"Is this your first time in Slovenia?"
It was Christmas Eve in Ljubljana, and I was standing at the hotel reception with the face of a tired girl who had just survived Venice station, winter travel, and her own impulse decisions.
"Yes," I said.
The staff smiled.
"Are you scared of heights?"
"No?"
"Okay, let's see what we can do for you."
"Oh 🥰"
"Shhh. We upgraded you to a slightly bigger and better room on the 18th floor."
And that is how Slovenia introduced itself to me. Not with a grand speech. Not with a perfect itinerary. Just a kind receptionist, a secret upgrade, and a room high enough to make me feel like I had accidentally unlocked a premium version of Christmas.
I won't start this with "Slovenia was unexpectedly amazing."
It was. Touché!
But this trip did not begin like a glossy travel reel. It began on a random Sunday evening when I realised that being boxed inside my otherwise perfect Airbnb for Christmas felt tragic. My wallet and bank account protested loudly, but my suitcase had already emotionally packed itself.
How could I not listen?
After running around Venice station like a headless chicken, I finally found my bus and made my way to Ljubljana.
My hotel was right next to the bus stop and all the tour pickups, which felt like a small blessing for a tired girl in winter. I could practically roll out of bed and into a tour van, which is exactly the kind of travel infrastructure I approve of.
The reception staff were so kind. When I told them I felt bad they were working on Christmas Eve, they just smiled and asked if it was my first time in Slovenia.
Then came the height question. Then came the upgrade.
The Key Was Back in Rome
Then came the cold-open chaos.
A woman arrives in magical Christmas-y Ljubljana. Gets upgraded. The universe says, "Cute. Now solve this side quest."
Because like a very responsible traveller, I had locked my suitcase.
Perfect. Just one tiny detail.
The key was back in Rome.
Perfetto.
I sat on the bed, evaluating my options while every muscle in my body called for a crisis meeting.
- Would I sleep in the bathrobe?
- Would I wear the same clothes for the next few days?
- Could I shop? Technically yes. Except the only things open for shopping were gas stations, and I was not ready to build a festive Ljubljana wardrobe from petrol station couture.
I was pacing in my soft bathrobe. And, suddenly neurons fired. What if?
My hair clip.
I pulled it out, pushed it into the lock with 50 percent hope and 50 percent utter desperation.
Voila.
It opened.
I threw my hair back in full sass.
Hello Mr Bond, Danny Ocean, and the entire crew of The Italian Job. Please make space. There is a new professional in town and she is armed with a hair accessory.
Just when I thought Slovenia had delivered enough drama, the TV broke.
Hmm, okay, cool. Laptop it is.
The hotel staff? Absolutely not, Ma'am.
They upgraded me again. This time to a junior suite.
Okay, woah! I was partly shocked, partly giddy, and fully willing to accept the affection. If Slovenia wanted to spoil me, who was I to resist?
Christmas Eve in Ljubljana
Later that evening, I stepped into Ljubljana's Christmas softness.
The city was quiet, glowing, and gentle in a way that felt almost shy. Not showy. Not loud. Just pretty little streets, winter lights, market stalls, and the feeling that everyone had collectively agreed to lower the volume.
On the city tour, we stopped at a tasting table filled with little bowls, bottles, oils, spreads, spices, and Slovenian things I could not confidently pronounce but was absolutely ready to try. There was olive oil. Pumpkin seed oil. Honey. Truffle things. Little bread cubes. Tiny spoons. A very dangerous arrangement for a curious woman. Naturally, I tasted everything.
Then I found a stall selling Slovenian med and honey.
Every shot got stronger. The stall guy kept pouring, and I am pretty sure I had six. Then he still gave me "one for the road."
Sir, please, you are overestimating my capacity.
Christmas Eve did not feel dramatic. It did not feel lonely. It did not feel like the big cinematic Christmas I may have imagined. It felt softer than that.
A city tour. A kind hotel. A suitcase rescued by a hair clip. A junior suite I did not see coming. A tasting table that looked like a festive trap. A tiny glass of something strong enough to remind me I was, in fact, alive.
It wasn't a perfect beginning. It was better. It was funny, lucky, slightly chaotic, and unexpectedly sweet.
Exactly the kind of beginning I trust.
