Cell block sensation

When I check into the Celica Hostel in the Slovenian capital of Ljubljana, I notice that the receptionist is in a bit of a tizz. “You’ve just missed the prime minister,” she explains.

Prime ministers tend not to visit hostels, but in this instance I can’t say I’m surprised.

The Celica (meaning cell in English) is an extraordinary place. Its story begins in 1991, when Yugoslavia was swiftly disintegrating. After Slovenia declared independence, a Yugoslav military barracks in the northeast of Ljubljana was left abandoned, and within two years the demolition teams were ordered in.

But the wrecking ball swung only twice, taking two chunks out of the military prison at the entrance to the complex. Before they could do any further damage scores of activists and artists started to occupy the building, declaring the entire block an “autonomous cultural zone”.

And 20 years later, the prime minister turns up for lunch. What started out as a ramshackle cluster of irregular dwellings has developed into a superlative cultural hub. Renamed Metelkova, it is now home to clubs, performance spaces and art galleries. The Celica hostel is the jewel in its crown.

The Celica is top of the Lonely Planet list as the Hippest Hostel and named one of the 25 Ultimate Places to Stay by Rough Guides.

People turn up for tours of the Celica even if they aren’t staying here.

The reconstruction is phenomenal. The bits that the wrecking ball claimed have been crafted into windows at the front of the building, now repainted in oranges and reds.

Beyond the huge front door, the corridor has been modelled as an Adriatic promenade, with ‘street signs’ leading to rooms, a bar, an Oriental-style chill-out room and a cafe in an all-glass extension.

The garden is dotted with tables and chairs, separated from the rest of the block by walls splashed with bright graffiti.

Don’t be fooled by the hostel tag – this place is crisper than a lot of hotels and guests are as likely to be families as backpackers.

The in-house cafe is popular with Slovenian creatives and media types; world music fans frequently turn up for gigs put on in the front garden, and daily tours, occasionally helmed by the architect Janko Rozic, pull in design enthusiasts and school trips alike.
 
If you want a cheap bed, dorms start from EUR16 (BD8) a night. A four-bed apartment on the top floor costs from EUR80 (BD42).

But the most popular rooms are the former cells on the middle floor. As the building was being renovated, a variety of artists were invited to design the spaces. Thus each room (all twins and doubles) is, essentially, an exhibit.

Russian artist Maxim Issajev locked himself in a cell, and emerged three days later having painted a vast Chagall-esque mural on one wall, now room 107. In 110, a huge wooden post pins the ceiling, under which two beds double as sitting space around a sushi table that unfolds from the wall. My room was 116, where a huge circular bed on a mezzanine level is suspended four feet from the ceiling. Below, the walls are painted with the outlines of nudes and the lyrics of Leonard Cohen’s Tower of Song.

Step out of the hostel and you find yourself in the autonomous cultural zone of Metelkova. On Saturday night I venture in. Scattered across the complex and courtyard are punks, students, hippies, respectable-looking fortysomethings, and every sub-group in between.

By midnight, Metelkova is buzzing. In Channel Zero, a DJ plays reggae while visuals are projected on to a screen behind him. The Alkatraz art gallery opens, then closes at around 2am. Most revellers congregate in the central courtyard with its mosaic facade and a replica of Michelangelo’s David. It feels like a festival, but this happens every weekend. The police drive through every hour or so, but there is rarely any trouble in Metelkova.

And after a truly alternative night, I wander back to my cell and into my alternative bed, which is closer to the ceiling than it is to the floor.