First of all, let me apologise for my absence of late. I have recently taken on a second job, one that is rather more enjoyable than my primary job of trying to teach English to the people of Slovenia. Juggling 2 jobs takes a lot of my time, hence I won't be as regular on here as I once was.

The point that I want to raise today is 'Why is it not possible to find a good, affordable sandwich place in Ljubljana?' When I say affordable, what I mean is someone that isn't Subway.

It's annoying. Let me give you the situation; You've just been working for 5 hours non-stop, and now finally the lunch-break has made it's more-than-welcome appearance. You've got 45 minutes to energise yourself before being thrown back into the mundaneness of the job. What could be better than a huge, filled, massive, giant, humongus (How do you spell that????), ginormous (does that word actually exist? I don't know. But i teach it to my students anyway) baguette? Answer; Nothing legal.

Where can I get one? Italy or Austria. Ljubljana? You've got 2 hopes!

Why is the situation so bad? Why doesn't someone open up a little shop that sells huge, filled, massive, giant, humongus (How do you spell that????), ginormous (does that word actually exist? I don't know. But i teach it to my students anyway) baguettes?

Lightbulb above head moment. I will open up that little shop. I've even thought of a name for it; The little shop that sells huge, filled, massive, giant, humongus (How do you spell that????), ginormous (does that word actually exist? I don't know. But i teach it to my students anyway) baguettes!

Would I get any customers? Would I make a profit? Would Business Weekly do an expose on me? Would Subway attempt buy me out? Would Subway be so annoyed at my refusal to sell that they burn down my place?

What's that you say? I need money to start up a business? Back to the drawing board.

I'm off to pay a fortune now for a footlong from Subway, all this talk of sandwiches and business has made me hungry.

Was just having a look at this website to see if it contained anything of interest. Conclusion: Not alot. But,there were two humorous pages on there that were contributed by anonymous ex-pats. I've taken the best parts of them both and shortened it into this list;

You know you've been in Ljubljana too long when...

Then, as you would expect from any red-blooded patriotic Slovene, the comeback is equally intelectual;

Gotovina, go suck on your moms hairy COCK!!!!!

And let the free-for all begin. Both countries get compared to how Russia looked 40 years ago, both countries get called words that I wouldn't dare utter in front of my mother, and both countries get threats of violence made against them. All in all, it's got to be one of the funniest debates I've read for a long long time. Enjoy it here. 

One point that I feel I have to make is this. One argument raised by the Croat side is that if it wasn't for Croatia becoming independent and fighting the war and everything else, then it never would have been possible for Slovenia to gain independence. 

Now, I am sure that Slovenia was the first to declare itself free from Yugoslav rule, a move that upset Croatia immensely at the time because it meant that they too had no other alternative but to leave the federation and to go to war with the JNA. So, really you could argue that if it wasn't for Slovenia gaining independence, Croatia would never have had the balls to push for their own independence and therefore would still be a lapdog to the controlling Serb majority. This is of course just a hyperthetical argument, but I thought I'd stick it in anyway. 

Another thing the Croats seem to think is something to brag about over the Slovenes is that they had a war and Slovenia didn't. Wow, how jealous the Slovenes must be that their country and people weren't destroyed. 

A picture postcard taken from Prešernov trg, Ljubljana in 1931

Once again I bring you a couple of pictures of the Ljubljana of years gone by. One look at the above picture inevitably leads to the question; "Where's the woman who stands outside the Tourist Information centre singing Russian songs?"

The answer: She won't be born for another 45-50 years. That's right, this photo isn't an attempt by me to be arty using a black and white film in my camera, it actually dates from 1931.

The picture below dates from 1916 and shows Kongresni trg (Congress square) in all it's glory. The only give away here that the picture isn't too recent is the absence of taxi drivers standing next to their cars talking and smoking.

To anybody reading this not familiar with Ljubljana, the place really hasn't changed in appearance in over 100 years. You could come here on holiday and take photos that would only be a colour copy of these old specimens. I kid you not. So, what are you waiting for? Let's be honest, it's gotta beat another 2 weeks spent in Magaluf.

Kongresni trg, 1916

Nikoli nisi nic rekel
in jaz nisem nic slišal,
vendar je jasno:
resnicnost moje pesmi
vstaja iz
polmraka tvojega
molka.
Tam notri sveti mera
za globoko uresnicenost,
za sprašujoce poglede izpod obrvi,
za šum gozdov na strmem crno zelenem pobocju
za divje višine, zavite v meglo.
In še naprej, kot krik ptica,
ki se požene iz vlažne sence na sonce,
na brege med grozdje in z zlato težo
jeseni sede v vino.
Iz tebe raste spomin na tirolske skomine po Mediteranu,
na žilavo, zeleno okovje na piramidah rdecega granita
nad Boznom (Bolzanom).
Ali na dolge, vlažne noci,
iz katerih so se širile sanje globoko v tkivo
drugacne resnicnosti,
noci, iz katerih sem se zbujal prestrašen,
mrk in molcec,
iz starodavnih stanj,
ne da bi znal dobro povedati, kaj mislim,
jecljajoc in moker od živega hlipanja duše.

