postcard 46: retrograde

Topher's trip planning skills are put to the test.

Topher’s cellphone light barely penetrates the sucking blackness as we huddle close together, trying not to trip over a rock or, worse, go right off a cliff into the ocean. When we get to the nice, flat concrete platform overlooking the sea it’s already occupied by people in beach chairs, staring up at the sky waiting for a shooting star to streak across it. It looks like we’ll be navigating the cliffs in the dark. We take turns holding the light, down climbing and trying to talk Hazelnut into staying within the light’s small ring of visibility. Finally we make it to a flat area along the cliffs we’ve explored before in the daylight. The Adriatic in front of us is a black hole of darkness, the sounds of the waves rolling into the sea caves below us eerie and menacing in the dark. And then, a bright meteor streaks across the sky and all is forgotten. It’s peak Perseids season.

There’s so many stars visible here. We sit in our camp chairs and watch the sky, pointing furiously every time we see one. Hazelnut has no idea what's happening and she’s anxious that we’re looking out into the darkness. What’s out there? A group of guys sets up farther down the rocks and she keeps up a steady grumble at their soft voices in the dark.

I love the tradition of stargazing on an August night. As kids, we’d lay out in the backyard, or climb the fence onto the golf course, laying on the greens to watch for shooting stars, dodging the sprinklers that worked their way down the fairways. As teenagers, we'd grab milkshakes from Sonic and drive out into the country, cruising the dirt back roads until we found a place to pull off and climb onto the hood to watch the show. Some years we catch them on a camping trip, the dark mountain skies providing the perfect backdrop. It's comforting to see them across the world.

“Is Mercury in retrograde?” I type into Google.

I don’t think I believe in astrology, but when the answer is “yes”, it’s nice to have something to blame other than bad luck.

Nothing seems to go quite right this week and if Mercury’s not to blame it’s definitely the hoardes of German tourists who have descended on Istria. That, and the humidity which has returned with a vengeance. We drive up the coast to treat ourselves to a spontaneous mid week dinner and when we pull up to the closest parking lot—the huge one that’s never full—to the pedestrian town of Rovinj, there’s a line of tail lights stretching down the street, waiting for someone to leave. We drive by every lot, until we’re a mile away and there’s still people circling for spots, throngs of tourists walking towards town. I can’t imagine what the narrow cobbled streets look like. We give up and drive 45 minutes back home, and get pizza instead.

The ATMs are out of cash, the traffic is gridlocked, the grocery stores are full of people and empty of food and work makes me want to pull my hair out.

I have to admit, after more than a year of trip planning, I’m a little burnt out on it. I spend my work days writing about all the places in the U.S. travelers should visit and my spare time researching and planning trips across Europe and if I have to scroll through Hotels.com one more time I think I might implode. But, I have a three day weekend and the thought of spending it in Pula with all the tourists is bleak. Our original idea was to drive the 9 (realistically with stops and traffic, 12) hours to Chamonix to hike to a hut, but the idea of another 24 hours in the car, hiking up a mountain and having to coordinate all of it makes me tired just thinking about it.

Topher offers to plan our weekend adventure and I uncharacteristically give up full control of our itinerary—well, mostly. I veto a mining museum with creepy mannequins.

He picks Klagenfurt am Wörthersee, an Austrian city at the foot of the Carinthian Alps, just north of the Slovenian border. The best news is that it’s only 3.5 hours away. On Friday morning, we load up the car and head north.

We crawl through traffic as we leave Croatia, the border crossing taking twice as long as usual. It’s boiling hot by the time we reach our favorite burger joint in Slovenia for lunch and we rush through it to get back to the mercifully cool AC. The crossing from Slovenia to Austria takes just as long and by the time we pull into the parking garage in Klagenfurt, it’s been almost 6 hours since we left home. Honestly, I’m just grateful to be a passenger princess and the hotel Topher chose is lovely and ostensibly has AC, even if it takes awhile to cool the room down.

We wander through the streets, getting boba and marveling at the pretty Austrian architecture until the late afternoon heat chases us back to the hotel room where we play card games until it’s time for dinner. Thai food, of course. Afterwards, we head upstairs to the rooftop patio to get drinks but it’s full and last call is imminent. Tomorrow, we promise ourselves and go to bed instead.

It’s soothingly cool in the morning and we make stops at a hipster coffee shop and an old school bakery before we head into the mountains. The thermometer keeps dropping as we navigate our little rental car up a dirt road that’s definitely rougher than the internet described. By the time we get out of the car, Hazelnut has a bounce in her step that’s decidedly lacking when it’s hot outside.

