |
The climb began in Idrsko, just a little past the Airbnb where I had stayed two nights earlier. I had received a message from my Airbnb host asking me to leave cash on the table for the tourist tax an hour before I checked out, but because I didn’t read it until after I’d already left, I’d unintentionally dabbled in tax evasion. Not that I ever intended to correct my mistake, because, fuck that.
Hannah had also questioned the legitimacy of the Tourist Tax after paying the camping fees in Kobarid. After my experience with the Airbnb host’s request for a few extra euros on top of the 150 Euros I’d paid online, I asked Google to allay my suspicions. Here’s how I probably phrased my question:
“Is Tourist Tax a thing in Slovenia?”
‘Tis! Municipalities collect the tourist tax to offset visitors’ impact on public facilities, such as restrooms. No, not restrooms. These funds pay for clean streets, public lighting, parks, and pedestrian areas. After all, why should hard-working Slovenians pay for freeloaders like me when I want to throw away a piece of trash in their trash cans instead of flying back to Canada with luggage full of dried fruit packaging?
Evidently, the tourist tax isn’t unique to Slovenia. I have visited countries that apparently also collect a tourist tax, such as France, Japan, and Mexico. In those cases, the tax was likely baked into the cost of accommodations. I’d have preferred it to be the case in Slovenia because I dislike carrying loose change, especially since I wouldn’t be able to convert the leftovers into Canadian dollars.
With that gripe out of the way, I shall continue describing our ride to Nova Gorica. We turned right a block after the site where I committed tax evasion, and the road abruptly vaulted towards the sky. We’d barely had the chance for a proper warm-up. Still, I found my rhythm and kept the legs pumping until the road levelled out somewhat in the next town, Livek. I pulled over for shade in front of the first building I saw.
Next to the building was a rusty plough (absent from Google Street View), which I used as an improvised drying rack for my sweaty shirt. I sat cross-legged in my sports bra and bib shorts and watched cyclists trickle out of the shaded climb. I assumed the role of the ambassador of Livek and waved to my fellow cyclists, all of whom waved back. Ed and Hannah showed up soon after. I threw on my still-damp shirt and latched myself onto the back of the paceline. Much like in Kropa, I’d stopped just short of the town’s public drinking water source, which was on the other side of the building ahead of the one I’d squatted at.
Yeah! Our tourist tax euros at work! A pair of fellow tourist taxpayers were already there filling their bottles. Within ten seconds of meeting them, Hannah put her social skills to work. The duo appeared to be in their early to mid-20s and were on mountain bikes rigged with bikepacking bags. They told Hannah, and by extension, Ed and me, that they were from New Zealand. They’d also done the Vršič Pass climb, only they took the gravel route in its entirety!
I’d travelled over 8000km to get to Slovenia. Surely New Zealand was at least twice that (yep, 18000km in a straight line). “How long did it take for you guys to get here?” was my (admittedly banal) question for the couple. “30 hours.”
😧
The longest it’s taken me to travel anywhere by air was 25 hours when I flew back home to Montréal from El Calafate, Argentina, as it required four separate flights and an airport transfer in NYC. While worth it, it was still pretty horrible. 30 hours is bonkers.
I hope they felt Slovenia as much as I did.
The above photo was taken at my second rest spot in Livške Ravne after leap frogging the New Zealanders. You can see me nipping at their heels in this picture:
The New Zealanders jumped ahead of me in Livške Ravne, and that was the last I saw of them. Fortunately, it was not the last time I saw Ed and Hannah. I welcomed their arrival with a dorky thumbs-up:
I spent several minutes on this bench, watching butterflies flutter around the grassy slope. I’ve since come to associate butterflies with Slovenia. Sure, we have butterflies in Canada, but I seem to see them more often in the form of a tattoo.
