The Mesečnik Files

Chapter 6: The Owner Thinks I'm British, So I Humo(u)r Him

2007-09-06T20:10:00.029-05:00

Returning to the tale of Dave the American:

"Smo boljši od ostalih” is our motto. We are better than the rest.

Every day I walk past the façade of the British Council, by the river next to the Stara Mačka bar and just a brisk trot down from L’Occitane en Provence Ljubljana (I call it L’Occitane en Dolenjska).

Down the cobblestone side street. Through the ancient, wide stone doorway, darkened to blue-black over the centuries, with the heavy wooden double doors thrown halfway open from dawn 'til dusk. Trudge up the cold stone stairs in the drafty stairwell: one flight, two. Push door open, enter and wave, go in through the door to the right. Take in the scene, wave some more to colleagues, take care not to slip on the polished parquet floors and take your seat at the Horseshoe, a U-shaped pen of desks by big picture windows overlooking the peaked roofs of the Univerza.

This is the BoljeKoTi Translation Agency, a harbinger of change in an ancient culture and a new nation, and a meeting place of cultures -- three, to be specific, since my own arrival. It was formerly a Slovene/Brit preserve, but they needed a "specialist in American English" and I just happened to come by at the right time. My still rather shaky skills in slovenščina notwithstanding, I am a careful editor and hope one day to graduate to the translators' desk (and the sizable increase in pay that would bring).

I did a lot of different things in my first three or four months in LJ. Like most new arrivals, I taught English in afterschool programs, soon finding out I'd prefer having a daily root canal, but persevering in the face of all logic. I actually taught at three different schools in three weeks, about which the less said the better. Then I settled in for a while at Miss Nell's School of English, a boutique Old Town after-school program run by Miss Nell Cook, an attractive, caffeinated blonde Scottish separatist in her mid-thirties who had boundless energy, an endless stream of new ideas for lessons and an unconditional love for her homeland, and wanted nothing at all to do with the Brits in town. Then came freelancing for a string of different translation agencies -- the Agencija Kardober, the Agencija Tone Res, the Agencija Nehajžebult, the Agencija Kuhamo Namesto Vas -- which at least familiarized me with the rules of the game and got me introductions to the players. Then came BoljeKoTi.

Simon Forrester, from Canterbury, runs BKT in partnership with Božo Kladnik from Grosuplje, who had owned a shoe store in Šiška prior to the 1991 revolution but saw an opportunity when he fell into conversation one evening with Simon at Irish Pub in the upper lower Old Town. Božo’s guileless, marginally competent if rather ditzy daughter Jasna is the receptionist and dogsbody. Simon and Božo have done well for themselves; BKT is now established as the translation agency of choice for official government publications, scientific journals and occasional high-end magazine articles. Simon handles style guidelines, quality control, fine points of grammar, and new hires; Božo, the business end and soliciting new clients among the locals. Božo is a matter-of-fact, nice enough if stolid guy, but he's always been under the impression that I'm a Brit and nobody's ever bothered to correct him; so, it's Business English as usual, work conducted with quiet confidence or at least never letting them see you sweat.

The key players include Andrew ("not Andy, Andrew"), the wisecracking Brit translator from Manchester who speaks Slovene fluently with an unapologetic accent (his own); Drago, the fortyish ex-hippie traffic manager whose soft tread in year-round sandals belies a sense of deadlines rivaling a stationmaster; Clive, an easygoing twentysomething language editor from Liverpool who dreams of moving to Arizona and living in the desert; and Simona, a smoothly hip 30-ish local who translates most of the English-to-Slovene pieces for the airline magazine along with the occasional creative piece from an aspiring essayist or aging playwright. Then there was Ian, a total drunk who somehow managed to be not only a competent translator (when he completed his work) but marry the most gorgeous, bright slovenka I'd ever come across in my life. A Slovene version of a young Helen Hunt, she brushed off her husband's glaring inadequacies and idiocies and carried on with panache as a teacher of English and Slovene as a foreign language for a semi-official government school.

Inevitably I feel like odd man out in this bunch -- for one thing, I don't participate in the Brits' primary recreational outlet, their expat cricket club, which they treat with great seriousness and commitment. I brought up baseball once and my fondness for the Orioles, but all I got in return was a dismissive comment from Andrew ("Oh, baseball's a stupid game") so I avoid discussing sports at BKT. I do, however, enjoy the back-and-forth banter about current events and personalities. We discuss such disparate individuals as Leon Štukelj, the ancient gentleman athlete and former champion Olympic gymnast back in the bad old days, and the straitlaced, gaunt prime minister Janez D., he of the black suits and funereal mien -- the undertaker, we called him; it was impossible to imagine that this man would ever be caught saying or doing anything remotely interesting.

And so went the days, and they were pleasant enough. It sure beat my old life, eight hours a day of data entering homeowners' insurance applications on the second floor of a three-story sandstone-and-glass building on Corporate Woods Drive in Baltimore and coming home to a lonely studio in a charm-free apartment complex on the east side of the city. Come Friday, I had Monday on my mind. You wanna know why anybody would want to move to Slovenia? How much time ya got? Fortunate the person who, at least once in his life, finds a place that feels like home.

We have a visit from a rather unpleasant Slovene client, Mr. Mušič (pronounced MOO-sheech), who despite his name is not in the least bit musical, but runs an office supplies company in Ig, a few miles south of town. Mr. M is dissatisfied with the charges Simon has billed him for translating a current catalogue and starts complaining about the quality of the translation, and demanding a refund, at which Simon takes much umbrage.

In an icy tone, Simon lectures Mr. M: “Sir, you do not have the capability for judging whether or not our translations are competent. Your level of English is not nearly good enough for you to tell whether or not our translators and editors have done their job. We are professionally certified at the highest levels in this country; you are not qualified to judge us in this manner. There will be no refund, and you will be given no further consideration.”

After a bit of back-and-forth, Mr. M gathers his papers and departs the premises without ceremony. There is a minute of silence among the staff – Simon is an even-mannered fellow, and rarely if ever shows anger – then Tony, one of the key Brit translators at the agency, approaches Simon and quietly says:

“That was good.”

