For many, it is just another traditional event, but for me it is a real celebration, perhaps even the biggest one. Every year, I looked forward to it with the same excitement as I would have looked forward to my birthday or Christmas. In reality, Carnival was something special, something just mine. A feast of joy, of children's imagination, of fragrant doughnuts and pumpkin-cheering.
When I was little, we used to go to a carnival every year. At home, we would prepare the costume the day before. One time I was a cat, another time I was a ladybug, a clown, a witch, a snow fairy... I was everything I wanted to be. There were no limits then - Carnival allowed you to dream, to fool around and to have fun that you might not have dared to show during the year.
When we arrived at the venue, the air was buzzing with anticipation. Everything smelled of freshly fried doughnuts and flan doughnuts. The sweet, warm smell of vanilla and oil just sucked me in. I promised myself I would eat just one every time, and I never kept it. I ate it hot! So much that my stomach almost burst. But at the time I didn't mind. That morning was my time. Carnival kid time.
Processions were held through the streets. Children, parents, teachers and even grandparents wore funny masks. We laughed, danced, sang and teased each other. Sometimes the pavements were still covered with snow at that time of year, but in our hearts it was still warm spring. The kurents - imposing figures with bells, horned masks and sheepskins - crept among us. Their arrival always heralded the end of winter and the beginning of a new, more joyful season.
The Kurents were a true miracle for me. I was afraid of them, but I admired them at the same time. Their bells rattled so loudly that you felt them in your stomach. They went from door to door, from house to house; like messengers of the old world. Today I know that they were not only scary men with masks, but also guardians of heritage. They are part of the Slovenian soul, which, through the carnival, maintains a connection with our ancestors, with old customs, with nature and with the community.
Every time I saw them, the first thing I did was to squeeze my mother. Then I watched them. Their masks were handmade. Each one was different and had its own unique story. There was something wild about them, but also something familiar. At the time, I couldn't explain why they made my heart skip a beat, but today I know - the Kurents carry time, memory, roots.
Carnival taught me more than how to disguise myself. It taught me the importance of preserving what is ours. To celebrate what we are. To remember the tastes, smells, characters, songs and traditions that have warmed Slovenian homes for centuries. There is something in every doughnut, in every shema, in every kurent that must not disappear.
I'm grown up now, but I still love going to the carnival. I may no longer have wings and polka dots, I may no longer eat four doughnuts in one sitting, but my heart plays over and over again. And when that familiar smell of fresh dough, sugar and oil wafts through the air, it brings out the child in me. The one who believes that for one day a year, you can be anything. And that with every step you take in your mask, you preserve something precious - a memory, a holiday, a part of the Slovenian soul.
Carnival is not all jokes and doughnuts. It's a bond between generations. It is proof that we know how to preserve what counts. And as long as the streets of Slovenia are filled with the sound of the kurentas and the smell of fresh doughnuts, Carnival will remain in my heart the greatest holiday of my childhood.
Zala Krupljan, 5. 6. 2025
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