An Afternoon with Jesus -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

Simon returned me to Sabi's on Thursday morning.

"Your car still smells a little," I wrinkled my nose as I shut the door behind me.

"My car smells horrible," Simon said emphatically. "I don't know what it is."

"Well, I can't find my shirt. That grey tank."

"But I've looked everywhere. There's nothing left in the car."

"That's because your car ate my shirt. And now my shirt is giving your car indigestion," I sank back into the seat in defeat. "I loved that shirt," I heaved a mournful sigh. "Oh well, hippie points for losing my wet river shirt in your car."

For better or worse, I've fallen into the habit of justifying little inconveniences with a hippie point system.

Forgot the utensils for today's picnic?

Hippie points for eating with your fingers.

Didn't have time to bathe this morning?

Hippie points for saving water (and for not caring how you smell).

Sometimes people ask me how many hippie points I've accumulated through my years traveling (all two of them), and I cast them a deadpan glance and say in a deadpan voice, "I was in Albania."

I made myself a coffee with the coffee robot (whom I've named Gregor, because he's nearly as fabulous as the hostel owner who rescued us in Albania after a miserable night of hippie points overload) and felt immensely pleased that I knew how to operate Gregor, where to find the coffee cups and how to light the stove.

I'm becoming so comfortable here... 

Sabi had to work on Thursday, so she phoned one of her friends and asked if he'd like to come over to meet her American guest. The friend has a surname that sounds a little bit like "Jesus", and as Sabi loves nicknames and as this friend is skinny with long hair, Sabi's dubbed him Jesus.  

"I'm forgetting the real names of your friends. Garfield. Jesus. Raccoon. I'm going to leave Slovenia and think I stayed with a woman who befriended only deities and cats."

Jesus arrived ten minutes after Sabi's phone call, blowing through the door and filling the apartment with chaotic, unpredictable energy that managed to meld with a nonchalant demeanor in a way that left me feeling slightly on edge.

If I were a plate or a wine goblet or a lamp, I think I would be afraid of Jesus. Very, very afraid. I can't put my finger on it... but I kind of feel like this is a person who would casually toss his glass out the window if a) he didn't particularly enjoy what was inside the glass, or b) he randomly had the impulse to toss his glass out the window. 

We ate breakfast together and then Jesus drove me to Tivoli Park, largest park in Ljubljana and located between Sabina's apartment and the city center.  

Tivoli Park has fountains --

-- ballerinas --

-- walkways lined with beautiful photographs --

-- ponds with lilies --

-- flowers, flowers, flowers --

-- and a good deal of other things (greenhouse, rose garden, hall and mansion) that I had no time to photograph because I suddenly found myself too occupied answering Jesus' spitfire questions. I usually prefer to leave conversations knowing about as much about the other person as he or she knows about me, but I'm afraid that after an afternoon with Jesus, the skinny god of eternal questions could probably count the hairs on my head (and on my legs, too. HIPPIE POINTS). 

"We need to make a plan," Jesus caught me off-guard with a non-interrogative statement and I nearly fell into the pond. "I show you the tanks, we drive to my apartment, leave the car there and walk to the city center."

"There are tanks?"

"Yes, Tivoli has tanks."

"Then let's see the tanks."

After ten minutes of walking, Jesus stopped in his tracks and looked about in confusion.

"They used to be here. Right here. Jesus Christ, where are the tanks?"

I dissolved into a puddle of laughter.

"Jesus Christ, where are the tanks?" Baha. 

We never found the tanks. I think this was the most flustered Jesus became during our seven hours spent together.  Although I suppose it's understandable that a handful of absent tanks can cause a few moments of minor distress.

Phase two of the Jesus plan went according to plan. We drove to his perfectly located apartment and parked the car. Then Jesus gave me the grand tour of a flat that was bursting with TVs, computers and various electronic paraphernalia, but completely devoid of germs and unnecessary furniture such as kitchen tables. When Sabina gave me the tour of her apartment, she introduced me to the piano, the toilet and Gregor. When Jesus gave me the tour of his apartment, he introduced me to his TVs, the malfunctioning toilet door, and the pasta he'd eaten for breakfast that morning (before the second breakfast he'd shared with Sabina).

This Jesus guy... don't quite know what to think of him, I tried to piece together the odd puzzle of Jesus whilst telling him that I didn't really want to eat his leftover pasta, answering more questions about homeschooling and sipping some sweet concoction of his grandmother's.

"Do you want something to drink? My grandmother made this. It's kind of like juice. I don't know what it is."

"Do I want to drink some unidentified grandmother juice? Yes, please."

I was disturbed when the juice appeared to possess the texture of jelly, but Jesus assured me that jelly-juice was normal as he diluted it with water and stirred the slimy blue chunks with a spoon he'd double rinsed.

This Jesus guy...

As I'd begun to suspect, the tour of the city turned out to be something other than conventional. Jesus fulfilled his tour guide obligations by taking me to the main square and helping me to check monuments off the list Sabina had prepared for me, but he was less than enthusiastic about wandering around the market or popping in and out of shops.

I adore less than conventional tours. We spent hours people watching and sharing stories and hanging out under Jesus' umbrella.

This girl's got pizzazz. And very nice overalls that I want for my own.

France Preseren, Slovenia's best known poet.

At Ljubljana Castle

View from the castle.

My tummy began to grumble at about four o'clock. I looked down in absolute shock.

You haven't grumbled since Skopje when I was so determined to eat melted cheese that I dragged Tessa past a zillion kebap shops... why are you making noise now? 

Answering Jesus' questions must make me hungry. 

My new friend took me back to his apartment and his mother prepared creamed mushrooms, steak and eggs for the two of us.

"If you can't finish it or you don't like it, just throw it out the window. That's what I do," Jesus confirmed my original suspicion.

I would not want to be a plate in Jesus' house. Or anything that goes on top of a plate. 

Jesus drove me back to Sabi's a little after five, inviting me back on another occasion to watch E.T. with him (a film I still haven't seen).

"Well, I'm going to Italy in a couple of days, but I know I'll be back in Slovenia. How about in five years -- give or take -- we watch E.T. together? I'll save it for you."

Jesus didn't promise to save the film for me, but he did say that we could watch it together upon my return to the green, mountainous, friendly, castle-infested country of Slovenia.

The castle at night