My mind isn't on work that day, though, and certainly not on the sound of Mr. Mušič. I'm thinking about my favorite mesečnik, the one with the lightning-bolt earrings. I didn't see her during the last nalepka-buying period and I'm wondering if she quit or retired.

I scan the Dnevnik tabloid newspaper in my continuing efforts to improve my language skills (at this point it's a lot easier than tackling Delo: larger type, easier words). I come across a short item about the theft of 800 nalepke from Ljubljanski potniški promet, and mention this to Clive.

"That sounds like something the mafia might be into!" he says.

"The mafia?" I ask.

"They have their fingers in many pies, Dave," interjects Andrew, who has an opinion for any subject. "They have total control of the ice cream shops in Ljubljana, you know. Albanians."

"Really?"

"The sladoled mafia. Think about that the next time you bite into a double chocolate cone. I wouldn't be surprised if they wanted to dip their beaks into the monthly-sticker action. I have a contact on the police force who told me they were interested in muscling in on the trains and buses and maybe even toll booths. Tearaways from the sladoled kings. They nab stickers from LPP and offer them up at half-price to college students in the dorms. The cops are preparing a sting op. They suspect they're operating out of the fourth floor of Tržaška 2, you know that big pile by Tobačna. At least, that's what I've heard."

That's Andrew for you: smart guy, but he never knows when to shut up. This time, I don't mind.

Hm. I wonder if the mesečniks know about the Albanian mafia. Perhaps I ought to make a few proactive inquiries.

Next: Dave discovers the mesečniks' secret hangout.

2006-02-15T18:45:00.001-06:00

Chapter 1: The Passenger's Tale

Chapter 2: I, Mesecnik (Anja's Tale Begins)

Chapter 3: The Mesecniks In Their Summer Dresses

Chapter 4: Mesecnik, Interrupted

Chapter 5: Spet Doma, On Home Ground

Chapter 6: The Owner Thinks I'm British, So I Humo(u)r Him

Epilogue

plus these special DVD-only bonus sections:

A Helpful Slovene-English Glossary

A List of Rejected Chapter Titles

Moja Mesecnica (slovenska verzija)

Epilogue

2005-11-20T16:00:00.002-06:00

So what happened to everyone, you ask?

Anja Krajnc (our intrepid mesečnica) went back to school and graduated from the Fakulteta za arhitecturo (School of Architecture) of the University of Ljubljana in 2005. She continued in graduate studies in architectural and urban design, with special emphasis on means and methods of urban mass transportation. Mag. Andrej Černigoj, univ.dipl.inž.arh, once viewed Anja's portfolio and went on record as saying that "her stuff rocks." Today she is a special consultant to the Ljubljana Mayor's office and is considered one of Slovenia's most promising young architects.

Ljubica Tavčar left her job at the family pizzeria in November 2001 to become a full-time web designer. She is currently living in Stockholm with her Swedish boyfriend.

Samo Kmetovič, owner of the Klub Nalepka/Bife V Redu, still runs the bar and daydreams about the mesečnik life.

Dave the American passenger married a winsome Slovenka, a translator he met at the BoljeKoTi agency. They live happily in Rožna dolina and have a daughter, and he has no more worries about extending his work visa.

Cveta and Bogomir Krajnc, Anja's parents, still live in the old homestead on Verdnikova ulica. They rejoiced on the day their son Primož graduated from Univerza in 2008. They are very proud of their two children, although they don't always show it.

**********

This tale is dedicated to the good people of Ljubljana, especially those who carry a mesečna vozovnica (monthly bus pass) with them -- and, of course, the mesečniks themselves.

Moja mesečnica (slovenska verzija)

2005-11-16T21:37:00.000-06:00

Author's note: Obviously not a literal translation from the English, this is more like something to read on the bus between stops. Opravičujem se.

Moja Mesečnica (Zgodba za revijo Moja Skrivnost)

Mesečnico imam rad.

Od trenutka, ko so se najine oči srečale v autobusu in ko mi je ona dala nalepko za februar, sem spoznal, da se nikoli več ne bi vozil spet sam v autobusu. Bila je številka 7, do Pržanja.

Februar je najkrajši mesec, a ko so se najine oči srecale, je bilo, kot da bi bil čas vecen. Videl sem dekle v privlačnem vijoličastem jopicu in kapi, ki se je prerivala v množici ljudi. Nikoli nisem bil posebno pozoren (veliko dajal) na mesečnike, dokler ni prišla tista usodna sreda, ko sem srečal mojo posebno mesecnico -- in moja duša je bila zadeta.

»Mesečna nalepka!« je za klicala. »Mesečna nalepka!«

Bil je četrti februar. Imel sem samo še en dan in potem staro nalepka ne bo več veljavna. Mislil sem, da sem pogubljen in počutil sem se nelagodno, kot večina mojih sotrpinov v autobusu. Ni bilo več dvoma: kmalu bom potreboval novo nalepko. Čas se ne ustavi za nikogar.

Še enkrat sem zaslišal: »Mesečna nalepka...«

Pogledal sem nazgor. Zopet sem bil zadet.

»Oprosti, gospodična,« sem ji rekel, »ampak rad te imam. Ljubim te z vsem svojim srcim, in vedno te bom. Rad bi bil s tabo. Rad bi bil s tabo.«

Bralec, mislim, da imaš dovolj domišljije da boš sam videl, kako se je zgodba nadaljevala.

Konec

(Hvala, Mojca in Ksenija!)

2005-11-16T21:19:00.002-06:00

Chapter 1: The Passenger's Tale

Chapter 2: I, Mesečnik (Anja's Tale Begins)

Chapter 3: The Mesečniks In Their Summer Dresses

Chapter 4: Mesečnik, Interrupted

Chapter 5: Spet Doma, On Home Ground

Chapter 6: The Owner Thinks I'm British, So I Humo(u)r Him

Epilogue

Plus these special added DVD-only bonus tracks:

A helpful Slovene-English glossary.

A list of rejected chapter titles.

Moja mesečnica (slovenska verzija)

Chapter 4: Mesečnik, Interrupted

2005-11-16T20:50:00.000-06:00

During a transaction, a mesečnik is polite, but firm.

-- Rules of Mesečniking #8

***

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I am a mesečnik; I walk the line.