I also noticed how fond Slovenians are of repurposing old bikes by spray-painting them one colour. Here’s a picture of Ed eyeballing a gender reveal bicycle shaped object:
From Livške Ravne onward, the three of us stuck together. We stopped in Volče, home of the Kolovrat Museum of the First World War, which was free for self-guided visits. A shipping container housed souvenirs, snacks, and refreshments. When I saw the price of a bottle of sparkling water, I decided I’d stick with the warm water I’d gotten for free in Livek. Thanks to Ed’s generosity, I ended up getting that cold bottle of sparkling water for free after all.
(I tend to kick into frugal mode right after a splurge, and that 150 Euro night in Idrsko was what did me in.)
We briefly explored the WWI trenches, but this view of the Soča Valley was our real reward.
After spending the whole day riding west of the Soča River, we finally crossed it and entered the university town of Nova Gorica. Our accommodation for the night was the most spacious place we stayed in throughout our time in Slovenia. In fact, all three of us showered simultaneously upon arrival, and not together, for there were three washrooms! There were also at least three bedrooms, and the attic space was packed with couches and multiple twin beds bordering the room, which I found weirdly institutional.
When I made a beeline for one of the showers on the main floor upon arrival, I didn’t realize the upstairs washroom had a washer and dryer. I cleaned the clothes I was wearing while in the shower and soaked additional items in the sink. After that, I hung them on the drying rack outside, but this turned out to be counterproductive.
Luckily, Fatema, who took a flatter route along the river, made it to the Airbnb right before the deluge. She took a shower in the attic washroom where the washer and dryer were kept, so I couldn’t deal with my extra-soggy clothing situation straightaway.
After Fatema had freshened up, Ed went upstairs to check out the machines and returned with the troubling news that the dryer door wouldn’t unlock. I headed up to personally investigate and discovered that it was a smart dryer that could connect to an app. That was all I needed to know to decide that smart dryers (or washers) were a dumb idea. Alas, unless I got my clothes in there, it was very unlikely I’d have dry clothes to wear the next day. I was determined enough to get the dryer going that I downloaded the app, but it couldn’t even locate the dryer. Finally, I realized that a fuse had blown, and none of us had noticed because the washroom skylights kept us from flipping on the lights.
Now everyone was ready to head out for dinner. Not in 5 or 10 minutes: NOW. I was wearing a windbreaker zipped over a sports bra. I was also hungry. Heck, I’d been hungry and ready to go for a meal an hour earlier. But we had to wait for Fatema. My frustrations about what had transpired that morning in Bled came flooding back. Why was everyone else willing to wait for each other but not me?
Fine. Shirt or no shirt, I needed food. While Fatema and Hannah were walking ahead of us, I lashed out at Ed. Of everyone in the group, we’d been friends the longest, so I felt most comfortable telling him how I felt. I’d learned in therapy last year, “all feelings are valid, but not all behaviours are acceptable.” Ed was willing to let me feel out my feelings. Fatema is just not a confrontational person. And Hannah? Well, as it turns out, Hannah reacts to tense situations the same way I do. She didn’t like my attitude; instead of coddling me, she matched my energy.
The restaurant had become our battleground. The tension was almost enough for Ed and Fatema to consider leaving for the strip club next door. I didn’t feel like Hannah understood why I was upset, so I typed out my grievances on my phone to explain how they tied into what had happened in Bled. Hannah tapped out a long response, but when I got my phone back, I saw she’d deleted what she’d written and instead said something to the effect of, “We’ll talk about this later.”
It was the correct response. I reeled in my anger, and we ended up spending most of our time at the restaurant discussing the next day’s plans. Back at the Airbnb, the host reset the fuse and got the dryer going. We retired to our respective rooms for the night. Hannah messaged me on WhatsApp to have the talk. I went straight into apology mode, and she reciprocated.
Yet the guilt still lingered. A week after I’d returned home, we talked about it and felt our feelings in more productive way. In the end, it hadn’t cast a pall over our trip (for me, it was the medley of health issues and Turkish Airlines). Ultimately, we navigated that disagreement well, and I believe our friendship has grown stronger because of it.
And that wraps up Day 7.
Coming soon-ish: Day 8.
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