Letter from Ljubljana #5
More news from Planet Slovenia

Dear friends, family and unwary onlookers,

Yep, I'm back.
Couldn't stay away.

It just felt like home. Or, at least, home away from home. At some point I realized that I wasn't yet finished with Slovenia -- or maybe it's the other way around; it doesn't really matter.

So, with no more soul-searching, we're off again...

I live just north of the central city now, in a large neighborhood called Bezigrad. It's an instructive contrast to my former digs in the dirt-road, Cold Comfort Farm environs of Rakova Jelsa. In Bezigrad you can see the new Ljubljana rising, literally a bit more every day. The whole has a blocky, bleached, powdery look to it, both the faceless buildings and the mainly empty side streets. Not overly elegant, nouveau riche certainly, but at least the parts seem to fit together in a prefab sort of way. Shiny, chrome-and-polished-wood pizzerias, a Porsche dealership. Stihova street, as new as last week's cement. Not as rough as the DIY ethos of yore, but maybe with a bit less soul attached, too. Ah well. Living is certainly easier, though not without occasional glitches...

Bezigrad is one of Ljubljana's main residential neighborhoods, and you don't have to walk far before coming across a construction site with its aim of more tower blocks to fill the pressing need for more housing (though not, apparently, nearly enough to meet the demand). According to one source, traffic in El Jay has doubled in the past three years.

December 12, 1997: Drinking cappuccino at a beer party

Friday night, Main Street Ljubljana. Teens with backpacks and sneakers pour into the A3 café bar, gripping oversized burgers from the stand next door, shedding crumbs as they crowd inside as if piling onto an already too-crowded city bus. Chubby Checker twists again, like he did last summer, and rockabilly (a spur to commerce) blares agreeably as ever from the overhead sound system. The stoic bartender resembles David Duchovny from The X-Files (Dosjeji X in Ljubljana, a popular import on Pop TV and the Croatian stations); the barista doesn't look like Scully, but could pass for a Renaissance madonna in '90s mufti.

Much raucosity goes on, and much diffusion of nicotine-infused exhalations. One callow youth with long dirty-blond hair holds forth to his companions at a round table near the window, in an endless monologue focusing on snapshots of a recent trip. I think. 12:56 a.m. and the place is filled, smokin' and jumpin', too crowded for comfort in this normally sedate place.

One girl gives a boy on a stool a bite of her burger, holding it out to him as an offering (it must be love). Five minutes later, another guy comes in and offers Stool Boy a bite of his burger (wha'?).

Little Richard wails on about Lucille. I sit on my stool by the front door, too close to a too- hot radiator, and love every minute of it, observing, smiling inside and out. I'm older than almost everyone in the bar, possibly including the bartenders. I wear my old corporate beige raincoat and sip a cappuccino while everyone else is chugging cheap beer. Even out of place, I love this place.

December 17

And never more than tonight, stepping gingerly through the light dusting of snow covering the Triple Bridge and Preseren Square in the photo-op, tourist-postcard center of Ljubljana, on the edge of the Old Town. The holiday lights are ineffably elegant. Is there another city on earth that looks better dressed up for Christmas? You feel it was all constructed for your benefit, waiting patiently for your arrival and your appreciation. And the other Ljubljanchans, who shop at the dozens of small stalls selling cookies, woolen goods, toys, tchotchkes, an approximation of Mexican tortillas, and hot grog and honey brandy (booze sold on the street - ah, it's nice to be back in civilization). Sure, it's commercial, but it's still a beautiful and mood-lifting thing to stroll the course. I see it again, and again feel blessed to see it.

Ljubljana, Hub of the Universe

Strolling through town on this frigid day, I was struck by how much Ljubljana seems to be designed around multiple hub-and-spoke motifs. The original hub was, of course, the castle on the steep hill around which the town was built; Ljubljanski Grad watches over its people, and Ljubljana without the castle would be like pizza without cheese on top -- not the same thing at all.