-- Johnny Gotovina

It's another gray day, one just like the day before, the kind where it always looks like it's going to rain but never really does. I notice the mesečniks are wearing new raingear outfits. I like 'em. Yellow and navy blue in near equal proportions, with two sharp-looking silver bands running across the forearm and one matching silver band at the bottom of the breast pocket. Orange caps, through the back holes of which many of the girls thread ponytails. The look's completed with kavbojke (jeans, for you clueless ones out there) and sturdy shoes made for pounding pavements.

Me, I'm just pounding the pavement in a Druga Godba T-shirt, plaid pants and Doc Martens. Branko put me on something called Official Suspension Pending Investigation. I'm in mesečnik limbo; haven't been fired, but had to turn in my jacket, cap and pouch for the duration of the farce. Don't quite know how this is going to go. In fact, I don't really have any clue at all. I'm sleepwalking during the daytime. I'm a sleepwalking mesečnik. Yeah, that's really funny. I get it.

When Branko dropped the bomba, for a couple of seconds I just stood there, dazed, with Bojan, Sveto and the girls staring questioningly at me. Then I started yelling something into the receiver, don't really remember what, prekleta pizda jebi se something or other. It was an early night, and I caught the next-to-last avtobus home to Črnuče.

___________________________________________________

What does a defrocked mesečnik do to pass the time? (And don't tell me "the same thing she does the other 25 days of the month." So you were wondering?) It's not at all the same thing.
I go to the LPP kiosk at Bavarski Dvor and buy a tedenska nalepka, that accursed trashy slip of white paper that always reminds me of people who've come back from some vacation at an inopportune time to buy the full mesečna. If you're carryin' a tedenska, you'd better have the suntan to back it up, bejba.

So, I pound the pavements and as I do, my mind spins and churns back to the early days. The three days of mesečnik training - Nalepka Academy, me and the other rookies in the Class of julij '98 called it. It was held in the basement of Big Green, a vast, damn no-frills whitewashed oblong with a beige linoleum floor, with final exams during Nalepka Time in oktober on the buses themselves, under supervision of course. I can still hear Mojca teaching us how to cry out the Two Words - the bird call, as we M's say. Ah, Mojca the unforgettable mesečnik drill sergeant: mid-twenties, short dark hair, fireplug torso, flashing blue eyes, motor mouth, hard head containing everything about everything. Commanding the room - six girls including me, and two boys - by sheer presence, verve, and unsurpassed knowledge of how to Do the Thing. Bog, I was so raw then! I thought I was supposed to say "mesečna nalepka" any old way and be done with it, kaj je vraga was the big deal, and when Mojca called on me to demonstrate my bird call to the class, she stopped me and in a disbelieving tone of voice, barked out:

"WHAT did you say, young lady?"

"M-mesečna -"

"Ne, ne, ne! MesečnE nalepkE, plural! You don't have only one prekleta nalepka to sell, do you? Remember! A mesečnik NEVER runs out of nalepke. She ALWAYS has more nalepke available! There's ALWAYS more where the last one came from, bejba. That's a bottomless pouch strapped to your waist! Now! Again, prosim!"

"Mesečne nalepke!"
"Put your nostrils into it! Imagine you're throwing your voice ten centimeters in front of your face. PROJECT, Anja, PROJECT! Keep the passengers in mind. They've got heavy shopping bags from Mercator and Interšpar in both hands. They're craning their necks through the fog down the street for the 7, which should've been there five minutes ago! They've got one foot on the sidewalk, one foot in the road! They're late getting back from lunch! They're late for their next appointment! They're late for whatever, kaj je vraga it is they've got going! Their pass expires the next day and they want to get a new sticker but they just DON'T HAVE THE ZAJEBAN TIME TO DO IT! This is the true function of a mesečnik! TO SAVE THE PUBLIC FROM THEMSELVES!!! To ANTICIPATE their needs, because THEY CAN'T HANDLE THEIR LIVES ON THEIR OWN!!! If they could, they wouldn't be riding a bus, would they?

"They have to hear you from half a block away. They NEED to hear you. You can't assume they'll find you on their own. They're just stupid passengers waiting for a bus. YOU have to make yourself a BEACON, you have to CALL THEM TO YOUR SIDE. Remember, they're the sheep and YOU, bejba, you're the SHEPHERD. You are their SOLUTION. You are their SAVIOR. Call THEM to YOU. Now STRAIGHTEN that BACK and RAISE YOUR HEAD HIGH and TRY AGAIN!!!"

"May-sech-neh na-LEYP-keh!"

"JA!! HOLD THAT THOUGHT!!!"

I glowed with the accomplishment of the first time you do something you really wanted to do, and realizing it turned out really cool. You know what they say, everybody has this one thing they're really good at...

______________________________________________________

What did they put in that orehova potica I had for malica, anyway? I'm having another zajeban flashback. You're either on the bus or off the bus, like they say, and I'm back on. In my mind, in any case. Snap, crackle, POP go the synapses like cherry bombs. Oliver Stone's directing.
It's Day 3 of Nalepka Time in maj, the merry month. I'm a seasoned vet by this point, saunterin' through that creakin' green metal centipede like a benevolent virus in the system, bejba, or a stewardess pushing Guerlain 'n' Courvoisier on Air France Flight 117 to Paris-De Gaulle. Only difference is, I'm sellin' somethin' the people actually need. No need to adjust your seats, folks, as if you could. It's only the mesečnik. ONLY the mesečnik, did I say? OK, I admit to false modesty here. Truth be told, I rule this joint. Anja Krajnc, mesečnik, at'cher service: License to sell. MAY-sech-neeeh! Joj, Air France sucks anyway!

I hear the other mesečniks, their nasal call resounding in my ears simultaneously in present time and echoing in memory: "May-sech- neh na-LEYP-keh! May-sech-neh na-LEYP-keh! May-sech-neehh!"

I fight back tears. It's no use. I miss it so much.
What good is a mesečnik without nalepke?

Next: Anja takes the bus...home.

Chapter 5: Spet Doma, On Home Ground

Chapter 5: Spet Doma, On Home Ground

2005-11-16T20:38:00.007-06:00

Your fellow mesečniks are your true comrades. You can count on them, and they on you.

