We
stepped off the train in Ljubljana at 8:00 in the evening. The land was already shrouded by the night,
the mist cloaking any lights that might relieve the darkness, only making
distant glowing spots, like lighthouses resting on a shore above a rocky coast,
water spraying up past the flashing light.
“We should go to the hostel,” I told Pavlos. “I need to do laundry anyway and we don’t
know if we have a host. I know the way,
it’s just over there.”
“Come on, man,” Pavlos pleaded. “We just need to sit down somewhere with internet and check to see if anyone emailed us back in the last second. And anyways, we can just go to the couchsurfing meeting and see if someone can host us there.”
“But those meetings,” I said, “just because people are going to those meetings doesn’t mean anyone can actually host. And if we don’t end up with a host, then that’s it, man, you can’t really check in that late to a hostel. And I need to do some laundry, I’m on my last pair of underwear.”
“Come on, let’s just sit down and check. If nobody can host us, then we’ll go to the hostel.”
“Fine,” I agreed. We went back into the tunnel that passed under the tracks, where there was a row of restaurants and bars. One shisha bar, called Simplon, was packed with locals, which might have been because they had the best quality shisha for cheapest in town. It was open 24 hours a day and huddled right next to a 24 hour pizza/burek restaurant. It was a strange thing to see, a locally popular 24 hour bar in the train station. We sat down, ordered a shisha pipe and logged onto the internet. A group of kids, none older than 18, was at the table next to us, also smoking shisha and drinking beer.
“We have a host,” Pavlos announced, looking up from his iPad, shisha smoking curling from his mouth as he spoke. “Just send a text to this number, her name is Ajda.” I sent the text and was a little relieved. Now I didn’t mind so much going to the meeting with all of our stuff. Though I knew that we’d have to haul it halfway across town and squeeze into a bar with it all.
Our first destination was Skeleton Bar, where the couchsurfing meeting was being held. We pulled our stuff across downtown, passing a few hecklers. “Hey man,” some guy with gelled hair and a blue and white striped button up shirt called out. “You want some advice? Don’t carry so much stuff! You’re supposed to pack lighter!” He was referring to my accordion that I was dragging behind me on a cart. Pavlos wanted to go thank him for his advice and start chatting with him, but I told him to ignore the guy so we could get a move on it. I didn’t want to be around those kinds of guys. “Let’s just get to the meeting,” I grumbled sharply.
We arrived at Skeleton Bar. The bouncer stopped us at the door. “You can’t bring all that stuff down there.”
“Why not?” Pavlos asked. “We’ve got a meeting down there. It’s a couchsurfing meeting.”
“There’s just no room,” he said. He looked back and forth between Pavlos and me. It was clear he was being honest. “You can leave it up here, behind the door.” He pointed to an area in the stairwell, out of the way of passing customers. It was secluded enough that no one coming in or out would see it, and he would be at the entrance the entire time anyway. We went down the stairs into the bar, which was, as the bouncer had told us, small – enough room to sit maybe twenty people and no room to stand. The bar was full of skeletons hanging on the walls and skull candleholders on the table. It was like a bar was decorated for Halloween or a Pirates of the Caribbean party, but it was like that year around. The people sitting in the chairs were all nicely dressed in various colors. In the States, one would assume this bar would be for Goths or punks, but neither stereotypes were frequenting the place. Instead, it was full of Slovenian yuppies, possibly looking for some place a little edgy looking without actually being edgy.
We texted the party organizer where they were. I got a message from my service provider, saying that I had less than one euro on my account. Another text, this one from the organizer. “Where are you guys and we can pick you up?” I was wondering how long my texts would last and how many times I’d have to text the guy. It finally worked out and I told them to meet us on the bank of the river. We stood outside, surrounded by our luggage, in the freezing cold, watching all the dressed up people pass us by. Tiled banks are on either side of the Ljubljanica River, with bars and cafes lining the banks, all of them packed with partygoers and many of them running for twenty four hours a day, feeding the intensity of the party atmosphere in this fairly small town. They found us easy enough at the bank and brought us to the next bar, where some twenty couch surfers were gathered.
I did the natural thing and pulled out my accordion to entertain everyone. I didn’t rock the place out, though I did find a few fans in the crowd. One guy was to follow me around for most of the night, telling me how much he loved my playing. Another was a girl from Estonia, who I yelled the traditional Estonian toast of “Terrible sex!” to when I learned she was Estonian. She had been studying in Germany for a few years and then decided to come to Ljubljana to continue her studies. We sat for sometime talking about Estonia and making fun of Russians. Ajda, our host, met us there and brought a French guy named Marc with her, who was also going to couchsurf at her place. The bar shut down while we were all talking and I had finished with my accordion playing, but no one wanted to stop the party, so we continued on to Metalkova.
The walls of the Metalkova district were covered in street art and graffiti, faces of demons and angels staring out at the passersby, whispering promises and curses into the ears of the partygoers. Large warehouses surrounded a courtyard, each warehouse playing different music, one with live punk music, and two more with drum and bass, the bass vibrating the aluminum walls of the clubs. People were packed inside, drinking beer from cans or mixed drinks from plastic cups. They bobbed up and down with the music or they gathered in small circles, talking and laughing while shifting from side to side.
Pavlos, on a chair to the side, was teasing the Estonian girl, who had just
turned from me after confessing she had a Slovenian boyfriend she met while studying
in Germany, which was why she moved there.
Somehow, Pavlos's charms were working on her, and after telling me of
her boyfriend, she turned to Pavlos and patted his ass and tried to steal his
hat. I wandered away and talked with
some Croatian guys.
“Tell the Americans that Croatians do not hate Serbs,” he told me. “We are cousins, the times are better now. Here, let me get you a beer.”