There are other hub-and-spoke designs in Preseren Square, a focus point that the entire population must at some point walk through; and Congress Square, another gathering place nearby. There seems to be a vague hub-and-spoke motif to Tivoli Park, with the hub being Tivoli Castle (any large building in Central Europe seems to be referred to as a castle), now an art gallery/museum complex. I wonder if one scientist's theory of Ljubljana being a place where "energy lines" converge has anything to it.

Just before I returned to Ljubljana, I had my tarot cards read at a hotel in Nanuet, New York (a northern suburb of the City). Among other things, the tarot mistress told me that the buildings in Manhattan deplete my energy, but that I obtain energy from the old buildings in my Central European town. It has to do with the vibrations left by all the people who went before.

And if you believe that, I have another...

December 30: The Procession of Grandfather Frost
(a/k/a Dedek Mraz)

The sight of Copova street, a showcase pedestrian promenade leading down into Preseren Square, past fancy shops and the Art Nouveau bank building (currently under wraps for reconstruction), never fails to lift my spirits. Especially at this time of year, when elegant white and pale green lights bathe the facades surrounding the Square, the baroque and Nouveau buildings outlined in illuminated white holiday strings, the triple bridge (only a couple of unfortunate graffito swastikas ruin the illusion). Then you notice the castle on the hill, eternally watching over the scene. The castle is bathed in a soft, otherworldly bluish glow, with the windows in the observation tower, and its round clock face, glowing brighter.

Families gather on the steps of the Franciscan Church, a pink-and-cream fantasy (and obvious facade; the church attached to the front, as ornate as it is, almost seems an afterthought). All is outward show in the round Square, but it's also real, and well-loved by the citizens.

The Ljubljanske Dixieland Orkester Korenine swings into the old favorites and all I can think of is how incredibly great this all is, and how much my father would like it if he were here. He is in Florida.

The stalls sell hot grog and honey brandy in small plastic cups. Buses creak by over the center bridge, ninety years older than its pedestrian-only companions, designed by Plecnik, on each flank.

I make my way down the Old Town side of the riverbank. Grandpa Frost's procession on the other side: Riders on horseback; "Over the Rainbow" blaring from loudspeakers mounted to a horse-drawn cart; a band clad in uniforms evoking the late 19th century. Torchbearers. Bringing up the rear, costumed little kids holding balloons.

Graffiti on the quayside walls of the very domesticated Ljubljanica:
LJUBLJANA JE BO' (which means Ljubljana je bolana, or Ljubljana is sick)
KURT
WHAT DO I GET
YO DIANA WE MISS YA!
MAJA! RAD BI BIL S TABO (I want to be with you). MATJAZ
ZAKONI DUSE/PEKLENSKA USTAVA (The laws of the soul / Constitution from hell)

I seek refuge in a nearby reading room, poring over magazines in three languages (one of which, fortunately, is English). I return to the square in time for Dedek Mraz's holiday address to the crowd, which seems to consist of good wishes for all in the New Year -- nothing political. Dedek Mraz may have been the Communist Santa, but he's no Tito about to launch into a harangue. I notice one young man wearing a Mets jacket, carrying his young child.

The Orkester kicks into "Alexander's Ragtime Band."

Old Mraz throws candy into the crowd, tossing, tossing, tossing.

Finally, Mraz departs and the Orkester continues. The lead singer, a sixtyish fellow resembling the actor Charles Gray from the Rocky Horror movie, sings "Hello, Dolly" as only he can:

"Dolly never, never, go again!"

It is all, as previously noted, incredibly great.

Dedek Mraz, you rock.

Silvestrovanje: At last, New Year's Eve in LJ

"Srecno novo leto vam zeli!" (I wish you all a happy New Year) announces the driver on the number 7 bus as he lets his passengers out at Bavarski dvor. "Enako!" (same to you!) respond the delighted passengers.