-- Rules of Mesečniking #11

Star sem dvajset let, pa sem zamenjal
že dve državi, tri fotre
-- v bistvu jih je zamenjala moja mama
-- štiri barve las,
pet šol in šest najljubših bendov.

Ampak stari, ej!
Laško je zakon.

[I'm 20 years old, and I've already changed two countries, three fathers
-- in fact, my mother changed those
-- four hair colors, five schools and six favorite bands.

But dude, hey!
Laško rules.]

-- ad for the Laško brewery, late '90s

Now that Nalepka Time is over for this month, at least I don't have to feel quite so much like an outcast every second. And as much as I care for LJ's bright lights and big buses, I have to admit, dober je to be back in good ol' Črnuče, where nothing ever happens (and even that takes forever). Humming a promo jingle I heard that morning on Radio Študent, I take my good sweet time ambling down to the Picerija Tiffany, from the outside an unprepossessing gray concrete cube, but where await inside some of the best za-related delights in the northern burbs. You don't even mind the faded pink-and-orange cloth-covered seats, with matching tablecloths made from patterns designed when Dedek Josip was in flower, and big signs everywhere advertising no absence of malice. It's all part of the charm, so go have a snack. (One caution: stay away from the kava, it's Emonec...and we all know what that means. Where do they get that stuff from, leftover landfill?)

I choose a seat at a small table next to a sandbox filled with plastic pails, shovels, sifters, hollow stars and other beachy kids' diversions. On the patio adjacent, a tousled blonde toddlerette frolics on a swing set while her mom stands by, talking to someone on her mobi.

I živijo Ljubica Tavčar: waitress for and daughter of Miro the picerija proprietor, she's a mesečnik in good standing, occasional Stripburger cartoonist, part-time secretary at the Ljudmila computer lab, and my old classmate. Heartbrejker Ljubica, cool and slim-hipped in tight kavbojke and black T-shirt, her equally black, straight hair pulled back in a konjski rep, minimal šminka. Italian bloodlines somewhere back there, brez dvoma.

"No, Ljubica, kaj se dogaja? What are you still doing slingin' pies?" I ask, between sips of cviček (the pause that refreshes) from a 1 dl Alpeks glass. "You could be a crack web designer." The cviček swooshes through me like a Vlado Kreslin ballad at 1 a.m.

"There's world enough and time, sosolčka. For now I'm happy chillin' out and servin' the good people of the 'hood. There are many ways one can amuse oneself."

As Ljubica sashays back into the kitchen with my order of a mala morska and Cockta, I glance streetward at the handpainted sign advertising ceramic plates for sale. I examine the sugar dispenser up close: a glass cylinder with a black, slanted, pointed top, filled with irregular, not quite square white crystals.

It occurs to me that I have a bit too much time on my hands.

And I've definitely been in Črnuče long enough.

__________________________________________________________

Seeking fresh air following the repast, I stroll out past the cornfields and dandelions , towards Nadgorica. Strange little neighborhood, Nadgorica end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it: where everyone absitively posolutely knows everyone and has everyone's number, where if you're a stranger -- even if you're only from Črnuče proper -- you're probably an object of suspicion, eyes peeking out from behind curtains as you pass by.

I stroll past the Lauder Pub (whatta name), a small, basic-as-a-log roadside cafe at the edge of a cornfield. Morning kava a bargain at 100 tolars, dandelions on the side and no regrets. Glorious results of a misspent youth.

I finally, reluctantly wend my way home to moji starši, my immediate ancestors (parents to you); gospe in gospodje, I give you Cveta and Bogomir Krajnc.

Mom's on the prowl again. She had me late in life and she's a nervous type. Dad's an avto mehanik and more easygoing, give him a home renovation projekt and he's happy, but you don't want to push him TOO far. Mom's still missing her parents. They died last summer within six weeks of each other, and she inherited the old family house in Dol pri Ljubljani. She rented the place out to a couple of Bosnian immigrants, but Mom and Dad still go back every couple of weeks, to water the roses and trim the weeds, she says ("those people don't know how to do it the right way"), and pick a basket of strawberries when they're in season. But the real reason is Mom likes gossiping with old lady Potokar across the street. A good 20, 25 minutes worth of swappin' tongue poison with Vida P. sets up Mom for two or three days, then she starts getting grumpy again.

Back in my bedroom, I open the bottom right drawer of my desk and pull out a copy of my Mesečnik List, the one all Ms have to fill out at the start of their career. I don't know what compelled me to make a copy (seven tolars a page at Podhod d.o.o., ja, briga me) and file it away, but right now I'm glad I did. Good at this point for a laugh, if nothing else.

MESEČNIK LIST
Name: Krajnc, Anja
Date of birth: 25 May 1982 (can't believe I'm 18 already)
Place of birth: Ljubljana Center
Parents: Krajnc, Miroslav and Cvetka (Podbevšek)
Address: Verdnikova ulica 44, Ljubljana-Črnuče
Lives with: both parents and sibling (brother)
Siblings: One (1) brother, Primož, born 1 February 1986
Religion: Roman Catholic (nominally)
Favored political party: LDS
Political role model: Vika P.
Favorite musical groups: Dicky B. Hardy, 2227, Psihomodo Pop
Favorite color: Orange
Favorite drink: Zadnji Avtobus do Črnuč
Secret crush: Bojan, bartender at the Klub Nalepka

OK, maybe some of these items aren't actually on it. But it's all true nonetheless. Mesečniks never lie. Point of honor, brez zafrkavanja.
Mom comes knocking on my door; dinner's ready. I troop downstairs and take my place with her, Dad and Primož. Dad is unshaven as usual. Primož just glares at me. Fanka nam manka, Branka.
"No, Anja, kaj bo?" she asks. "What are you going to do with yourself now?"
"The only thing I can do, mami. I'm going to work to find the truth and clear my name."
"Jojoj. Your stara mama never liked you selling nalepke. She always said, "Selling it on the bus is one step away from giving it away on the street!"
"Joj, mami. There's nothing wrong with being a mesečnik. I love it, you know I do."
"O, ja, you've done so well by it, haven't you? Babi always knew it would get you in trouble someday. And now, see what's happened? I have to say, I agree."
Irritatingly enough, although I’d never say it to her face, Mami is almost always right about things (except, of course, about which music is good). But I'm not quitting the mesečnik racket just yet. I'm in for the long haul.
There's a particular poem by my homegirl, the very cool artist/architect Marjetica Potrč, that I think of now and then. This is one of those times.

