I live a nomad’s life. In the last ten years, more years
than not have included twenty or more countries, in a single year. It is March
sixth and I have been to six countries already in 2015.
Tonight, graced by fabulous Alpine air, the full moon casts razor
edge sharp shadows through the crisp perfect air which is both ephemerally
nothing and tangibly, albeit vaguely sweet, like spring is just about to caress a wispy kiss across your lips. This city is magical, with its sixteenth century buildings and its
castle standing sentry above.
My love for this city is entwined by an ache which is hard
to explain. It is, in my opinion, one of the most incredible cities in the
world, stunningly beautiful. The castle, rivers, centuries’ old buildings of
fairy tale architecture, playful dragon statues hiding in plain sight
throughout, surrounded by hills of thick trees and the optical illusion of both
strangely far, and somehow seemingly so close, tall oh so white Alps slicing into
the popping blue sky, how could anyone not love this city?
But love is a shared experience.
It is very hard to love in isolation.
Usually love refers to a relationship, to love another.
Sometimes love refers to an object, to love a book.
But here is the thing about loving a book, or any object, while
the enjoyment of the object itself is tangible and could be considered love,
the true joy is in sharing it with another.
I suspect these are my last few days in this city. I have so
enjoyed its magic. And while I vaguely attempt to capture the shells of its
essence, posting photos on Facebook, I have not really had the opportunity to
share Ljubljana with anyone.
This experience feels entirely incomplete, hollow and empty.
The display of an exquisite meal, without ever tasting it. Flat, like my
photos, without the sounds of the distant church bells and the rustling leaves,
the air so nothing in its purity as to be impossible to explain… the weather,
oh my goodness so much weather… Fog (whispering through the trees, a twig breaks behind you, a mischievous sprite snickering?) and rain (relentless like a heavy weight physically pressing down on your head) and snow (mythical and absolute in its purity) and sun (enriching the colors of everything, transforming the ordinary into extraordinary) and thunderstorms (overpowering, torrential, and then suddenly inexplicably gone, everything dry and hardly a memory of water an hour later) and this strange rib cage tugging, stretching, stillness which expands your consciousness’ unity with the universe while being simultaneously wildly unsettling, triggering something in your animal subconscious that is also the root of every terrifying, pitch black,depth of night forest story.
It is impossible to capture Ljubljana in words and photos
(and clearly I have tried).
And thus, it will forever be impossible for me to really
share.
Cool: Palpably rich, amazing Ljubljana.
Stupid: How something so tangibly rich, can still feel hollow.
Dedicated to Sandra Olsson whose perfect, though lamppost obsessed, company in Venice,
Italy made the experience all the more delectable, fattening, and fabulous than had I walked the canals
alone.
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