With lists, it’s like this.
They surprise you.
Especially in winter, when words stick together the way people do — in small groups.
33–32–31.
Falling. Promising. Domestic. Elementare – 2nd Chance – Scheherazade. Furniture – clothes – food. Rickshaw – curry – wok. Smell. Around the corner. Not Trubarjeva?
30.
Lawyer. Make-up. Scene. Handbags. Clothes. A familiar face. What are you doing? Hei Tea.
Tea. Happiness. Sweetness. Aha. We don’t like. Too sweet.
29.
Kashida. Clothes. Empty. Dreams. Books. Full. Falafel. Scheherazade. Hostel. People. Young. Namaste. Tourists. An arched graffiti. Madal Bal. Thrown together.
27.
Apartments. Cold. Cheerful. Textile House. The smell of clothes. SemPAtja. Scooters.
26.
Apartments. Short-cut Street. The Chinese. Rašo. Šiša. Still Trubarjeva? Of(f) Course. Jež Boutique. To Do in Slovenia. Local products. Expensive. Neat. Wooden. Clean. Antiquarian bookshop. Slovenia–Serbia. Fast fade. Full. Just Boys.
25.
Emptiness. Rohrmann. Milena and Cankar. Bohemians. ZRC SAZU. An acquaintance. Poljane High School. What are you doing? Brilliant. Chevap. Closed. Logical. Phone accessories. Open.
Logical. Tinta Tattoo. A mosaic of forms. Art and craft. In English. Logical.
24.
Lawyer. Escape Room. Photo. Eye. Galerija Mulec. Bright. Airy. Dična clothes.
17.
Štorija Wine. Fancy. Wafel Wav Bar. Mobile. Accessories. Silk Road. Brand. Excellent. Tea. What are you doing? Interesting. Vape Shop. Leader Shop. Unique Slovenian Souvenirs.
13.
Bread and wine. New. Umbrellas. Old. Persistent. Fashionable again. Uršula jewellery. An acquaintance. Surprise. Reformator bar. Albanian. Heart. Croatia. Television. Good coffee. Cash only. Surprise. Empty stalls. A new street. Still Trubarjeva? Youth Vintage. Bazar Shop.
Gift Shop. Trend Fashion. Everything in English. Mladinska knjiga. Persists. Familiar. Cheerful.
Antiquarian bookshop. Jaka. What are you two doing here? ZRC wants the book. Of course.
Tourism vs. social life. Trubarjeva is not just Trubarjeva. We all know each other. A woman and a cross. Yeah, right. Closed hairdresser. Meta. The Underpass. Osteria da Mauri. A fierce dog. A fierce soup. Gaudinan. Veggie. Apartments. Old friends. Stick. Together.
8.
Pejaković Kiosk. Mini art. Jewellery. Art & Craft. Hats. Tailor. Grain to grain. Organic.
Full.
7.
Lawyer. Empty. Bar Trenutek. Even in winter? Flat. Fancy things. Vine. AVA Film Academy.
Florence. Handbags. Monkey. A street to the river. Part of Trubarjeva? Perfect. Souvenirs.
3.
Matcha Munchies. Full. Centromerkur. What’s left of it. Buttons. Galerija Emporium.
That’s just how it is. NIJZ. Vaccination. Pharmacy. Prešeren and Julija.
Where is Trubarjeva?
What is Trubarjeva?
When is Trubarjeva?
Whose is Trubarjeva?
In winter, it’s ours, it seems.
It’s the pre-Christmas season. The day before our walk along the next stretch of Trubarjeva, Martina and I talk on the phone, trying to decide where to meet for coffee. Starting a fieldwork day on a project about restaurants as spaces of encounter over coffee seems only logical. But in this lower stretch of Trubarjeva, I am lost—then it hits me: Reformator or Refič, as I later learned.
Refič it is. 9 o’clock it is. We take a table by the window, me facing the big TV screen. The décor, the screen, the music, the clientele, the overall atmosphere—everything recalls coastal cafés in winter, the kind that, during Yugoslav times, were often run by Albanian families. Only the cigarette smoke is missing, banished from Slovenian cafés in 2007 with the radical amendments to tobacco legislation.
It feels as if everyone knows everyone else. A few tables are already taken, mostly by men sitting alone. Then a group of women walks in; they greet the men, exchange a few words with the waitress. We are the only strangers here.
I’m trying to find the right name for this place. It’s not a café. It’s a bar—but not quite in the usual sense. In Yugoslavia, we would have called it a lokal, a word that doesn’t really translate because it carries a whole atmosphere with it: the faint smell of smoke lingering from morning to night, pale but familiar faces, the quiet certainty of belonging. A place where one can count on comrades—members, that is, of this everyday club—not only as co-drinkers, but as co-dreamers, co-travellers, fellow beings sharing the same small orbit of everyday life.