How to blow away a wall:
It is easy.
Close your eyes,
concentrate
and blow.

***********

Kako odpihneš steno:
Enostavno.
Zapri oči,
skoncentriraj se
in pihni.

Next: The passenger reads some interesting news at his place of business.

Chapter 6: The Owner Thinks I'm British, So I Humo(u)r Him

Rejected chapter titles

2005-11-16T20:33:00.000-06:00

Less Than Mesečnik
The Mesečnik’s Revenge
Call Me Mesečnik
Mesečnikin’ Around
(Say It Loud, I’m A) Mesečnik And Proud
Up From Mesečnik
You’ve Made A Mesečnik Of Things
Mesečnik, Mesečnik
Tuesday the Mesečnik Went Hungry
Mission: Nalepka
Nalepka Blues
Mesečnik Nation
The Mesečnik in the Moon
The Love Song of the Misunderstood Mesečnik
In the Life: A Mesečnik’s Tale
The Making Of A Mesečnik, 2000
C’mon Everybody and Do the Mesečnik!!!
The Long Ride
The Last Ride

Think you can do better? Suggestions for better titles (for a chapter or the entire shebang) are welcome.

Chapter 3: The Mesečniks In Their Summer Dresses

2005-11-16T20:15:00.004-06:00

A mesečnik without a jacket is no mesečnik.

-- Rules of Mesečniking #12

Hvala bogu for the Klub Nalepka. I always say this at around 5:30 p.m., after my last ride, on that first day of every month, job done, when Tjaša, Veronika, Nataša and I head down the stairs to the blessed cellar dive on the corner of Dalmatinova and Cigaletova. By day, the Klub Nalepka (per the motto,“Where mesečniks go to unwind and tell fellow travelers where to stick it!”) is known as the Bife V Redu, where the Laško flows from 8 to 3:30 (a.m. to p.m., of course) and the only time any patron lifts his fat rit from his stool is to pay his respects to gospod pisoar. But after dark, on the first five days (well, nights) of any month, it’s another story. No mesečnik jacket, no cap, no service.

After my eyes get accustomed to the gloom, I belly up to the točilni pult and živijo Bojan the bartender. I hope my secret crush on him isn’t too obvious. He’s a gorgeous third-year engineering student who’s been working at the Klub about a year; tall, with very dark hair spilling over his brow, blue eyes, throaty voice and musical Primorska accent, an irresistible combination. I order what I always do, a Zadnji Avtobus do Črnuč (Last Bus to Črnuče), which is plum brandy, orange juice and Cockta cola, with a sparkling red strawberry artfully perched on the rim. My nightly salvation; Bojan mixes ‘em like a dream. The other girls favor a plain Zadnji Avtobus, which is the same drink, only with Radenska water instead of Cockta; in her giddier moods Tjaša sometimes opts for a Bella Yablana, which is a concoction involving coconut cream and viljamovka. Not for me.

Samo, the stocky gent with a gray crew cut who owns the Klub, is Tjaša’s dad, which explains a lot. Not only had he adopted us as his own, he’s probably the biggest mesečnikophile -- hell, mesečnik wannabe -- in LJ. Don’t look so surprised, they do exist; some are quite successful in other fields. Grown men, for the most part, who fantasize about donning a fuzzy purple jacket and riding buses all day, selling nalepke to the introverted carless hordes of LJ town. The Klub is also occasionally infiltrated by a few intrepid laymen interested in our happy tribe, all in their own curious fashion. There was the deputy editor at Mladina who was obsessed with following me and the gang down to the Ambasada Gavioli last August to catch us in action on the floor. And that creepy sociology prof at the Filozofska fakulteta, the one who used to hang out at punk clubs in the late ‘80s (so I’ve heard); he cornered me one night at the Klub N a couple of months ago, bought me a soda and gave me some doubtful story about wanting an in-depth interview for a scholarly paper he was scribbling for Nova revija. “The mesečnik subculture: A snapshot at the Millennium,” is what he called it. I think he just wanted to get into my change purse, saj veš? I showed him where the exit was and told him to keep moving forward. The weirdest one was the 28-year-old woman from Domžale who was arrested for impersonating a mesečnik. She had apparently sewn her own uniform and sold counterfeit nalepke, and would have gotten away with it except that the logo had the wrong background color, and the font was way off. But the hat was perfect, I’ll give her that.

So it’s junij, finally, again. Krasno. I love this month. I can smell release in the air. Žur do zore. I also love the new summer L2T mesečnik outfit: those vests, what Američani call navy blue, a really dark blue, and canary-yellow pocket flaps. And best of all, a cool denim cap. Wonder of wonders, the getup doesn’t make the guy M’s look like dorks (I even think Tomaž looks kinda hot in it, imagine)...

"A weird thing happened to me on the 7 this morning," I told Tjaša after we'd gotten settled in the corner. "Some guy speaking English told me he loved me."

"Ffffaaaahhhhkk! Daj no! And?"

"And nothing. He was the same guy from February, remember I told you?"

"Oh, yeeeaaahhh! Again! Was he English or Australian?"

"American, I think."

"What would an American be doing living here? Tako čudno."

"Oh, you have to hear what he told me. After he blurted out in English that he loved me, he tried to speak Slovene, I memorized it word for word: 'Please, me to do listen. I be interested in you since February the last. I hope me you will soon like. Agree, do you, so I hope. My name is Dave."

"Baaaa haaaa haaa! That's so CUTE!"

