Putting the love in Slovenia Keith Bain falls for a tall man in a tiny land.
“Pit-ooey,“ said Zlatan. “Bless you,“ I replied. “No, no. Pit-ooey,“ he repeated. It sounded like a cartoon character spitting. “Huh?“ I frowned, prompting Zlatan to write the word on a napkin: ’Ptuj.’ “You see? Pit-oo-eee!“ he said, underscoring the Slovenian love of dispensing with unnecessary vowels.
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e were eating at Ljubljana Castle, up on the hill in the middle of one of the world’s smallest capitals, in the heart of one of Europe’s tiniest – and youngest – nations. Zlatan, the tall, ridiculously good-looking man I’d bumped into the previous day, had spent the day showing me his hometown, a handsome city beset by handsome people. Unlike other Soviet Bloc countries, communism left Slovenia mostly unscathed and its historic towns and villages intact. On either side of the Ljubljanica River, Ljubljana’s quaint cobbled lanes were lined with medieval town houses. Colourful Baroque,
Secessionist and Art Nouveau buildings loomed above public squares enlivened with statues and fountains, and every so often we’d spot the avant-garde architecture of the city’s beloved Jože Plečnik. I’d met Zlatan in front of one of Plečnik’s best-loved buildings – the university library, whose red-brick façade was studded with rocks that looked as if they were sliding upwards, towards the sky. We’d met innocently enough. I’d been staring at the front of the building and Zlatan had walked out of the library, where he’d been working, and coolly asked me if I was a tourist. His Maribor
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