it's a revolution

The Frenchman named Marc had joined us that Friday night in Ljubljana.  He drove us back from Metalkova to Aida’s house, where we, Pavlos, Marc, Aida and myself, ended up sleeping.  He drove a white van which he had modified himself to run off of used cooking oil, which he picked up for free at restaurants.  We were going to hitch a ride with him to Zagreb, which was on his way to Budapest, but he decided to not take the chance of leaving the Schengen Zone.  “Driving with cooking oil is illegal,” he explained to us.  “If they caught me, they could very well confiscate the car.”

“Why is it illegal?” I asked. 

“If things like self-modifying cars caught on, you know,” he said, “then corporations stand to lose money and governments will lose taxes.  Especially when fuel is for free.”  As he spoke, flashing lights filled the car and a police officer was outside, waving us over.  We pulled in front of two police men.  Ajda was cursing quietly, though luckily, she had stopped by the time Marc rolled down the windows.  I was wondering to myself how Slovenian cops were.  Were they like Russian cops and wanting bribe money or what?

“Documents,” the officer asked.  Marc handed over his papers.  The officer glanced at them, handed them back and waved us on. 

“That was it?” I said, not really believing it.  We went on home.  

The next day, we explored Ljubljana with Marc while Aida was busy with class.  Ljubljana is a small but beautiful town with a river splitting the center in two, a series of intricately designed pedestrian and car bridges uniting the two halves.  There’s a castle that overlooks the town that one can go up to and see, with a 4.50 euro entrance fee to the lookout points and historical museum.  We went up to explore it.  The place has been rebuilt since old times and has a very modern look and feel to it.  I didn’t like it since it resembled more of a conference center than a castle (they even hold conferences and weddings there).  

The day was cloudy and misty, so there wasn’t much to see in terms of a view either.  We went on down to meet Aida and go on to a Georgian restaurant.  We decided on Georgian food because of my experience in Georgia and wanting to share some of the food, and since I was missing cheese bread and khinkali.  I thought Pavlos might enjoy the khinkali as he was always on a quest for delicious dumplings that didn’t have cheese on it – I’ve already written to some extent on his aversion to cheese and other things dairy.  

After sitting down at the Georgian restaurant and receiving our beers, Pavlos said, “Ah, finally, at the place of my people.”  

“They’re not your people, Pavlos.” 

“I’m Cretan and we’re the same people, man.  I did that genetic test and I’ve got the G2 gene and Georgians have the G2 gene.”

His insistence and claim of being Georgian set me off.  I’m not sure why, but the two years of hearing how Georgians are the greatest people on Earth and then having to put up with Pavlos going on about how Greeks are the greatest people on Earth, and now hearing Pavlos linking his own greatest people with these other greatest people to make some sort of super greatest people super genome of awesome annoyed me to the maximum.  After a few more back and forths, I set my beer down and said, “What I had most is that both Marc and Ajda are taking your side here.  Greeks aren’t related to Georgians.  Georgians are not an Indo-European culture, they’re completely unique.  They never migrated anywhere, they’re not interested in migrating anywhere and they are quite convinced that their land is the best on Earth.  Why would they want to go to Crete?  But, I can go on with all these reasons, but what’s pissing me off most is that they’re believing you over me, nevermind that I’m the one who speaks Georgian, knows Georgian history and lived there.  And you’re an asshole.” 

“We can just agree to disagree,” Pavlos said.  “I’m just saying I have the G2 gene and that’s the Georgian gene.  It comes from Georgia.” 

“I’m just saying you’re an asshole.”  When we finished the meal, the owner of the restaurant came down to say hello.  His son, the waiter, had undoubtedly fetched him since there was an American who was speaking Georgian, an uncommon occurrence in Georgia and an especially uncommon occurrence in Slovenia.  Since he didn’t speak English, I found myself again in the place of translator.  Temo, the owner, was a typical looking Georgian, short, bald and with a large wine gut, big smile and honest eyes.  He had come to Slovenia from Kutaisi, Georgia seven years ago with his family.  In Slovenia, he’s trying to set up a Georgian ethnological museum in the mountains near Ljubljana, where he built a giant, clay wine jug, 6 meters in height.  Temo, excited by the visit, pulled down random items of Georgian apparel from the walls and dressed us in them, he also brought some clay pots and drinking horns and then we all took pictures together.  He grabbed a bottle of wine and poured it out, sharing it with us.  The time made me remember all those days in Georgia and all the friends I had (and still have) back there, making me wonder what’s happened since I left.  Was it like the States, where nothing really has happened to my friends since I left?  Were my Georgian friends also living the same life that they were living before I was there?  

After the Georgian restaurant, we stopped by the Occupy Ljubljana site, which was mostly a collection of empty tents in a plaza, with one main tent where some hippies were gathered drinking tea.  Where I can understand the problems in New York, where people are protesting corporate greed and the marriage between the banks and Washington, along with all the corruption in the banks regarding usury and predatory banking policies, I couldn’t quite understand what the problem was in Slovenia.  The only propaganda I saw were the posters glued up on the neighboring office building wall.  It was mostly confused socialist propaganda.  I say confused, since it was clear it was put up by a bunch of students with no real understanding of global operations.  I felt the same wonderment in regards to the Occupy Amsterdam protest I saw.  But insofar as nobody was actually doing anything bad – or anything all that interesting – I didn’t really see the harm in having hippies camped in tents on a plaza.  Why not?  And if a passerby can score some free tea and a warm-up in the main party tent, then also, why not?  Granted, said passerby would have to put up with a bunch of hippies talking their marijuana jive about socialism and community action, but then there’s a price to everything.      

We were at the “protest” to meet one of Aida’s friends, Marushka, who was a bouncing young blonde girl of high energy, who kept talking about a “revolution”.  We later went to Marushka’s apartment to “help plan the revolution,” she said.  Where I thought maybe she was thinking of blowing up cars or storming the Parliament, it turned out to be something a bit different and possibly more crazy.  “I want to connect people,” she said.  “It will be a social revolution.  I want to connect one person to another person and to another person and then they can all work together.  Like these purses,” she brought me a pile of handwoven purses.  “L___ here in Slovenia made the fabric and sent them to M____ in Sweden who put all the zippers and sewing work.  Aren’t they wonderful?”  She kept stressing an international community of interconnectedness and synergy. 

Marc was skeptical, “You don’t need this ‘revolution’ or anything, you just need to do it.  Find what you want to do and do it.  Like I am working with these kids in Africa.”

“Let me connect you to this other African guy and you can work together.”

“We don’t need to work together.  I’m doing this thing,” Marc said.  “Not everyone has to be connected.  The important thing is just to do something.  To quit talking about things and just do them.” 

Pavlos was in the corner, busy talking to Aida about dating and relationships, touching her hand periodically, pulling her into his web of womanly entanglements, like a Venus fly trap giving off a scent to capture a butterfly.  Aida was the butterfly of the night and she was yet another insect fluttering her wings around him, charmed by his unnatural charisma.  If he could have, he would have devoured her that night, as he was trying to maneuver the situation so that they would stay there with Marushka and Marc and I would return to Aida’s apartment.  Undoubtedly his plot was to capture both of them at once, or one in each bedroom and he could rotate like the chamber of a Magnum revolver.  But then Marushka changed her mind about letting them stay, “I’ve got so much to do tomorrow morning.  But we will meet again tomorrow to work on the revolution, yes?”