My pal Barbara joins us. I like her even though she eschews the regulation hat, even the summer model, for an Union Olimpija basketball cap (she doesn’t even care; very un-M as far as I’m concerned). Although it’s not against the regs, she flaunts stylish eyeglasses too, with expensive-looking squared-oval thin black metal frames she must have gotten down Trst way. Behind the lenses her eyes flash with sardonic intelligence (you can see it from across the room, even in the Klub’s lighting). Like she thinks she’s entitled to it or something. Barbara gets away with a lot, but she’s one of those people who seem born to it. I think she’s only a mesečnik for the laughs. And let’s face it, attitude is a definite asset in the nalepka game. I've even seen drivers give her the eye a split-second longer than necessary when she mounts the front steps. Maybe even heard a 'živijo' once, though I can't be sure...that would be a precedent. Oh, our relationships with the drivers, you ask? Non-relationship is more like it. We’re tolerated at best. Clubby bunch, the drivers. Checkerbacks, we call ‘em, after those dorky retro jackets they have to wear. On the whole, they're not the happiest indijanci on the reservation. Well, they say the same kind of thing about us, not without justification I’m afraid. (Until you’ve taken up the purple, you just don’t understand. The pressure. The expectations.) In any event, they don’t go to our club and we sure don’t go into theirs. Why would we want to? And I still don’t understand why, whenever I board any of the lines at all, there’s almost certainly some guy up front who spends about an hour just standing there, chewing the fat with Mr. Drive-the-bus. What is this, a volunteer “Keep the voznik company so he doesn’t fall asleep” program? I think they recruit these characters right off the bar stools. Come to think of it, that's probably where they get the drivers too, judging from how they drive...maybe the Driver and his Buddy change positions on alternate days...or flip a coin...maybe that’s what all the hoop-de-doo of stopping and changing drivers at Bavarski Dvor is all about, no? The driver’s pal wants a turn at the wheel for a change, and the voznik wants to stand and blow some nitrogen for a while. I don’t care if they get to turn the wheel and step on the gas, clutch and brake (and doing a damn poor job of it; they seem to get off on lurching around, spilling the standees all over the place). Sure I’m biased, but if you ask me it’s the mesečnik who’s the soul of the operation. At least we make an effort to interact with the passengers, even if it’s only the little something in the way we flip ‘em the nalepka and their change. Style: you've either got it or you don't.

Kakorkoli že...Here comes Sveto, who’s always trying to hit on me (you know what they say about guy M’s, those gutter dogs). His recent promotion to Assistant Chief Mesečnik Supervisor for Lines 2, 8 and 9 hasn’t significantly improved his attractiveness quotient. Same old scrawny, stringy hair, traces of a starter goatee, the whole deal. Ne hvala, stari, that seat’s taken. Naslednji, prosim! Go deliver pizza for a while, it's a booming field. Or go sell mobitels. But he starts off by telling me some interesting things. Did I judge too harshly? No, I didn’t. “Živijo, Anja. Saj veš, I thought you’d be interested. Me and a couple of the guys at Big Green (insiders’ code for LPP HQ) were kicking around an idea for a “Miss LPP” contest. Only label chicks (Sveto's personal off-putting term for female mesečniks) are eligible, and it’s strictly volunteer. The winner gets featured on posters plastered over all the system's buses for a month, and a year's supply of nalepke for her family thrown in. Interested? I think you'd have a good shot at it."

"I’ll think about it."

"Hey, something else,” he added, leaning in closer. "You know the old Slovene proverb about if you kiss a mesečnik on the first working day of the month, it ensures success in matters of the heart for the rest of that month?!"

"No."

Hvala bogu, at that moment the bar phone rings and Bojan hands me the receiver. It was Branko, the Chief Supervisor. Of course, he knows where to find me. No rest for the weary mesečnik. But it’s good to be needed.

Don’t tell me, Branko: I’ve been promoted to Assistant Chief Mesečnik Supervisor for Lines 3, 6 and 7. I sure as svež' burek deserve it, with my drive and dedication and all the overtime and rit-kissing I’ve been putting in, not to mention the volunteer nalepke sorting down at Big Green. Of course the promotion means more work, more responsibility, and a bit more money. Less time actually riding the lines, of course. But I can get used to that. It’s time to move on. Dosledno naprej and all that.

"Ja! Branko, živijo."

It was different news. There had been a theft overnight at Big Green.

Eight hundred nalepke were missing.

I was the last one seen handling them.

O-pa.

Next: Is there life after mesečniking?

Chapter 4: Mesecnik, Interrupted

Chapter 2: I, Mesečnik (Anja's Tale Begins)

2005-11-12T15:07:00.002-06:00

Call me mesečnik.

My name is Anja. I am a mesečnik -- OK, mesečnica -- and proud of it. I'm good at my job. I project a positive image, sell well over my quota, and, heck, I even like the jacket and the cap.
Monthly stickers, I call, over and over. You'll see me around town on the first five days of any month. Mine may be that unmistakably strident voice you hear on the bus, calling riders to their destiny. By the fourth and fifth days I'm bolder, getting on and off the buses at will, mixing with the crowd outside the post office, selling people nalepke like they're going out of style, which, eventually, they will. O! Mesečna nalepka, thy joys are fleeting but acute.

Sorry. Sometimes the moment overtakes me.

Like I said, my name is Anja. I live in Črnuče, which is a near northern suburb of Ljubljana. You can get to and from by bus, which is what I do. Of course. I've been a mesečnik for almost two years now and if you want to know the truth, I love it. Not so much the selling of nalepke, who really cares that much about that anyway, but the contact with the public it allows, people from all walks, byways and dead-end unpaved streets of life. Slovene people. My kind of people. Of which there are a lot in ol' LJ, believe me.

So, I put on the jacket and the cap and the belt and go sling nalepke on the buses of Ljubljana for the first five days of every month. My favorite five days. Call me romantic.

Next: Anja gets down at the Klub Nalepka.

Chapter 3: The Mesecniks In Their Summer Dresses

I believe a glossary is in order.

2005-11-10T21:31:00.001-06:00

So what the hell is a mesečnik?

Herewith, a Slovene-English glossary for mystified readers and the housebound.