As I left him, the Estonian girl was saying her goodbyes. She gave Pavlos a hug and he gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Come on, a kiss on the cheek,” he pleaded with her. She leaned in and he moved his mouth over to plant it on her lips. She was flustered, but didn’t seem to mind too much. To me she gave a hug before she grabbed the hand of her friend and they wove through the crowd to the door.
“Come on, man,” Pavlos pleaded. “We just need to sit down somewhere with internet and check to see if anyone emailed us back in the last second. And anyways, we can just go to the couchsurfing meeting and see if someone can host us there.”
“But those meetings,” I said, “just because people are going to those meetings doesn’t mean anyone can actually host. And if we don’t end up with a host, then that’s it, man, you can’t really check in that late to a hostel. And I need to do some laundry, I’m on my last pair of underwear.”
“Come on, let’s just sit down and check. If nobody can host us, then we’ll go to the hostel.”
“Fine,” I agreed. We went back into the tunnel that passed under the tracks, where there was a row of restaurants and bars. One shisha bar, called Simplon, was packed with locals, which might have been because they had the best quality shisha for cheapest in town. It was open 24 hours a day and huddled right next to a 24 hour pizza/burek restaurant. It was a strange thing to see, a locally popular 24 hour bar in the train station. We sat down, ordered a shisha pipe and logged onto the internet. A group of kids, none older than 18, was at the table next to us, also smoking shisha and drinking beer.
“We have a host,” Pavlos announced, looking up from his iPad, shisha smoking curling from his mouth as he spoke. “Just send a text to this number, her name is Ajda.” I sent the text and was a little relieved. Now I didn’t mind so much going to the meeting with all of our stuff. Though I knew that we’d have to haul it halfway across town and squeeze into a bar with it all.
Our first destination was Skeleton Bar, where the couchsurfing meeting was being held. We pulled our stuff across downtown, passing a few hecklers. “Hey man,” some guy with gelled hair and a blue and white striped button up shirt called out. “You want some advice? Don’t carry so much stuff! You’re supposed to pack lighter!” He was referring to my accordion that I was dragging behind me on a cart. Pavlos wanted to go thank him for his advice and start chatting with him, but I told him to ignore the guy so we could get a move on it. I didn’t want to be around those kinds of guys. “Let’s just get to the meeting,” I grumbled sharply.
We arrived at Skeleton Bar. The bouncer stopped us at the door. “You can’t bring all that stuff down there.”
“Why not?” Pavlos asked. “We’ve got a meeting down there. It’s a couchsurfing meeting.”
“There’s just no room,” he said. He looked back and forth between Pavlos and me. It was clear he was being honest. “You can leave it up here, behind the door.” He pointed to an area in the stairwell, out of the way of passing customers. It was secluded enough that no one coming in or out would see it, and he would be at the entrance the entire time anyway. We went down the stairs into the bar, which was, as the bouncer had told us, small – enough room to sit maybe twenty people and no room to stand. The bar was full of skeletons hanging on the walls and skull candleholders on the table. It was like a bar was decorated for Halloween or a Pirates of the Caribbean party, but it was like that year around. The people sitting in the chairs were all nicely dressed in various colors. In the States, one would assume this bar would be for Goths or punks, but neither stereotypes were frequenting the place. Instead, it was full of Slovenian yuppies, possibly looking for some place a little edgy looking without actually being edgy.
We texted the party organizer where they were. I got a message from my service provider, saying that I had less than one euro on my account. Another text, this one from the organizer. “Where are you guys and we can pick you up?” I was wondering how long my texts would last and how many times I’d have to text the guy. It finally worked out and I told them to meet us on the bank of the river. We stood outside, surrounded by our luggage, in the freezing cold, watching all the dressed up people pass us by. Tiled banks are on either side of the Ljubljanica River, with bars and cafes lining the banks, all of them packed with partygoers and many of them running for twenty four hours a day, feeding the intensity of the party atmosphere in this fairly small town. They found us easy enough at the bank and brought us to the next bar, where some twenty couch surfers were gathered.
I did the natural thing and pulled out my accordion to entertain everyone. I didn’t rock the place out, though I did find a few fans in the crowd. One guy was to follow me around for most of the night, telling me how much he loved my playing. Another was a girl from Estonia, who I yelled the traditional Estonian toast of “Terrible sex!” to when I learned she was Estonian. She had been studying in Germany for a few years and then decided to come to Ljubljana to continue her studies. We sat for sometime talking about Estonia and making fun of Russians. Ajda, our host, met us there and brought a French guy named Marc with her, who was also going to couchsurf at her place. The bar shut down while we were all talking and I had finished with my accordion playing, but no one wanted to stop the party, so we continued on to Metalkova.
The walls of the Metalkova district were covered in street art and graffiti, faces of demons and angels staring out at the passersby, whispering promises and curses into the ears of the partygoers. Large warehouses surrounded a courtyard, each warehouse playing different music, one with live punk music, and two more with drum and bass, the bass vibrating the aluminum walls of the clubs. People were packed inside, drinking beer from cans or mixed drinks from plastic cups. They bobbed up and down with the music or they gathered in small circles, talking and laughing while shifting from side to side.
 |
| Metalkova |
“Tell the Americans that Croatians do not hate Serbs,” he told me. “We are cousins, the times are better now. Here, let me get you a beer.”
As I left him, the Estonian girl was saying her goodbyes. She gave Pavlos a hug and he gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Come on, a kiss on the cheek,” he pleaded with her. She leaned in and he moved his mouth over to plant it on her lips. She was flustered, but didn’t seem to mind too much. To me she gave a hug before she grabbed the hand of her friend and they wove through the crowd to the door.
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