| Slovenia: In Search Of Cousin Jaka
By Jason Rezaian
It's hard to believe I ever went back to Slovenia, considering how surreal my initial exposure to that tiny country was. It was my first trip abroad in the late 1990s; not long ago, but before a single-currency, almost borderless Europe. I was twenty. I had a backpack, train pass, no guidebook and a warning from my mother: "Go see my cousin Jaka, or else." Cousin Jaka was an almost mythical character whom my mom and grandmother loved to talk about.
"Cousin Jaka was a pilot for the Russians in WWII."
"Cousin Jaka built his own house out of logs."
"Cousin Jaka started his own newspaper."
At the time I wasn't impressed.
But I knew my Mom would be very disappointed if I didn't visit Jaka, so reluctantly, I left Florence on a late afternoon train to Ljubljana.
This won't be so bad, I thought. For once I won't have to pay for a bed. And besides, how many people ever make it to Slovenia?
Not many: because it's not included in their rail pass. I found this out midway through the passage when the conductor came around to check tickets.
I explained my situation to him, but he spoke no English.
I was sitting in a car with the most beautiful girl on the train, and up to this point we had ridden in silence, she reading an Italian design magazine and me watching her read. It wasn't until the conductor arrived in our car that she spoke, but it was in a language I had never heard.
Finally, after her conversation with the conductor was finished she turned to me and in perfect English said, "You must pay 2000 tolars." I was taken aback that she was, first of all, speaking English (I didn't realize that most Europeans could do that) and more importantly, that she was talking to me.
"What's a tolar?" I asked her.
As the train rumbled east, past the Julian Alps, it was announced that we were now officially in Slovenia, but still at least an hour from Ljubljana. I was told that if I couldn't come up with the money I would have to get off at the next stop.
This Jaka guy better be cooler than gelato, I thought.
After half an hour of fumbling through several cars filled with Europeans, begging them to trade currency with me, I finally acquired the proper funds.
I returned to my car to find my beautiful translator gone. The conductor came by, and I handed him the assortment of international moneys I had collected. He chuckled and gave me a receipt.
Soon I arrived at Ljubljana's central station. I had Jaka's number, but up to this point had made no to effort to contact him. I didn't even know if he'd be around. But I did have a stamp in my passport—irrefutable evidence for my mother that I had in fact gone to Slovenia.
As quickly as I was able to make change and find a phone, I dialed the number. Jaka's wife Ani answered.
"Ani, this is Jason. I'm in Ljubljana."
Her English was reluctant and her tone ominous. "Take train for Kranj. Go! You must hurry. Bye-bye." And she hung up.
The last commuter train of the day was leaving for Kranj in ten minutes. I assumed that's why I was supposed to hurry. I bought a ticket, boarded the train and reflected on the events of the past few hours with a smile.
When I arrived in Kranj, there were two people waiting at the train station. One was Ani, whom I recognized as a much older version of a woman I had seen rowing a boat in a sepia colored photograph that hangs in my mother's kitchen. The man with her was her son-in-law, Laddo, who was a sad looking, middle-aged guy with a droopy mustache
We exchanged greetings and hugs. Then Laddo soberingly said, "We must go home." His yellow Yugo coughed, going up the hills on the road to his in-laws'. We pulled into the driveway of a perfectly perched log cabin, with grapevines and summer flowers hanging from the roof. This was the house that Jaka built.
Laddo dropped us off, said goodnight and drove off quickly. As soon as Ani opened the door, something immediately felt off. I could see a small table behind her with a candle and framed photograph on it. She grabbed me and began to sob, "Jaka dead. Jaka dead."
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