Ten p.m. and Presernov trg is rockin', the Ljubljana equivalent of Times Square, a hell of a lot of fuss for ten minutes of fireworks at midnight (but good fireworks). Expect random explosions, pushing and shoving with no apologies (just like in Times Square!), middle-aged Austrian guys with videocams. 365 days ago I was freezin' my ass off on the Charles Bridge in Prague in an inadequate raincoat; this year I wear the jacket I wish I'd had then (one blue elbow patch newly sewn up after I'd ripped it on a dumpster in Crnuce that afternoon) and I wear it partially unzipped, and go hatless. It's amazingly mild weather. Exorcising the ghost of cold and snow ringing in '97.

I'd had my last belo kavo of the old year at the yuppie Atrium bar on the ground floor of my old teaching stomping grounds in Gornji trg, then headed down to lemmingville. People promenaded as if activated by remote control, threading their way from Preseren Square to City Square and back again, through this side alley, that back way, along the quays, with a seeming total lack of reason, walking for the sake of it, as people do on any ceremonial and more than slightly mindless occasion. As midnight approached the people resembled individual molecules in a pot of water reaching boil; the shoving and promenading became more insistent, mob mind ruling.

I managed to secure an ideal spot for fireworks viewing by the New Town quay, next to an old lady and a couple of middle-class families whose fathers had cheerful, round-faced blank looks. (they don't call New Year's Eve Amateur Night for nothing.) We were eventually joined by a few young guys clutching bottles of German beer.

Midnight came and the champagne flowed (I chugged the remains of a bottle of Fanta I'd bought that afternoon at a burek stand; na zdravje and srecno.) The fireworks exploded over the castle in a fine display, although everyone I spoke with later about it said it wasn't up to par with past shows. Me, I had no complaints.

I pushed with the crowd toward the staircase leading up into Congress Square, and was glad I was in fair physical condition; there wasn't a centimeter to spare as the Wall of Human Flesh oozed its way upward. Eventually I was free and walked to the K4 college club to party with Slovenia's finest crop of young, beautiful people.

It was great.

January 12, 1998: Boredom

Ljubljana has elected former peace activist and Parliament member Viktorija (Vika) Potocnik as its new mayor, since the old mayor's gone off to be Slovenia's ambassador in Washington. Although there's going to be another election in October, Vika's the third woman mayor in the city's history, and the first for quite some time, certainly since independence. A good thing for her and her Liberal Democratic party (a communist party in the old days, now squarely in the good Euro-liberal tradition).

Foggy evenings, nights and mornings, with sunny, cool but snow-free days. Monday, the holidays behind us. I practice my Slovene on Ksenija.

"Sunset upstairs construction site?! What are you talking about? I don't know...I don't think you're ready to start speaking yet," she says. "You still don't know some basic things...I suppose you can get by with only English here, everybody speaks it..." Well, not exactly everybody...

In a fancy pizzeria where I order a large pie that comes topped with whole prawns (shell included) lounging atop the pie as if they're getting a tan at the beach, she exclaims over the title of a banana split listed on the dessert menu. Ksenija wonders if it has anything to do with the Croatian coastal city of Split; I assure her it doesn't. "I was wondering if it was a banana Split, or a split banana..."

Earlier, on the phone, I mentioned that CVS drugstores in the States sell cans of tuna fish. She finds this amusing. "I'll have to check it out for myself, see how things are." She plans to visit a friend in the USA later this year.

Strangers say good-bye to each other when one of them leaves an elevator. I noticed this in the World Trade Center, Ljubljana, (a good place to go when I miss American suburban shopping malls). Yet another small-but-significant cultural difference. Affordable pizza in this Trade Center though, and a Slovene version of "That'll Be The Day" on the sound system. What more could anyone wish for...

The Interview

I have an interesting job interview with a woman who runs a language school in Domzale, a near suburb of Ljubljana. My credentials are apparently in order, and the interview turns into a cross-cultural exchange on the familiar topic of Over Here vs. Over There. She and her husband are thinking of buying a home in Florida, where, according to her, houses cost half of what they do in Slovenia.

She relates an anecdote of having to use a toilet in a public park in midtown Manhattan. It was the filthiest such facility she'd ever seen in her life. There were black people loitering on the premises, she relates. "It was the only time I ever felt scared..."