The trail, like seemingly every hike in Europe, begins climbing immediately. We let Hazelnut off leash and practice recall through a stretch of forest where the trees grow widely apart. The cool morning quickly gives way to hot and humid air as the sun hits us. Topher complains about his lack of fitness and Hazelnut’s tail droops and I do not think we’re going to make it to the hut that was our final destination, nor the summit that was our stretch goal. As Topher ponders his existence, sitting in the dirt, I spy a flash of red in the bushes. Upon closer examination, I realize it’s a raspberry. It’s teeny tiny and has the sweet sour pop that only mountain fruit does. I spot another one and then another, and I don’t really care when he finally decides we should head back to the car, I’m on a mission. Hazelnut's not quite sure what we’re searching for in the bushes, but she’s game and dives into the undergrowth with me every time I spot a patch of red on the hike back. I try to feed her one but she’s not a berry gal, I guess.

We decide to head to the huge lake near town for the afternoon to cool off but everyone else in southern Austria has had the same idea. There’s not a parking space to be found and finally, exasperatedly, I direct us to the university down the road. Classes aren't in session yet and the parking lots—though labeled private—are empty. We leave the car and sprint from shady patch to shady patch, minimizing the time Hazelnut’s paws have to touch the hot pavement until she can splash them in the water at the dog beach. I roll my shorts up and take my shoes off and we wade as deep as I can go without soaking my clothes. It’s deeper than she can stand and she tries to climb me, soaking me anyways. It’s mercifully cool and she even does a few zoomies afterwards, finally the right temperature. We get currywurst and beer from a train car serving food and eat them on a picnic table overlooking the canal leading to the lake. On the way back to the car, a duck appears and Hazelnut jumps straight into the canal after it. She smells like a trout for the rest of the weekend and we lead her quickly through the hotel lobby, dripping on the thick blue carpet.

We have reservations at a biergarten for dinner, but when we show up it’s chaos. When I try to check in we get yelled at to wait and every person in the courtyard is trying to flag an employee down to get menus or pay. We leave. Every other restaurant in town is packed. We wander through the streets, seriously debating the possibility of conveyer belt sushi, before ending up back at the Thai restaurant. The rooftop bar is full again (Mercury!).

It feels like summer may never end, but there’s signs everywhere that fall is on the way, especially this far north. There’s a golden hue to the trees here and there, apples are ripening on branches and the wasps are in a frenzy. They were swarming the trash cans yesterday, drawn to discarded ice cream cups, but the trash got picked up last night and now they are panicking. It’s Sunday morning and there’s one bakery open. We approach the open door and I stop dead in my tracks. It’s like something out of a horror movie. Beautiful cases of pasteries in honey colored wood line the counter, coffee drinks come out of a shiny espresso machine and hundreds of wasps are flying around the inside of the bakery. I would rather face a herd of angry mountain cows than deal with a single wasp in an enclosed space, so Hazelnut and I cross the street and wait as Topher gets breakfast and coffee. Apparently having bees inside a bakery is a good sign in Europe but I don't like it.

We retreat several blocks, as the insects are buzzing around the street too, and sit down on a bench to eat our pastries and drink our coffee. For a few moments it’s lovely, but the second I bite into the creme filling in the center of my croissant, a battle cry goes up and they appear in full force.*

I drop my croissant on the pastry bag and hightail it off the bench, screaming. I’m making a scene but I don’t care as I notice Topher’s following my run, pastries in tow, and still getting swarmed. We make it back into the hotel lobby, miraculously wasp free and panting. He managed to rescue my croissant (my hero!) and we decide to get the hell out of here.

After struggling with the parking garage tickets for half an hour and struggling to buy a toll pass, we’re on the road and heading towards the one part of this trip I planned. A castle. A dog friendly castle.

It perches on top of a hill like something out of a fairytale, and we board a funicular to get to the top without having to walk the steep and sweaty trail. Hazelnut follows us along the walls and through the peaceful garden with face-sized hibiscus flowers. The view stretches for miles across the valleys and hills. We peer into the church and examine ancient armor and weapons and then we get lunch in the courtyard. I order traditional Carinthian dumplings which I’m delighted to learn are basically pierogi swimming in butter. We make it back to the parking lot just as the sky opens up and it starts pouring.

One more week of retrograde!

-Mikaela

*I can’t speak wasp so this is what I imagine happened when 3-5 insessant bugs descended on me.