I had many hours on trains during which to come down from Koln with a planned arrival in Ljubljana at 5:55am (unless I overslept, in which case I would probably end up in Zagreb).
I needed some rest and so for the last leg of my journey I booked a second class couchette, a short narrow bed. It was my first sleeper train and so I approached with apprehension. A kindly guard treated me with some affection and led me to my bed.
Then, a moment of panic! The guard ran off with my ticket and out of my sight. This broke all the rules! That ticket had cost me a fortune and was crucial to my endeavour. I could not let it go. I chased the guard down the train’s corridors to find he had locked my ticket away! I insisted I have it. He insisted not. We argued and tussled. It became quite a feud.
We reached a kind of compromise and it was with embarrassing distrust that I made him give the ticket back for a moment so I could note down its booking number. The relationship had been tested. I did not like my chances of being woken on arrival at Ljubljana. I nodded off nervously, contemplating possibilities in Zagreb.
It proved to be a rough night of five hours broken sleep at best. At about three thirty, an armed Austrian checked my passport with such vigour that I would swear he was the one who blew the whistle on the family von Trappe. I went back to bed for not even an hour whereupon a policija man with unmistakably Eastern European jowls repeated the process.
About one hour more and then my friend from the night before appeared at my bedside. Our puffy eyes met and we shared a moment of silence. He reached out to me and I think his bottom lip quivered as he clasped the neatly folded ticket into my hand. I turned to the window. A single silent tear. I resolved we would never fight again.
I stared out the window long after he left. I felt like death warmed up, then spilt on the floor and licked up by a goat. I took a quick shower, or rather splashed cold water on my face and under my arms and returned to gaze out the window.
I had head that Ljubljana was lovely this time of year. Actually, I had not heard anything of the sort. I had barely heard of Slovenia and never heard of its capital. Two hundred and eighty thousand people whose lives had never mattered to me and whom I intended to get to know intimately. In twenty four hours. On a few hours sleep.
First impressions? Impressive! After planning onward journeys with the train station staff in a lengthy exercise in ignorance and patience (my ignorance, their patience), I stopped at a cafe. It was barely seven in the morning. I selected strong coffee, but all about bottles of beer were being drunk. A sexy, surly waitress sauntered around pouring out rum. Neat. Now, that’s what I call impressive!
As I admired my fellow patrons, and admired is the word, I started to feel a little self-conscious about my casual attire (a sensation I feel not nearly as often as I should). I had savoured the likes of Paris, London and Brussels, but none seemed to match Ljubljana in style. Men with short tidy hair sat in well fitting suits sipping rum with women wearing short skirts and fish nets and actually pulling it off so early in the morning. I was down to my last shirt, socks and jocks. Though, if I had swapped outfits with anyone nearby, I’m sure they would have still looked the shit. And I? Well, I’m sure I would have still looked just plain shit.
I found a bed for the night in some student dorms. The morning sun streamed through my window and I basked for a while and watched the world go by, my chief practice as a student. It made me want to sleep, my other main student pursuit. I decided to do my washing, showing my student days to be very clearly over. I returned to hang it just in time to miss all the sun and immediately regretted doing it all. Last shirt, socks and jocks, you may have to stretch a little further.
Its amazing what you can do when forced out of bed before dawn, but it was finally time to chase down the match. I had been told that the best place to watch was the nearby ‘Tivoli Park’. I arrived there about an hour before kick off to join the overeager faithful.
Ljubljana had done itself proud creating a wonderful community celebration of the World Cup. In the park, there was a small football field with a pitch of soft sand. Stands had been erected around the field to hold the thousands to come. Further out, were the lush trees of ‘Tivoli Park’ and then the glorious mountains which seem to cradle the city with ever present affection. In the centre of it all: a super big screen. Ljubljana, I remained very impressed.
It was an especially hot day and the young were the first to arrive, exam time just ending, or so I’d been told. Small groups of lads had gathered in the corners of the stands, stripped off their shirts and started sinking beers.