The atmosphere feels domestic—familiar, easy—not only because it stirs my own memories of such places, but also because it isn’t trying too hard. It’s not overly chic, not polished into anonymity even if shifting tobacco laws may eventually nudge it toward becoming a bar. Would tourists even recognize it for what it is? Would they feel at ease here? At first glance, it seems to draw a mixed crowd—especially in summer, I imagine—and yet this is my first time here. Even though I lived just steps away, on Trubarjeva, throughout my youth. Even though I still walk along this street almost every day—on my way to my parents’, to buy bread at the small grocery shop, to pick up buttons or fabric at Centromerkur. Sometimes I slip into Mladinska knjiga, looking for a gift. And yet… this is my first time in Refič. Reformator was always, for me, a place of a closed, settled, permanent circle. I remember a hippie-looking couple—long hair, loose, colorful clothes—who, especially in summer, often sat here among the Reformator regulars.
It’s cold now, and the summer looseness I associate with that couple feels distant.
We walk faster, with less hesitation than in summer, when we mapped the upper part of Trubarjeva. I move down the street with a notebook in my hand, adding numbers and names of establishments to a quickly sketched map. As I map the street, I feel exposed—no longer just another body moving through it. People notice. Their curiosity is almost tangible.
There are just few residential buildings and most ground floors are open to the world. They sell, feed, invite, and smell. At certain corners and stretches, I add a feeling, a glance, a sentence overheard, a thought.
We stop at the Hei Tea teahouse—closed, unfortunately. A small poster suggests they also serve food. The owner of the neighboring clothing shop approaches us and asks what we’re doing. It feels like we’ve stepped into Trubarjeva’s communal courtyard; the locals want to know who we are. But who are the locals, really? The residents, the shopkeepers, the ones who return every afternoon to the same table? Is “local” a matter of address, of work, or of repetition?
The questions directed at us are not hostile, not awkward—just curious. We explain: researchers from ZRC, working on a project about restaurants as spaces of encounter. He nods—it makes sense, us being here in Trubarjeva. Adds that they don’t buy tea here because it’s too sweet; the owners have gone to China; they’re not around at the moment. I think: neighbors know each other well here. This space doesn’t allow anonymity. Later, reading an online text, I wonder whether Hei Tea noticed their neighbors’ complaint—that the drinks are too sweet. I also wonder if the name is a play on the Slovenian phrase hej, ti! —hey, you!
Hei Tea is a popular destination for bubble tea lovers in Ljubljana. Their menu includes classic flavors like black and green tea, as well as more innovative combinations like matcha, taro, and various fruit options. Hei Tea is known for using high-quality ingredients, including natural fruit juices and freshly cooked tapioca pearls, ensuring an excellent experience. A special feature of this location is the customization options, where you can choose different sweetness levels, amounts of ice, and toppings like popping boba and fruit jellies. Customers frequently praise the friendly staff, fast service, and refreshing, flavorful drinks. The ability to fully customize your beverage is highly valued, allowing each drink to be tailored to the customer’s taste. Hei Tea also boasts a pleasant atmosphere and a central location in Ljubljana, making it accessible and popular among young people and tourists alike. https://the-slovenia.com/en/gastronomy/the-best-bubble-tea-in-ljubljana/
The next surprise: Cankar and Milena, and beneath their story the ZRC sign—an indication of some project—all displayed in the ground-floor window of a medieval house, today the Rohrmann House hotel. The story goes like this: in the 19th century, the house was bought by Czech soap merchant Josef Strelba for his daughter Rozi, who married merchant Viktor Rohrmann. They had eleven children. Among them was Milena—friend, lover, and almost-bride of Ivan Cankar, the modernist writer—known as “the bride from Trubarjeva.”
Right there, we meet an acquaintance from our high-school days who lives on Trubarjeva. We chat. He asks what we’re doing. Says he envies us. Says he knows I don’t remember him—but then mentions a mutual acquaintance we both know, though neither of us particularly liked him. That’s how it is in Ljubljana. That’s how it is on Trubarjeva in winter.
We chat. Of course, Chevap closed—it was too upscale; would you go there for čevapčiči? Of course, Trubarjeva is constantly changing; if you live here, you can’t complain. Of course, the owner of Reformator is Albanian, it shows, it brings back memories from Adriatic. In winter, when the street is ours, everything is logical.
