Ljubljana Nights

“My sister doesn’t know the difference between a hippie and a hipster,” I heard her say.

I met Nina at Preseren Square at 8:15 pm. I nearly wondered aloud how many people the world over had chosen the same meeting place at one point or another.

As Nina approached, her sister nearly tackled me with a bear hug.

“This is Ines,” she said.

She stood a few inches shorter than Nina and like her sister wore glasses. She beamed, life emanating from every pour. I knew instantly the two were related. What they lacked in physical resemblance they made up for in their commitment to joy, to a singular type of existence.

While Nina looked as though she was stopped en route to a first date, Ines would have looked very much at home perched on the corner of Haight and Ashbury. She was sporting a colorful pullover and a pair of sandals that had undoubtedly seen better days.

We made our way towards a popular outdoor café that played live jazz, joking and poking fun as we ambled through Ljubljana’s cobbled stone streets.

What a strange bunch, I thought.

Here were two twenty-something Slovenian sisters and an American man in his thirties stumbling through the most transitional phase of his life.

The walk was brief as every walk in this town is. One of Europe’s smallest capitals, it leaves little excuse to ever feel overwhelmed by your surroundings.

You really have to try to get lost.

We took our seats at the same table I’d sat at just the day before. As we got comfortable, the voice singing in the background reminded me of Diane Kroll or Madeleine Peyroux, which is to say I was happy.

In between sets they played the familiar hits of Sinatra. I secretly hoped to hear, Summer Wind.

Ines sipped on a beer as Nina nursed a lemonade. I opted for a green tea as we delved into a conversation that danced mostly around love. We traded notes on American customs of dating versus those in Slovenia as I held up my umbrella creating a makeshift parasol.

Before we shared intimate tales of loves lost and won, Nina said, “You were so happy yesterday but tonight you are sad.”

“I’m not,” I tried to explain. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

I’m not sure if she believed me, or if I believed myself for that matter, but eventually the three of us left and flirted with the idea of going to the home of Nina’s friend.

“You girls go ahead,” I insisted.

“You’re invited too,” Nina assured me.

Ines seemed ambivalent at best as I got the sense she would have been happiest wandering aimlessly through the drizzly dark city or picking wildflowers in a park.

We headed south turning down an invitation to a pub crawl along the way. When we reached the next corner I told the girls I was heading home.

“I’m worried we’ll never see you again,” Ines said.

“Sure you will,” I told her. “With some people you just know.”

She seemed convinced before Nina asked about my plans the following day.

“I’m not really doing anything,” I said.

She invited me to Film Under the Stars, a series of screenings held at Ljubljana Castle every July.

What lucky timing, I thought.

“Okay, call me tomorrow,” I said.

She nodded and soon the sisters made there way off into the night one way as I did the other.

Just before they left, I glanced up the street from where we stood. I could just make out the intersection where Nina and I had met for the first time the day before. I turned to make my way home.

I never saw the girls again.

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The Day I Stopped Thinking Vulnerability Was a Weakness

During my second year of grad school my classmates and I were each assigned Chekhov short stories to memorize and perform. Though I was well-versed in plays like, Three Sisters, Uncle Vanya, and the Cherry Orchard I didn't realize the writer and medical doctor had also compiled such a prolific list of short stories. In fact the piece I was assigned, In the Graveyard became, and remains, my favorite short story of all time. 

http://www.online-literature.com/anton_chekhov/1120/

For weeks before our performances I felt incredibly self-conscious about my progress as an actor. It seemed everyone in class was having these remarkable breakthroughs. Their diction had improved, they were more honest on stage, and the work more polished. What did everyone do over the summer? I thought. Just a few weeks before I'd prided myself on being the hardest working actor in school.

When it was finally my time to perform I did something I never do and haven't done this. I "phoned it in." I knew I had a few skills at my disposal and could make it look as though I was invested in the story. I even duped a few but not my mentor. After class she stopped me on the corner of 116th and Broadway and told me, "You were way out of line. I want to see you this evening." My heart sank. I'd not only let myself down but someone I really admired.

That evening in the basement of Schapiro Hall we worked on the piece for over an hour. She tried desperately to get me to understand the people in the story were living breathing human beings who faced insecurities, mortality, fear, and discomfort just like me. She stayed on me like a hawk until out of nowhere I broke down. "Do you want to continue?!" she asked. "Yes," I said. I finished the story when she pulled me aside. "That's what I was looking for. Now, do you see just how great you can be?"

I nodded my head and understood the work suffered because of my fear to be vulnerable. At 26 I thought it was a weakness. That evening I realized it was a strength -- that there's profound courage in being open.

Unfortunately, people, particularly men, are conditioned to believe it's a liability. But I've discovered not only does being vulnerable forge trust but it also gives other people solace, while empowering them to talk be more open about their own fears. When everything is laid out on the table a community of authenticity takes shape and remarkable things can begin to happen.