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It was a beautiful sunny day when my friend Petra and I agreed to go on a trip. We were both young mothers with two babies, just a few months old.
It was a normal working day with all the commitments that awaited me. One of them was attending an event entitled Our Stories, Your Questions, organised by the Golden Ribbon Institute.
At a time when we are faced with intolerance everywhere, which is sometimes justified when it comes to the Roma here in Dolenjska, introvert that I am, I look back to my youth and to a friendship that was forged by chance, but which lasted until the death of one of the two main protagonists.
Like many other couples, my husband and I have a habit of having coffee together after lunch, sometimes with a biscuit.
Somewhere deep in my dreams, I hear the sound of an alarm clock, calling me insistently to a new day. "Cin cin cin," it calls in my ears.
All city streets are marked with their names. In our small town below Snežnik, one of them is called Gubčeva ulica.
A long time ago, I borrowed a car from my partner at the time. A friend asked me if I could do her a favour and move her things from her old flat to her new one.
Although Marko Sekavčnik gave up farming a few years ago and sold most of his farm machinery, he has not parted with his tractor.
Winter, what is it? When are we going to put on those beautiful and warm snowflakes and wrap ourselves in wool scarves of beautiful colours?
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