Ljubljana

A work retreat in the city of dragons

By Rod Loboz

May 25^th, 2025

The first photo I take in Ljubljana is of the salmon-colored Baroque facade of the Franciscan Church of the Annunciation. It’s one of the clear memories I have from my last time here, more than fifteen years ago. Back then, I was on the final stretch of an overland trip from China to Lisbon. We spent our afternoons drinking at the outdoor cafés along the Ljubljanica river and grabbing late-night kebabs from a shop on Čop Street.

Now I'm back for a week-long work retreat with Silverfin. I arrive on a Sunday after a layover in Frankfurt. After checking into Hotel Slon, I take a slow stroll through the old town, letting the city come back to me in fragments — the bridges, the pastel façades, the low-hanging willows along the river. I bring a burek up to my room — a hot, spiral-shaped pastry stuffed with minced meat and cheese, flaky and greasy in the best way.

Before everyone else arrives, I get up early Monday morning to walk around the city and take some pictures. I make my way to Tivoli Park — its long lawns lined with horse chestnut trees, reminding me of the gardens at the Palace Hotel in Vidago. Sparrows flit between branches, and squirrels scurry across the grass and race up and down the tree trunks. Near the lake, dotted with water lilies, just beside the greenhouse, I spot a swan with her cygnets — small, grey, and scruffy, still figuring out how to move in sync with their mother. A male swan stands at a glass door, aggressively pecking at his own reflection, locked in a battle with the illusion of a rival. Around me, cyclists and joggers pass by quietly on the winding trails. Scattered sculptures emerge from the greenery. The whole park feels unhurried — a peaceful pocket of the city where everything seems to move just a little slower.

Near the park, the American Embassy sits along a quiet residential road lined with old villas that remind me of Palanga in Lithuania. In front of the Moderna Galerija, Slovenia’s modern art museum, a few bronze statues guard the entrance, while just down the road stands the National Opera House — built in a late 19th-century neo-Renaissance style, with the kind of ornate detail that hints at a city that was once a beacon of culture. Ljubljana may not shout it, but it's clearly part of the long shadow of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

The city’s lines are interesting — the soft curves of old churches and copper spires brushing against the angular weight of Brutalism, like Republic Square. Designed by Edvard Ravnikar and completed in 1982, it’s pure socialist-era Yugoslavia: all concrete, steel, and monumentality. Elsewhere, newer buildings take a lighter, more modern tone. The contrast isn’t jarring — it’s layered, lived-in.

There aren't many tourists around, but I spot groups of schoolchildren being herded through the old town by teachers — maybe heading to class or on field trips. Near the Triple Bridge, a street market is slowly taking shape. Vendors are setting up wooden stalls, arranging piles of fruit and vegetables, unpacking boxes of shoes and bags, laying out rows of neatly folded clothes. A few early customers mill about, inspecting strawberries or haggling gently over prices. The whole city felt like it is easing into the week, quietly getting on with itself.

I meet the team in a venue up the hill in Tivoli Park. We spend the afternoon there. It’s great to finally meet people I’ve only ever seen in video calls or whose names I’ve only seen on Slack. The rest of the week follows in that rhythm: work sessions, team activities, dinners, drinks. On the team day, my team does an escape room — we need way too many clues to make it out, but we make it out all the same. By the end of the week, everyone develops a mild obsession with dragons — and especially with the Dragon Bridge.

Legend has it that Ljubljana was founded by Jason, the hero of Greek mythology who stole the golden fleece and fled aboard the Argo with his fellow Argonauts. Their journey took them through the Black Sea and up the Danube, then along the Sava until they reached the Ljubljanica. There, they supposedly dismantled their ship, carried it overland to the Adriatic, and rebuilt it before sailing back to Greece. Along the way, they stopped at a marshland lake near the source of the Ljubljanica — said to be home to a fearsome dragon. Jason fought it, killed it, and the city was eventually founded nearby.

There’s a curious echo of that story in Lisbon, where I’m from. According to legend, the city was founded by Odysseus during his long journey home from Troy — but his father, Laertes, was himself one of the Argonauts. So in a way, both cities trace their mythical origins back to a band of heroes returning from their quests, on intersecting journeys through half-history and legend.

A Day in Lake Bled

On Tuesday morning, after breakfast, we get on a coach to Lake Bled. Sitting at the back reminds me how much airplane trips suck. It’s more social here, kind of like that trip I take from Tel Aviv to Jordan — everyone laughing, swapping stories and jokes. We drive through dramatic alpine scenery and make bets on the height of the surrounding peaks, pulling out Google Maps to settle arguments.

When we arrive, we walk down to the lake’s edge, stunned by the view of the castle perched high on a cliff, overlooking the water. The morning is spent in open spaces — participant-led sessions where anyone can propose a topic. It’s casual, collaborative, and a nice break from the usual more formal conferences format.

After lunch, we split into groups for different activities: hiking, visiting the castle, or rowing out to the church on the island. I’d done the castle before, so I signed up for the boats. We take four wooden rowboats, each with a team of amateur rowers. It isn't easy — oars clack against the gunwales, splashes fly, and nobody can quite sync their strokes. We switch rowers mid-lake, which is its own balancing act.

Eventually we tie up at the island dock and walk up the winding path to the church square. On the far side, a wide stone staircase leads down to the main pier, where tourists are arriving on traditional pletna boats. None of the vessels here use motors. It’s all human power.

Once on the island, it feels slightly bigger than what I expected. I always wonder about these places which seem uninviting for human settlement: cold winters, long silences, priests and peasants keeping things going, waiting for supplies, sometimes for weeks on end.

Later, some of us decided to make our way up to the castle after rowing back from the island. Both the castle and the island once belonged to the bishops of Brixen, a principality of the Holy Roman Empire located 265 kilometers away in what is now northern Italy. From the top, the view is still breathtaking: the small green island, the mirror of the lake, and the alpine peaks beyond.

By Thursday, the retreat is winding down. We hold a final round of open spaces in the morning and have lunch together one last time. On the drive to the airport, I doze off. Later, on the flight to Zurich, we fly above a thick layer of clouds. The evening sun lights them from the side, casting golden shadows over the ridgelines. And for a moment, I imagine the view from above if dragons were real — circling high in the sky, gliding silently over it all. If there's a place were dragons existed, it must have been here.