There's paranoia in the USA, I mention -- at least in the Boston-New York area. Strangers, and even casual acquaintances, distrust each other as a matter of course. Nobody will give anyone else an inch. I feel sad for my countrymen, living in such circumstances.

The Americans have tunnel vision, I tell her. They (at least the ones who haven't been there) think the Dutch all wear wooden shoes, for example.

"And the blacks hate the Jews," she says. And here, I add, the Slovenes hate the Serbians, for example.

"Oh, they hate everybody!"

Finally, I say, "When people travel, they see what they want to see. They want to have their prejudices confirmed."

She nods her agreement.

(I ended up not working here, due to the position not being as open as either of us thought; I think it was due to everyone in Domzale already knowing enough English.)

******

A friend of mine back in the States is happy, she says, being the last person in America with nothing to sell and no urge to buy anything. I find this refreshing beyond measure.

May 8, 1998: Balloons Over Ljubljana

At first, it feels like you're in an elevator, a crowded elevator with one friend and three strangers, and you're rising quietly, no fuss and no fanfare. Then you notice, as if you haven't before, that there's no elevator machinery around you, not to mention no walls or building. You and the friend and the three strangers keep rising straight up, 20 feet, 30, 40, 50, 60, and the balloon master keeps applying blasts of hot air to the big inflated canvas bag with the word PODRAVKA on the side that's carrying you and the others higher and higher; the flames come in short orange bursts, just one or two seconds at a time, and at the top of your head you feel the heat from the flames; just a bit lower and the hairs might singe.

In half a minute you see beyond Tivoli Park and the topography of Ljubljana becomes apparent, like the hollow in a bowl with hills and mountains for sides; the low, laid-back Roznik, the bosomy twin peaks of Smarna Gora, the Karavanke Alps and, in the distance, triple-headed Triglav through the morning haze. Nora vida. Lepa vida. Crazy life, beautiful life. (Excuse the combination Slovene-Spanish phrase; I was inspired by the label on a wine bottle.)

The feeling of unreality rises along with the balloon. I try not to look down. If I look straight ahead, it's possible to imagine that I'm on the top floor of a very tall skyscraper, and held up by more than a few centimeters of wicker, however strongly woven, and a lot of hot air. I keep reminding myself that it's OK, people have been doing this for more than two hundred years, the balloonman knows what he's doing...and after a while, I even start to believe it.

We float pacifically over crowded Ljubljana, wafting southward, over Trnovo; I recognize the familiar twin towers of the gray-and-black Trnovo Church, straight out of a Charles Addams cartoon, only from a completely new perspective. There are seven other balloons making the trip along with us. Every few seconds, the fireblaster a foot or so above our heads vomits forth orange flames. We rise to 600 meters, floating over Rakova Jelsa, then the flat, green expanse of the Barje marshland.

Just us, the balloon, and the basket. I snap pictures of the view and of my friend. My friend snaps a picture of me. I listen to the chatter of my companions in the basket. One of them brought a Slovene children's book entitled My umbrella is like a balloon. Everybody around here read that one. The cover depicts a girl floating merrily along among the clouds, holding out an open umbrella a la Mary Poppins.

*****

We descend and land in the Barje, bouncing along a few times, pulled, like a toy, by a rope held by a man from the ground crew. We clamber out of the basket and exchange congratulations. We listen quietly to the sounds of the birds which are all we can hear, in the middle of the flat green swampland. The balloon is deflated, rolled up and stuffed into a canvas bag the size of an easy chair; the bag is hauled into the basket, and we shove the whole thing into the back of the van which has come to meet us. We ride a short ways to a local snack bar for refreshments, ending, for us first-timers, with a dousing of champagne and bits of earth on our heads and presentation of certificates, suitable for framing ('between earth and champagne...'). Whew. Congratulations all around. Handshakes all around, from the old hands, who go down the 'receiving line'. Hokey, but what the hey, we deserve it. We the brave, we the happy few. Uh huh.

*****

Back on terra firma, I find I have a ravenous appetite. For food. And for life. Nora vida. Lepa vida.