Ambasada Gavioli = Infamous wee-hours disco on the Slovene coast, like a flame to moths for house-music fanatics and other summertime partiers
Avtobus = A city bus (duh)
Bavarski Dvor = Central downtown Ljubljana bus stop as well as local mesečnik/driver rendezvous and LPP vending point
Bejba = Baby (slang usage)
Bejbe = Plural of bejba
Bife = Literally ‘buffet’, but actually a no-frills, working-class bar, invariably filled with patrons’ cigarette smoke. Bife V Redu = “The OK Bar”
Bog = God
Brez dvoma = Without a doubt
Brez zafrkavanja = No kidding (slang)
Briga me! = I don't care! (slang, and somewhat rude; pron. "BREE-ga meh")
Cockta = A beloved brand of Slovene cola
Črnuče = A northern suburb of Ljubljana
Čudno = Strange
Cviček = Type of inexpensive light red blended wine (a specialty of SE Slovenia), totally without cachet but actually rather refreshing
Daj no! = Come on!
Dedek = Grandpa
Dober = Good
Dober je = It's good
Domžale = Another suburb of Ljubljana
d.o.o. = Inc.
Dosledno naprej = Consistently forward (a political slogan)
Druga Godba = Annual world-music festival in Ljubljana (literally, 'Other Music'; 'godba' is an archaic Slovene word for music, 'glasba' being the usual word)
Fanka nam manka = Funk is scarce (teenage idiom)
Filozofska fakulteta = School for the Arts, part of the University of Ljubljana
Gospod = Mr. or sir
Gotovina = Cash
Hvala bogu = Thank God
Interšpar (pron. Eentershpar) = Large hypermarket chain, an avatar of modern times
Ja, eno nalepko, prosim = Yes, one sticker, please
Joj = Common interjection that could mean "hey" or "oy vey" or "oh, no"
Kaj? = What?
Kaj je vraga = What the hell
Kaj se dogaja? = What's happening?
Kakorkoli že = Like, whatever (said in conversation before one switches to an entirely new topic)
Kar pozabi = Fuhgeddaboudit!
Kava = Coffee
Konjski rep = Horse's tail, or a ponytail hairstyle
Krasno = Great, terrific
L2T = Y2K
Ljubljanski Potniški Promet (LPP) = Ljubljana Passenger Transport, i.e., the city bus company, employer of all mesecniks and drivers, an inescapable element of the cityscape
Malica = A modest lunch, or midday snack. Malice is the plural form (pron. "mah-LEET-seh")
Mercator = Another large supermarket/hypermarket chain
Mesec = Can mean either "month" or "moon," depending on the usage (see mesečnik).
Mesečna nalepka = Monthly sticker, as affixed to a bus pass
Mesečnik = An individual, almost always a teenager and usually female, who sells monthly bus stickers to passengers in Ljubljana, both on and off city buses. (A female mesečnik is actually called a mesečnica, but the English version doesn’t always employ this usage so as not to confuse Americans too much.) Interestingly, in Slovene the word "mesečnik" also means "sleepwalker." (See mesec.) Make of this what you will.
Mladina = Literally “youth,” also the title of a popular, smart and irreverent weekly magazine in Ljubljana
Mobitel = Cell phone (or mobile phone, if you're British)
Nalepka = Sticker
Naslednji, prosim = Next, please
Ne hvala, stari = No thanks, dude
Nova revija = “New Review,” an intellectual magazine for highbrow Slovenes
O-pa = Oh, boy
Orehova potica = Walnut coffee cake (a Slovene culinary specialty)
Picerija = Pizzeria (though most in Slovenia just use the Italian spelling)
Podhod = Underground passage, sometimes lined with various shops and eateries; also the name of a downtown Ljubljana copy shop (located in just such a passage) much used by students.
Prekleta = Moderately strong curse word (equiv. to goddamn)
Prekleta pizda jebi se = Very strong string of curse words (in truth, most Slovenes would not use this particular combination as such, but I like the way it sounds, so sue me...)
Primorska = Relating to the SW coastal area of Slovenia, close to Italy and the Adriatic Sea
Prosim = Please/You're welcome/May I help you? (Slovenes also answer the telephone with this word, analogous to the German bitte)
Radenska = A popular local mineral water, usually carbonated
Pisoar = Urinal
Rit = Butt, arse
Saj veš = You know? (pron. “sy vesh”)
Sladoled = Ice cream
Šminka = Makeup (pron. something like SHMEEN-ka)
Sosolček = Schoolmate (slang). Sosolčka is the feminine variant.
Starši = Parents
Stroški = Utilities (i.e. electricity, gas, water...)
Sveži burek = Fresh burek (a ubiquitous cheap, greasy street food, usually cheese or meat surrounded by flaky pastry)
Teden = Week
Tedenska nalepka = Weekly (bus) sticker, valid for, duh, seven days
Točilni pult = The counter or shelf in a bar on which you rest your libation
Trst = What Slovenes call Trieste (Italy), a border town where lots of Slovenes go to shop -- until recently, anyway
Union Olimpija = Ljubljana’s local basketball team (a/k/a the “Green Dragons”), very successful and popular
V redu = All right, OK, fine
Viljamovka = Pear brandy, a potent local brew
Voznik = Driver of a moving vehicle
Zajeban = Very strong curse word (the F word, in fact, used as an adjective)
Živijo = How friends say hi, and sometimes bye, in Slovenia (it’s almost impossible to render the correct pronunciation in print)
Žur do zore = Party till dawn
_________________________________________

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, as if you couldn't tell. No resemblance to actual mesečniks or other habitantes of Ljubljana, Slovenia is intended, including their social relationships, work habits or other details of their personal lives. Also, on the whole, I'm sure they don't drink quite that much.

Chapter 1: The Passenger's Tale

2005-11-10T21:02:00.001-06:00

Our eyes locked as she slipped me the nalepka for February, and I knew I'd never ride the bus alone again.....

Mesečnik. The fuzzy purple jacket, the matching puffy hat hovering over a teenaged yet world-weary face. They pop up out of nowhere like magic mushrooms after a Balkan downpour: in the first hopeful days of every month, they come. They hop on and off the crowded buses at will, expertly threading their way past the overstuffed shopping bags, the students' backpacks, the canes and walkers of the cranky, creaking elderly. Vrhovci, Mestni Log, Rudnik, Zelena Jama, Barje; Gameljne, Podutik, Sostro, Fužine, Brod. It matters not the line. They get on and off at ever-congested Bavarski Dvor; across the street at the next stop, near tourist-congested Čopova street, they congregate outside the gorgeous golden main post office like giant hormone-fueled Smurfs, talking shop.

