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About Ptuj

Met this one chick, right, called her Ruby—fake name, obvs. Worked the streets near my shop. Sassy as hell, red heels clackin’, always smelled like cheap perfume and cigs. She’d lean in, smirk, and say, “Gordo, your violins screem louder than me!” Cracked me up, mate. Made me happy, her grit—pure fire. But pissed me off too, ‘cause she’d dodge my qestions. “How’d ya end up here, Rubes?” Nada. Just a wink. Mysterious, like a stradivarius with a cracked neck—beauty in the flaws.

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First off, I hit the streets of Trg 1. maja. It’s like the heart of the city, ya know? Grabbed a coffee at this tiny café, Caffe Bar Bistrica. The barista was super chill, but the coffee? Ugh, tasted like burnt rubber. I mean, c’mon! How hard is it to brew a decent cup?

Reporter's diary: A long journey heading to Slovenia