The scene felt familiar. It reminded me of home. Summer days spent at Adelaide Oval, with surrounds no less serene, enjoying the beer and company of mates. Alas, with most of my friends far away, it was time to turn to my most faithful. It was time to seek out a beer.
The ‘Union Beer’ tent had been filled by a band, which reminded me of a certain Ompah Band I have seen leave some fine marks on fests. It was of course no Ompah Band, but it certainly drank like one.
As a match wound up on the mini pitch, the near-Ompah Band took up its place in front of the screen. The next phase of the festivities had begun and it was time for another beer. A near-Ompah Band Omp gets me going every time.
I’ve smiled a lot over the last week or so, but perhaps never so inanely as in Ljubljana. I’d seen the Parisians gather around a big screen, but all they did was gather, watch and leave. Here, the whole city came together in celebration and they weren’t even in the World Cup anymore! They had already been knocked out! I was worried that this would flatten the mood, but it seemed to merely relax it. The football now seemed just an excuse for a good time, though I considered they would still quite like to win.
At last, it was time for kick off and the crowd, now in its thousands, grew quiet. The fun and games were over. It was time to get down to the business at hand. I mean foot.
The mood was not what I expected, but all that I hoped. The Slovenians were keenly attentive. They seemed to be real connoisseurs of the game, never overreacting in pleasure or pain, but watching it play out and sharing the odd thoughtful exchange. They politely applauded potential success and quietly gasped when disaster loomed near. Pride was still at stake and viewed as well worth salvaging.
I must confess that Paraguay looked pretty strong, but Slovenia hung in there. They made some great late attacks and in time were finally rewarded with some glory in the form of a Slovenian goal! There was a sudden ocean of noise. Those transfixed on the screen bounced up and down. The kids playing in the park all did the same. It was great to see them all so happy, so naturally so, and now with good reason.
The half closed with Slovenia the one goal ahead. A great many wandered off, their job done for the day. I did the same, but my task had only reached half way.
I strolled to the nearby ‘Lepa Zoga’, which promoted itself as the key World Cup venue with soap scrawled on its window. I swung open the door, blind in the darkness of what was a much grittier scene. It quickly became clear that I would have to reassess my analysis of lovely Ljubljana. I suppose everywhere has an underbelly and Ljubljana’s had certainly burped up in there. The group of thirty or so seemed to make enough noise to drown out the thousands outside. Drunken and rowdy, almost exclusively male, they sat calling like brutes for Slovenia to win. I found a pint and a stool, pleased that my sunburned flesh could finally cool.
The match resumed and for a while, Slovenia just peppered the goal. The crowd called ‘shoot’ anytime their men neared the ball. It became a fun game to watch with all the attacking. I suppose Slovenia had nothing to lose, or at least so it thought. Paraguay returned with its own attacks and secured a goal. For the first time, the room fell very near silent. It was one-all for a while, and then there was another for Paraguay and the score grew to two-one. The room sulked and I felt it a shame. C’mon Slovenia, make me proud, keep me proud, win, lose or draw. But with the third goal for Paraguay, up went a sarcastic “Gooooooooooooooool!” (as they say in Slovenia).
I’d had enough of ‘Lepa Zoga’ and went back to the park. Sure enough, the stands were now partway empty and I recognised a few early arrivals who had become early leavers. They knew what was to come. Paraguay the victor. Three goals to one. The crowd gave polite applause which I was pleased to see and then they all slowly shuffled away.
The pain was evident. The final insult I suppose. Perhaps a fitting end to Slovenia’s World Cup campaign, but I did so enjoy watching them while they were up. Slovenia may not have qualified for the next round, but, I’m starting to feel qualified to say, it put on one of the best World Cup shows in Europe. Great practice for next time around. May it go that little bit better.
I leave Slovenia in the morning. Poland was the plan, but plans are for changing. It pains me, but with Poland already out of the Cup, there is another country facing the same fate that I feel I simply cannot miss…
Italy, here I come…