We’re sitting in the heart of Ljubljana, at an outdoor café, the only one that has any space left. The weather has taken a sharp turn for the bad and while the Internet promised us sunshine and summer smiles, the city has unleashed on us a cold, watery attack.

Despite the rain, the Old Town of Ljubljana shines through. Pastel Baroque buildings stand shoulder to shoulder. A number of criss-crossing bridges jump over the small but respectable Ljubljanica River that flows across these medieval quarters. Modest boats scout the waters, while back to back benches, supporting the old and the madly in love, hang on to the banks under a heavy curtain of ivy and floral bursts. Languid cafés sprout across the landscape, one for every tourist walking by.

This café is one of the many café clones you’ll find in the region: umbrellas have been put up, tables and chairs added; there’s a small makeshift kitchen with a juicer, freezer and a coffee machine at one end, an ice cream vendor is busy at the other; a giant flat screen TV sits under the protection of a tarpaulin tent: the game has just kicked off, it’s Sweden Vs Spain.

The game starts without any pretence – The Spanish score and are clearly setting the pace. Our Slovenia waiter serves out the orders and mournfully adds, “We didn’t qualify so now we have cheer for somebody else.”

The Ljubljana Castle hides amidst a flock of rain drenched clouds. Closer to us fat drops of rain fall through umbrella openings with a loud ‘plop.’ Our summer jackets put on a brave fight but within minutes jacket and shirt sleeves are being tugged at; cold hands desperately searching for some hidden reserves of warmth. For a change coffee cups make the rounds faster than beer mugs. A line up of the rivalling parties gives us a clear picture: a clan of cappuccinos facing off against a few Laskos.  

Just when we’re ready to throw in the towel, Sweden sneak one through. The sole Swede in the crowd jumps on his feet and cheers (wildly). The others, amused by his lone struggle, cheer him on, and than shake their heads, for surely this won’t end well for him. Suddenly it’s not a one sided contest anymore. Thoughts of leaving evaporate, despite the weather, and another round is ordered. Right on cue a dozen church bells chime, an impromptu cheering squad, a sign that we must stick around. From across the square, the gigantic statue of Slovenian poet France Preseren stares at us, partly amused. Surely there’s a sonnet or two about us.

The rain meanwhile has grown meaner, it won’t be beaten by mere high spirits: yellow cards flap against the raging wind; players get exhausted and substituted; we battle on. And as David Villa’s market price jumps from incredible to obscene, we puff life back into our cold hands in the guise of loud cheers. We look for our frozen feet, lost beneath icy chairs. Limp fingers try to extract enough Euros to cover the bill. As the players walk off to cheers and jeers, one thing is clear: being a fan isn’t easy.