Mesečne nalepke is the only thing they ever say, for public consumption that is. Mesečne nalepke. They crow it forth like the nasal clarion of the national bird. Monthly stickers, monthly stickers. They roam the aisles like they own the thing, corpuscles in the gas-fueled arteries of Ljubljanski Potniški Promet. Most passengers never give them much thought, or more than a passing glance, before they return to their own petty commuter's concerns. I certainly didn't. One more bit of local color, one more mental note to scribble into my ever-expanding inner map of my adopted town. A city with an unpronounceable name, the capital of a country nobody back home had ever heard of. It didn't really matter to me, though. I knew where I was, you bet, and after several months' residence I could pronounce the city's name without a moment's hesitation.

So as we've established, the monthly appearance of the purple-clad mesečnik tribe did not thrill my blood. Until that fateful fourth of Februar.

Riding the number 7 Pržan line that frigid Wednesday morning, jostling and lurching my way inevitably rearward into the bus's creaking, bifurcated bowels and being inevitably jostled back in return, in the back of my brain I knew I'd have to fork over a comparatively modest yet, to me, still significant sum to renew my bus pass for another four weeks. Tomorrow was the last day the January sticker would be valid, and if I didn't buy a new one now I'd very soon have to. I had learned to be fatalistic about the monthly curse, like most of my fellow passengers, who wore the same rigid expressions on their face no matter what the weather or the circumstances of their personal lives. Sober and resigned, they shuttled between their brick-and-plaster apartment blocks and their concrete-and-steel work sites with blinkered determination, and Bog help anyone who got in their way. Never let anybody else know what you're thinking. Especially anybody else on the bus...
So when I heard the old cry, familiar yet startling, I knew what I had to do.

Ja, eno nalepko, prosim...

And then I saw her face.

Our eyes locked onto each other and somehow, I knew I'd never have to ride the bus alone again. I handed over the variously sized bills depicting the poet, the painter and the mathematician, and sighed. She, too, sighed beneath her cap as she slipped me the nalepka with a practiced flick of a delicate wrist. Our fingertips brushed as I took possession of the stiff bit of paper with the perforated peel-away back piece. February was the shortest month, but the moment expanded into an eternity for both of us.

"Let's do the Strand," I said.

Kaj? she said.

__________________________________________

She was in her mid-to-late teens, not too tall, but solid and athletic-looking, and wore a cheerful but saucy expression under a baggy purple cap with the brim pulled low, almost level with her large, dark eyes. Her hair, which was very dark brown, almost black, was long enough to brush the sides of her neck. She wore a silver lightning-bolt earring in each ear, plus a short gold post below the bolt in her right earlobe. I had an unexplainable feeling that she liked to gossip about people.

She wore the regulation uniform: cap, as noted. Jacket, equally purple, fuzzy and roomy, with capacious pockets to hold stickers, change and who knew what else. Actually, they were probably roomy enough to conceal a small pet cat and its recommended daily intake. Said pockets, as well as the shoulders and a strip bordering the back of the neck, were covered with multicolored triangular patterns. The word MESEČNIK was emblazoned across the back in big caveman-style block letters, including a little cartoon mesečnik incorporated into the logo. The jacket was just long enough to cover the butt. A black leather money pouch strapped across the front, and a black belt with the clasp in the back completed the official ensemble. On the occasional male mesečnik the getup looked definitely dorky, but it gave our girl the appearance of a friendly urban warrior, someone who knew her turf. Mesečniks were apparently free to dress as they liked below the belt, and for her this meant dark blue corduroy trousers and old-fashioned, men's-style black oxford shoes. Other mesečniks wore jeans or plaid pants, equally popular among students.

In short: I had fallen in love with a mesečnik, and there wasn't going to be any quick exit from this bus.

___________________________________________

I live in Ljubljana, City of the Incongruous Architectural Juxtaposition. All the buildings in El Jay are either incomparably graceful and stylish, or possess no style whatsoever. Head in one direction away from the center of town and you'll come across a neoclassical cemetery across the street from a large lot filled with individual vegetable-garden plots, each with its own tumbledown tool shack out of Tobacco Road. This is not far from the sprawling, charmless BTC mall complex and surrounding superstores, with prices slightly less extortionate than elsewhere in town. Too many buildings away from the old town look as though they were slapped together over a long Communist-era weekend by people for whom the concept of outer trim was totally alien.

Alternately, you might take the wrong turn somewhere in the kava-bar-clogged tunnels sprawling outward from the train station and happen upon an entire urban sub-neighborhood that opened for business last Wednesday in Bežigrad, just north of Center. This area was designed with special concern that any possible personality that might emerge be totally bleached out in the quest for some architect's blinkered post-communist postmodern (PoCoPoMo) vision of trendiness. The buildings are pale, sanded, powdery blank slates reflecting nothing of their occupants' character (if any occupants indeed exist, not at all something to be assumed) and certainly grant no warmth to passing pedestrians. There do exist, if nothing else (and not just in Bežigrad, you bet) an endless number of neighborhood bars populated by men who shape most of their waking hours nuzzling a pale glass of Union or a fizzy bottle of Zlatorog, drinking and talking endlessly to their fellow imbibers in a continuing battle to drive away any remote chance of or desire for change in the order of things, especially their own.

Mesečne nalepke. I have been called a bit of a dreamer, and this phrase haunts my dreams as do curtain calls a ham actor's nocturnal reveries, obscuring my normal clarity of thought like the fog that turns Ljubljana into a spookhouse netherworld around ten o'clock every November night.

Mesečne nalepke...mesečne nalepke...mesečne nalepke...

Next: The mesečnik speaks out.

Chapter 2: I, Mesecnik (Anja's Tale Begins)

The Mesečnik Files

Chapter 6: The Owner Thinks I'm British, So I Humo(u)r Him

Table of Contents

Epilogue

Moja mesečnica (slovenska verzija)

Table of Contents

Chapter 4: Mesečnik, Interrupted

Chapter 5: Spet Doma, On Home Ground

Rejected chapter titles

Chapter 3: The Mesečniks In Their Summer Dresses

Chapter 2: I, Mesečnik (Anja's Tale Begins)

I believe a glossary is in order.

Chapter 1: The Passenger's Tale