It's an early 5:50am flight from Gatwick to Venice - already EasyJet are playing silly buggers, as the stairs are somehow stuck to the plane - we're delayed by an hour and a half and now the cabin crew are bringing everyone tap water in plastic cups. There's something inherently wrong with that combination and I'm hoping this is not an indication of things to come!
The flight leaves without any further drama and I cocoon myself neath' my eye mask and ear plugs and snore all the way through to Venice.
It's the usual fun and games trying to locate the coach stop for the connecting transfer to Ljubljana - I amuse myself reading the snarky Google comments of fellow lost travellers, traumatised by missing their buses, in order to find the infamous coach stop. Time for some caffeine and some work emails and people watching as I have 2 hours or so to kill.
The sun has decided to make a welcome cameo, as I hang out alongside a group of backpack clad strangers in the carpark 'coach stand' - I ask a local who informs me I am indeed in the correct place and chat shite to a nice Irish girl about to start her Erasmus year in Slovenia.
The coach journey is relatively straightforward, although my nice window seat sanctuary is rudely interrupted by a bald Italian guy with tattoos who proceeds to grunt/ clear this throat continuously through the 3 hour or so coach ride. I wrestle with the idea of offering him a sip of water, or better still, pouring the contents of the bottle over his head - but don't quite fancy spending the night in an Italian prison cell (I'm sure I have stayed at worse hostels mind you).
Grunty Italian tattoo phone game guy gets off at Trieste (which I've made a mental note to visit as it is very pretty). He's replaced at Trieste with a Slovenian lady who eats mints and fidgets for the rest of the journey - out of protest I've kept my backpack on the floor as a human shield.
It's a 20 minute or so walk through the Old town of Llubjiana - I stop along the way to be a proper tourist - taking some snaps and admiring the laidback mix of locals and tourists enjoying cocktails/ drinks at many of the bars along the riverside.
The hostel is pretty random - each of the rooms is named after a famous jazz musician (I'm in the Louis Armstrong room). My roomies are two Brits on a trip between university terms, a German Iranian guy with a complicated name ( who I've impressed with the German skills) and a Colombian who I practise Spanish with. None of them are significant enough to remember their names.
I invite two nice ladies, Maya (from London), Fien (from Belguim) and a very chatty Singaporean guy (who's name evades me..). We share a bumper bottle of 2.99 EUR Slovenian plonk purchased from the local supermarket, in the communal kitchen. Somehow the hostel's power supply has blown and now a group of us are in the kitchen chatting and charging our devices, exchanging travel stories/ recommendations as the red wine gradually dwindles into the darkness of the room - who says you need electricity to have a good time?
