Eyes Wide Open

I’m beginning to understand.

As a child I was subjected to regular family outings to the mining town of Hibbing in northern Minnesota. The tourist attractions in Hibbing include the world’s largest open-pit iron mine, the Greyhound Bus Museum and Tuffy’s Bar, where you can still get a good hamburger and a beer at a decent price.

Tourism was not the reason we went north. Family was. I have vivid memories of sitting around a Formica countertop, my feet swinging between the hollow metal rungs of an ancient chair, answering questions from an old person I barely knew, but knew I had to answer. Suddenly, another relative would appear on the scene, without phoning ahead or even knocking on the door. There was uncle George. There was auntie Mamie. The volume of conversation would rise. A plate of dry pastries or cookies would appear on the table and I would take it in, wishing there were somebody my own age to play with, wondering why these familiar strangers spoke differently, forced strange foods on me, joked and laughed and then stood in silence before taking another cookie and waiting for more words to appear.

My grandfather’s family emigrated from Slovenia to Minnesota over 100 years ago. Life was difficult in Eastern Europe then. I come from a line of farmers and laborers, and a worldwide recession had hit Slovenia hard. Work was scarce. When word came from friends that the iron mines across the ocean were looking for workers, they made their way to England, boarded a ship, and headed for America.

Johanna and Peter Majerle eventually settled in Hibbing, a boomtown awash in the spoils of a city enjoying its position atop the world’s largest, richest deposit of iron ore. They opened a small grocery store. They endured. Their eight children grew up in Minnesota, and family roots grew deep.

A century later I saw the house where my great-grandmother was born. It is a simple stone and mud affair, heated by firewood, in the village of Vace, one of about a dozen houses clustered around a Catholic church. Family still live there. In fact, yesterday I found myself sitting around a Formica countertop, sipping a Lasko beer, eating pastries and chatting with family that I didn’t know I had. Atop the kitchen table were photographs showing my grandfather and his brother in Slovenia; another of my father and uncle on the steps of a home in Hibbing; another of the entire family in Hibbing. The faces sitting around the table proved that the family resemblance is very strong. It was almost as if the photographs had come alive.

I don’t speak Slovene, but Gvido and Zdenka, relatives who live near Ljubljana and who speak English, translated. They did more than translate. They took us around the countryside, showing us the Julian Alps and their craggy, snow-covered peaks; the Mediterranean, with its terra cotta tile roofs, church spires and seaside promenades; and the rolling hills and planes of the south, an agrarian life that works much as it did when my family left Slovenia; and the parliament building in the capital, where Gvido is a deputy in the legislature. He and Zdenka took off work and indeed sacrificed their entire weekend to bring people they had never met to see their family.

I found out that back in the States we mispronounce our surname. After a visit to the Majerle house in Kocevje, I had to adjust my pronunciation. In Minnesota, we pronounce it “Muh-JER-lee.” Here they say “MAI-er-luh.” Sitting around the Majerle family table in Kocevje, I heard the familiar intonations of conversation, the strange almost shouting outbursts, the revolving door of people coming and going without notice, gesture and facial expressions and shouts of “Na zdravje” before hoisting a cup of brandy. I now have new friends. I now know more family.

I’m beginning to understand. Wandering the streets of Ljubjana when I first arrived three days ago, I was flooded with an inexplicable sense of joy. I gazed into the storefront displays, felt the cobblestones under my Minnesota-made Red Wing boots, and wondered why anyone would ever leave such a beautiful place. Sure, things were different when Johanna and Peter left. And sure, Slovenia today is still very much and agrarian country: only a third of the population lives in towns of 10,000 or more. But since fighting to become a separate, capitalist state 20 years ago, the country has made impressive progress. The standard of living is excellent. Many people are multilingual. The GDP per capita is $25,000, and the economy is growing in spite of the current recession. Many rural areas still retain a traditional way of life, and cities are a delightful blend of old architecture, traditional cuisine and a hip, modern nod to the new global village. It’s unpretentious, with a tradition of architecture, music and literature that you usually find only in large cities. But Ljuljana has only 260,000 inhabitants, enjoys a much more manageable scale. It’s a place you come for a long weekend and end up staying months.

Earlier this evening, I stepped into a coffee shop. “Dober dan,” the waiter said. “Dober dan. Eno kavo, prosim.” I replied. He served me a coffee. I started to write. I felt right at home.

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