Rachel in Wonderland

We strolled through Ljubljana, following the canal that slices the main thoroughfare of the city in two. Ornate, pristine architecture towered over us; cafes and bars festooned the street, buzzing with energy as the nightlife awakened.

But tonight, this classic beauty was struck from the agenda. I followed my new friends as they abruptly diverted from the main strip, weaving their way through a web of entangled stone streets, modernized by layers of vibrant graffiti adorning the adjacent walls. I acted as Alice, darting after my White Rabbits down the rabbit hole.

My Wonderland? Metelkova.

If Ljubljana embodies a grand Mozart symphony, then Metelkova is a chaotic punk anthem. The space has worn many hats through the years: a bunker for Yugoslav soldiers, a seedy harbor for junkies and runaways, and now, an arts community, a space for activists and creatives to drink, dance, and flourish. It pays no taxes, serves liquor without a license, and is technically illegal, but thrives all the same. It was a scar of the violence that plagued the region transformed through creativity, a testament to resilience and adaption.

A smile crept across my face as I devoured its intoxicating energy for the first time. A sea of people stood chatting, tendrils of ghostly smoke sauntering from the orange glow of their cigarettes. Paint blanketed every surface, from the expansive murals climbing up the sides of two story buildings to the technicolor playground equipment draped with languid teenagers ironically sipping beer. Sculptures hid in every nook and cranny, like a large foot that grew into a mouse head, or a web of demonic creatures, faces contorted into snarls baring haggard teeth. It almost seemed as if they would fly from the building they adorned and soar through the air, adding a dose of magic to the surreal scene.

We wandered into the nearest building, lured forward by the flashing effervescence of neon lights. Two guitarists commandeered the stage, their faces shrouded by elephant masks, complete with floppy ears and trunks. Perhaps they would be my own Mad Hatters.

And just like Alice, my journey began upon arrival. As I leaned against the bar and pressed the cool metal of a beer can to my lips, a young man appeared and asked me to dance. Never one to turn down an opportunity, I followed him to the dance floor, the elephant boys’ eery music thumping throughout the building. Alice may have awoken from her dream, but my Wonderland was just beginning.