Kasneje pa, skoraj neopazno, dol po
dolinah s temno zelenimi boki
ostrih, od ledu in sonca razrezanih skal.
Ti si mogoce vse to vedel,
o verigi ocetov in sinov in kako se prepišejo
nakopicene izkušnje iz ene duše v drugo.
Ampak ne govoriva samo o osebnih zgodbah.
Ob reki navzgor po dolini so pljuskali valovi
iz širokega sveta, se zavrtincili okoli
celicnih jeder in jih zaznamovali.
Svet nima središca.
Zamišljeni prednik je dvignil glavo, prisluhnil
izzivu, na izviru potoka postavil kapelo za pušcavnika
in v grapo vzidal znamenje,
zaradi katerega so ljudje zaceli prihajati od dalec,
ker so iskali odgovor...

Zgodovina je poplavljala dolino kot plima,
v vsaki generaciji izbrala sinove ali hcere
in jim vtisnila neizbrisni pecat.
Vse nas je zaznamovala,
z osredotocenimi mislimi smo pisali,
cesar nismo vedno razumeli.
Za nami so ostali grobovi, posuti s kremencevim peskom,
na katerem zdaj pobliskava razbito sonce.
Negibni kot skobec na veji.
V pogledu že umrlih sta zoreli tudi
najini samozavest in moc.
Kot jeleni v polmraku z roba gozda, se ta prisotnost,
ta mera, neopazno seli cez molk,
v nevidnih prebliskih, ki drugace delujejo
in potujejo kot vsakdanje misli.
In ne samo midva, ampak vsak zadrhti, ce ga prebodejo ti
razgledi, z duhom, ki zaveje po dolini,
razigran od cvetov sadnega drevja,
barocno razkošen kot grajska vprega iz Štatenberga,
ki se je ustavila pred domaco hišo,
ali mracen kot samostan pod hribom in park,
v katerem si nekoc poln tesnobe cakal,
da se tvoja mati vrnejo od spovedi,
ata pa so tisti cas v zidanici,
ki jo je po vojni nova oblast nacionalizirala skupaj z ostalim
posestvom, stiskali vino, nagrajeno z diplomo,
ki še danes visi na zidu, v katerega gledam.

[ Father ]

You have never said anything
and I have never heard anything
but there is no doubt:
that which is beyond in me
comes from
the twilight of your
silence.
There inside glows the measure
for the deep end of memory,
for the inquiring looks from under the eyebrows,
for the rustle of woods on the steep dark green slopes,
for the wild heights wrapped in fog
and farther still, like the shriek of a bird
that dashes from a damp shadow for the sun,
for the slopes amid the grapes, tottering into wine
under the golden weight of autumn.
Out of you wells reminiscence of the Tyrol cravings for the Mediterranean,
those hard green shackles on the pyramids of red granite over Bozen .
Or of the long, moist nights,
out of which dreams spread deep into the tissue
of another reality,
nights, out of which I awoke shaken,
sullen, subdued,
a witness to prenatal states,
unable to communicate them well,
stammering and still wet from the pure sobbing of my soul.

Later though, imperceptibly almost, down
the valleys of dark green hips
and sharp rocks, slashed from the sun and ice.
You may have known it all,
of the chain of fathers and sons and how accumulated experience
is passed into seed and from one soul to another.
Up the valley, along the river, the waves of
world history penetrated, touching the cells' nuclei,
marking them.
The world is centerless.
An ancestor, absorbed in thought, raised his eyes and
erected a chapel to a saint at the mouth of the river,
into the ravine he built a sign
which people have come to see from afar, wanting to learn of …

History ebbed and flowed like a flood,
it named sons or daughters, leaving them indelibly marked.
We all are marked,
focused, we have all written
what we have not always understood.
We have left graves behind, strewn with flint sand,
now ablaze with the shattered sun. Motionless like a sparrow hawk on a twig.
The gaze of the deceased harboured also our confidence and strength.
This presence, this measure, moves through the silence of one's soul like deer in the dark,
across the invisible insight that resides differently and travels differently.
And not only you and I, everyone trembles awe-struck by these
vistas, by the spirit that winds through the valley,
gay from blossoming fruit trees,
baroque like the royal carriage from Statenberg Castle that pulled up at the house,
dusky like the cloister and the park at the front,
where once, feeling anxious, you waited
for your mother to return from confession,
while in the vineyard cottage,
which was nationalized after the war with the rest of
the estate, granddad was making wine which won
a diploma that still hangs on the wall I am looking at.

Iztok Osojnik