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When I open old family albums today, I return to another time that I did not experience myself, but which I still felt as part of myself through mum Francka's stories.
Home threshold, the smell of freshly baked bread, an old photo album – all of this takes me back to the times when my parents were still alive.
Sometimes a single photograph can open a door to a world we have never experienced ourselves.
My neighbour Aleksandra moved to Doha in the emirate of Qatar sixteen years ago from a small town in Slovenia.
A chatty friend, a charming conversationalist, an attentive listener, and a member of the Placari and literary society by the name of Neta Vergan resides in Ilirska Bistrica.
In Goričko in Prekmurje, in Krašče pri Ferencovih, thirty years ago, a special celebration came to life, which we named the Corn Festival.
In the lovely village of Brce, at the junction of the green Brkini hills and the Ilirska Bistrica valley, lives basketmaker Jože Štalunov with his wife Tonca.
When I look at that old photograph, of me as a baby with slightly open eyes, wrapped in a soft blanket, I don't just see myself.
When I was little, I didn't understand why Grandma used to get up before sunrise every Sunday morning.
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