Due to its relative proximity, I had allocated the first two days of my stay to exploring the famed lakes to the north of the capital, so didn't actually get a good look at my humble surroundings until 72 hours after check-in. I set off after a late breakfast and sauntered absent-mindedly along the pebbled streets and alleyways until I stumbled upon the central plaza, where buskers and mimic artists entertained clapping tourists and goggle-eyed children. The canal flowed behind the square beneath a drawbridge, and the two buildings beyond parted to reveal a splendid view of the old medieval castle towering above the city from its tree-shrowded hilltop. For a completely pedestrianised city centre, at the height of summer, there were surprisingly few people about. I sat myself down at the feet of the statue of France Peresen, a legendary Slovene poet, and relaxed. It was nice to finally be able to rest my aching feet after about a hour's worth of meandering in flip-flops. But then, just as I had taken the first puff of a cigarette, came the abrupt and most unwelcoming splatter of freshly deposited bird excrement, inches away from my foot. Strangely enough, I felt more relieved than unlucky, as I would have ordinarily expected to be caught directly in the firing line. I fastidiously slipped away from the danger-zone, and resumed my casual strolling, eventually finding my way to the road leading up to the castle.
Once inside, I quickly realised that there was nothing to see or do unless I coughed up the €8 fee which granted entrance to the tower viewpoint and the 'virtual castle tour'. I paid up, and was duly rewarded with some top-drawer clacking opportunism, and speedily obliged my fortune. I was skeptical of the whole 'virtual castle tour' thing, and at this point it had occurred to me that I could easily sell on the ticket I had already bought which could be used for the virtual tour and re-entry to the viewpoint, as nobody had inspected it thus far. A quick calculation of available funds told me that this was a favorable option, and I actually managed to make a face-value sale within the first minute of trying. Pretty stingy behaviour really, but the Slovene budget was already stretched as thin as a crack-addicted supermodel. Cashback.
I spent five nights in Ljubljana and went out and managed to get thoroughly smashed on three of them, each with different people and each co-incidentally including a stopover in the same bar, simply called 'Skeleton'. Upon entering it wasn't difficult to see why. Everything was skeleton themed. And I mean EVERYTHING. Skeleton portraits hung from the skeleton-adorned walls. Skeleton-themed ornaments collected dust on each and every shelf and there were even full-length (artificial I assume) skeletons hiding beneath glass panels in the floor. The toilet doors were designed to resemble those secret bookcases you get in the movies and almost every cocktail on the menu somehow featured the word 'skeleton'. Overall, it was a very thematic experience. After sampling several of the barman's most recommended concoctions, I stumbled up the stairwell and made my exit.
I was accompanied by Irish Johnny for my walk home, who enthusiastically chatted to me about his blossoming business in Bangkok as we traipsed further and further in the wrong direction. However, our foolishness soon transpired as somebody else's disentanglement from a horrendous altercation that could potentially have been far worse. The city was overflowing with rowdy Brits passing through on their way to Croatia's Outlook Festival, set to commence in three days time, and in typical fashion, all of them were absolutely sloshed. Two unfortunate souls had plainly wandered far from home (at this point we hadn't realised that we had been equally as moronic) and were visibly in the early stages of a violent disagreement with two of the local boys. I quickly realised the impending doom as I noted that one of them looked as though he could crush both the English lads' heads with both hands simultaneously. To be fair to the Brits, the other Slovene appeared to be the one causing all the agro- getting right up in their faces and screaming 'I'll fuck you up mother-fucker' about ten times- but if they had had any sense between them they would have just jogged on. Instead, one Brit let fly a right-hook and caught the mouthy Slovenian pretty sweetly on his left cheek. Brave as it was, this was a huge error. The Incredible Hulk lumbered over and sent the brave Briton flying into a nearby car with one super-punch, which spelled an immediate end of his contribution to the ruckus. At this point, Johnny and I stepped in but failed to prevent Hulk from hurling a head-height karate kick into the nose of the other Brit as he was steadying himself, knocking him clean off his feet. He tried to get up but was kicked again, this time as if his head was a rugby ball being belted at the goalmouth. Now Johnny and I knew we had to get our bodies between them, fearing the worst if we didn't. Somehow, we managed to calm Hulk and his ratty accomplice down without getting our own faces smashed to pieces.
Minutes later, the Police arrived. The Brits were still conscious and stood battered and bloodied in front of the policemen as Hulk casually chatted to them, relaying to them his version of events. Meanwhile, we informed the Brits of just how serious their injuries already appeared to be and advised them to go to a hospital immediately. They obviously saw no point in hanging around or heeding our advice and elected to stagger back from where they came. I was astounded when the Slovenes were given nothing more than a slap on the wrist and told to go straight home. Rattled and unhinged by what we had seen, Johnny and I wandered back to the hostel (the right way this time) and discussed at length the newly-discovered darker side of the Slovene capital, keeping a watchful eye out as we made our way.
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