The third stop is the little shop Svilna Pot, barely a few square meters in size. I know it through my brother’s husband, a Londoner, who comes here for Thai spices, curry pastes, and the like. I often pop in myself, picking up Red Curry Paste, which I use for fish curry, and explain to the shop assistant, who is curious about our project, what we’re doing. On the entrance door is an official certificate from the Japanese organization JETRO, declaring the shop a “Japanese Food Supporter.” It was awarded in 2021 by the Japanese ambassador Matsushima to selected Slovenian stores that regularly carry a range of authentic Japanese food products. In Slovenia, the first to receive these certificates were the Maxi Gourmet Market chain of Mercator, as well as the shops of Svilna Pot d.o.o. and Cha d.o.o. “We’re very proud of it,” our interlocutor adds, “and perhaps in the near future we’ll even receive the Chinese certificate too.”
Our mission is promoting safe and delicious Japanese food products and alcoholic beverages to every corner of the world. We are looking for partners who can help us do that. What is the certification program of Japanese Food and Ingredient Supporter Stores Overseas? This program was designed to certify overseas restaurants, bars and retailers which carry Japanese food and beverages as official “Japanese Food Supporters” in order to further promote Japanese agricultural, forestry, fishery and food products around the world. The certified period of Japanese Food Supporter is set for two years from the day of certification. (Need to apply for renewing the certification to continue after 2 years.) https://www.jetro.go.jp/en/trends/foods/supporter/
As we linger around the spice stand, she asks if we happen to know that fenugreek can also be used for tea. Apparently, it’s good for women in menopause. I decide to buy a small package, while Martina picks up some curry paste—medium spicy.
On our way toward the Prešeren Monument, we run into two acquaintances of mine, also from high school days. I’m not entirely sure of their names. They, too, are guessing in the dark at my name—Barbara, Alenka, Nataša…? We recognize each other by sight, and Trubarjeva feels the right place for a brief chat with (un)familiar faces. Its narrowness leaves just enough space to see and recognize one another. We stand between the new shop Hlebec, which sells bread and wine together, and the old Reformator, where there are no such surprises—except that you can’t pay by card here. One of the acquaintances suggests we look for a book about Trubarjeva, the one made by the gentleman from the antiquarian shop a little further down. Martina remembers that her husband had also mentioned the very same book. Among the more widely known books about Trubarjeva—like Jeff Bickert’s Trubarjeva, Expressions of A Street in Transition from 2019—Prijatelj’s book is somehow hidden. That, in turn, makes it even more appealing.
We walk past the umbrella repair shop—the one that, judging by the comments I’ve caught in recent months, has acquired an almost legendary status, though I am not entirely sure whether it still operates. How wonderful that such a repair shop still exists, the aunt of my high school friend once remarked. I wonder whether she would actually take her broken umbrella there. Above the workshop, the rooms seem to be functioning—Rooms Dežniki—borrowing their name from the umbrella maker below. After the umbrella shop, another side street joins Trubarjeva, its entrance lined with empty stalls. Is this still Trubarjeva?
We continue along the “official” Trubarjeva. Shops follow one another in a loose sequence, most of them with English-sounding names, written either in standard English or in a (un)intentionally adapted, Slovenianized version of it. Gift Shop. Bazar Shop. Trendi Fashion and the like. Then Mladinska knjiga. The old bookstore with its Slovene name intact. A small, personal relief.
Our next stop is the antiquarian bookshop Carniola Antiqua. The next mission: to find Jaka Prijatelj’s book titled Ulica (The Street). We step into a densely packed space, where an acquaintance of my son works. Warm and red-haired, she seems to belong to the room’s reddish glow. The author of the book we are looking for approaches us as well. We explain what we are doing before anyone even asks. “Look at that—ZRC is interested in my book,” Jaka says. We agree to come back for it after the holidays. During our brief exchange, we also settle on a longer, in-depth interview. A customer drifts in and out of the conversation—an older woman, evidently a regular. “There’s a cross over there for you,” the owner says, half-teasing. “Oh please, that’s exactly what I’m looking for,” she replies dryly. Then the talk shifts to sociability and tourism—two opposing principles, which Jaka sees clearly reflected in Trubarjeva. We touch as well on the question of where Trubarjeva actually begins and ends. What counts as Trubarjeva? It isn’t just this street, this line on the map—it’s the whole of it, the entire neighbourhood, he says.
Later, on the publisher’s website, I find a few words about the book we were searching for, and a poem by the author.
