Pandemic thoughts

Ljubljana during COVID-19 lock-down

Lockdown in Ljubljana is over.

After probably the weirdest spring of my life, I am back in a street café, without face covering, doing what I like best: watching people. Summer has arrived in Ljubljana and I look back at the last three months with astonishment.

One evening in March, around midnight, I and every resident of Slovenia received an SMS message from the government telling us to avoid meeting others and not to venture outdoors unless absolutely necessary.

Well, my little Schnauzer had an absolute necessity three times a day. That was that.

Ljubljana, the ghost-town edition, kept its charm even without the herds of tourists, or maybe because of their absence. During brisk evening walks through the old town, I felt transferred to the early 20th century, to a time of war.

Free from traffic, the asphalt had grown silent, interrupted only by red, green and amber lights changing for nobody. Restaurants and bars had handwritten notes hanging in their windows, most containing apologies for being closed.

With so much activity drained out of Ljubljana, the little life that remained became more visible. Passers-by started to look me in the eye and either nodded or said a quick hello. It felt like lockdown revealed the essence of human kindness, distilled from the wash of urban anonymity.

The absence of noise was most striking. It gave the town an air of peace with a gentle waft of dread. Without the usual hum of public transport, I could hear a blackbird over Slovenska Cesta, while in Valvasor Park the crows complained louder and more menacingly than before. Each passing car became an event. When that event was a police car, it made me uneasy.

In purple sunsets along deserted streets, snippets of life drifted from half-open windows: pans clanking, toilets flushing, dinner-table discussions. Although I practiced social distancing, I sometimes felt I was intruding into the personal space of my neighbours.

Then came compulsory face coverings in supermarkets, till ladies behind perspex screens, and floor markings to stretch out queues. Yes, I was queuing for bread outside Osem, my favourite bakery, and yes, it felt like a Soviet documentary from the 1980s.

Life indoors did not change dramatically for me as I worked from home anyway. Having said that, I appreciated more than ever that my partner is a talented cook. For leisure, I stocked the fridge with cans of beer and registered with TikTok. I am a simple soul.

One morning, where a homeless man used to sleep, I found candles and flowers instead of him. It could mean only one thing. The last time I saw him, he sat outside a local supermarket greeting everyone with, "Dober dan vam želim" - I wish you a good day - while asking for food or a euro.

I could not stop thinking about the vulnerable in our society and how little protection they have. At the same time, I was moved by the gesture of his neighbours.