A new book about the life of Ljubljana’s most unusual street – Trubarjeva cesta. For nearly twenty years, Jaka Prijatelj has been catching its shifting faces in his camera lens, more or less by chance. In his own way – playful, witty, at times mischievous, yet always with documentary weight – he reveals the small, vast world of Trubarjeva and the people who inhabit it. The accompanying texts to nearly five hundred photographs are written by Luna J. Šribar, Esad Babačić and Borut Mehle.
Paparazzi
To photograph on the street/ to stand and watch/ Not a sin/ is it a sin/ And you just walk right by/
I photograph you secretly/ and I imagine/ that/ you ar / Marilyn Monroe
Jaka Prijatelj
https://www.antikacarniola.com/contact-4
We walk toward Prešeren Square and decide that once we finish mapping the street on foot, we will return to Trubarjeva for lunch—perhaps the Italian restaurant. The plan feels provisional, like so many small decisions that structure a day in the field. On the way to Prešern, we pass the legendary Meta’s hair salon, then Kiosk Pejaković, then the jewelry shop where, perhaps, the family of my former primary school classmate still works. The street unfolds in a sequence of trades and intimacies: the seamstress, the lawyer, the health-food shop where I usually buy my gluten-free bread. These are not merely services; they are minor anchor points in my own biography, fixed in place while I keep moving. Sticky entanglements of my life with Trubarjeva.
Across from the bread shop stands the design store Flat. I entered it only once. It is not to my taste, though the objects are undeniably chic and carefully curated on shelfs. I remember that the premises once housed Loterija Slovenije, not a very stylish establishment. The transformation from lottery to lifestyle feels emblematic of a broader shift: from chance to design, from risk to aesthetic control. To the left of the entrance, between Flat and the Academy of visual arts AVA, a vine climbs shyly along the outer wall of the house. Beside it, a commemorative plaque dedicated to Anton Trstenjak. The vine seems almost embarrassed by the plaque, as if unsure whether to frame it or to hide it. Later, leafing through the archive of newspaper articles on Trubarjeva I find a trace of the vine there as well. It appears fleetingly in the record, a small vegetal footnote in the documented life of the street. What grows quietly against a wall sometimes survives longer than the events that once made headlines.
On Trubarjeva Street in Ljubljana, more than 25 years ago, an Eastern Styrian vine was planted by the academic Dr. Anton Trstenjak and Milan Lovrenčič, on the occasion of the 850th anniversary of the city of Ljubljana. The memorial vine adorns the wall along which it grows and thereby also Trubarjeva Street, and at the same time serves as a reminder of the world-renowned academic Dr. Anton Trstenjak. In June 1995, the Administrative Unit Ljubljana officially issued a decision confirming the permit for the memorial vine and its supporting structure. As long as Loterija Slovenije operated at that address, the memorial protection of the vine was observed, explains Milan Lovrenčič. The lottery no longer operates there; instead, the company Utensilia, with the Flat store, now operates at that address and has installed a large advertising board, thereby covering part of the venerable vine. Lovrenčič expects that the inspection service of the Municipality of Ljubljana (MOL) will respond and demand the removal of the advertising board (Silva Čeh).
A few more steps and we reach the square, where the street, like a river meeting the sea, dissolves into the city. On the left, a row of shops stands at attention—handbags and souvenirs—while between them a small side street slips away toward the river. Above it, an Escape Room promises controlled danger. A little further on, is, supposedly, the popular teahouse Macha Munchie, or so Martina says; I notice it only today. Just before the square, the left side ends with the building of the National Health Institute. It calls up memories of vaccinations before journeys to distant places.
On the right, I notice a small shop with a large name: Centromerkur. Centromerkur once was a grand department store—at least it seemed so to me. As a child, I came here with my mother to buy fabric and buttons, zippers and elastic bands. The imposing corner building, its façade and main entrance facing the square, was said to be Ljubljana’s first department store. Today it houses Emporium, a shop of expensive clothes and shoes. I rarely enter, except when my cousins from Zagreb visit and we ride the escalator up to COS. This happens during the sales.
Martina and I treat ourselves to pumpkin soup at Osteria da Mauri, run by a young Slovenian-Italian couple and a small dog. The dog is fierce; the owners are kind. The taste of the soup is both familiar and not. It resembles the “Slovenian” soups made from orange Hokkaido pumpkins but at the same time it is different. Where does the name Hokaido pumpkins come from? It sounds Japanese, yet I later learn that they originate in Central and South America. The soup I am sipping is seasoned differently from the one I know. Its texture, too, seems somewhat self-willed. I like it. I will call it the Trubarjeva pumpkin sopa da Mauri.
Between numbers 33 and 1: approximately 300 meters; 24 food-related establishments (8 restaurants); 4 acquaintances encountered; 2 childhood memories.
Published February 2026. 2026/2
