I usually go all out for Christmas. Before building my big new house in the States, I dreamed of having enough storage space to take down all of my usual decor and replace it with Christmas things. Once I had that house, that's exactly what I did. Artwork, knick-knacks, kitchen and bathroom linens -- everything changed into holiday magic. I had no idea how I was going to bring that spirit into a home where I had virtually none of my personal belongings, but I would try. After all, Christmas is about the spirit of the birth of Christ and not about the trimmings.
I did have a few new things that I would use to decorate a tree. My nieces had given me a Santa ornament cleverly made with a fishing bobber, cotton and felt.One of my best friends had given me a little wooden statue of a snowman holding an American flag. And during my Christmas Market tour, I had purchased several ornaments. Most of them I would give away as gifts, but until it was time to do that, I would use them. My major purchase had been a string of beautiful lights I saw in a department store in Salzburg. I would hang them up somewhere, even if we didn't have a tree.
The day before Christmas, RM came through the door with a piece of a pine tree, beaming as he presented it to me. I say "piece of a pine tree" because that's precisely what it was. A piece. A chunk. A portion I could liken only to Charlie Brown's Christmas tree but with a few more needles. But we lost no time affixing the poor, little misshapen thing into a base made from scraps of wood, covering that base with a towel and setting it up on one of the small tables that had come with the house. I was excited about getting out my new string of lights that were at least three times longer than needed for the Charlie Brown tree. We wrapped them around and around, then used the rest to run up the wall, over the doorway and back down to an electrical outlet on the other side. It wouldn't win any decorating contests, but I loved seeing the twinkling lights filling the middle room with star-like magic.
Our friends, Edbin and Tatijana, had given us a fresh floral arrangement with roses, holly and a huge red bow. Although the roses were short-lived, I tucked the holly branches into some of the gaping holes between the branches and used the bow and a little crystal angle I had bought in Italy to fashion a tree-topper. I first hung the Santa bobber on the tree, then found a place where the snowman could stand. Then, RM and I carefully unwrapped all of the Christmas Market treasures and hung them on our tiny tree. The spirit of Christmas had found me these thousands of miles from home in Goce.
Our plan had been to spend the holidays quietly and simply. As usual, money was tight. We exchanged a couple of small gifts, and gave a few I had brought back from the States to RM's family. Our financial issues were so dire that I didn't even attempt to find and buy the chocolate and nuts and other ingredients I normally spent hundreds of dollars on for my Christmas baking. That would have to wait until next year. Christmas Eve was what it should be. Tranquil, with a cozy dinner and a moonlit walk to midnight Mass in the village.
On the evening of December 29, just as RM and I sat down to our dinner, his phone rang. It was a voice from his Christmas past; RM's best friend from his high school days at the British boarding school run by the Jesuits in Malta.
"I can't believe it," RM said with a smile after hanging up. "That was Zoran. He and his wife want to come here for a few days."
"When?" I asked.
"New Year's Eve," RM said.
"What? The day after tomorrow?" I gasped at the thought, my mind filling with the list of everything we'd have to do to get ready in less than 48 hours. When he said, "for a few days, I didn't think he meant, "in a few days." Still, we would welcome one of RM's dearest friends, no matter what.
"Where will we put them? I don't think they'll fit in J.'s little bed," I grinned.
Despite the fact that I'd never met him, I knew that Zoran was a big guy -- height, girth and personality. RM had actually taken J. to Zoran's wedding on Korcula Island last year while they were touring Slovenia and Croatia. I had heard about the larger-than-life Zoran and his petite young wife, Nena, and seen photos of the happy event. I'd also seen photos of him with RM's three kids who were in awe and in love with the larger-than-life Zoran who had taken them sailing on his boat near Korcula during a summer holiday a few years ago.
"Of course not," RM said. "I'll go down to Mance in the morning to talk to the people who advertise rooms."
"I'm going to have to think about food and groceries and, of course, we'll have to get some wine. And what about our chairs?" I asked with ever-widening eyes. "Will any of these little wooden chairs even hold Zoran?"
RM laughed.
"Well, I think the one at the desk is the strongest one. We'll make sure that's the one he sits on and even at that, I won't promise him that he won't end up on the floor," he chuckled.
I found it rather amusing that I had to worry about not having a chair sufficiently sturdy to handle a guest. Gosh. Being poor was hell, not to mention dangerous for our visitors.
RM set off the next morning to find a room and I started cleaning. Having such a small house with only a few pieces of furniture and a smattering of tchotchkes and books has its advantages. It used to take me two days to clean my house in the States. This one took only a couple of hours, now that RM and I had done all of the deep cleaning.
That afternoon, we scraped together every Euro we could find and I checked my credit card balance. Grocery shopping would run us down to the wire and I prayed clients would pay on time in January to cover all of the bills that were due before the middle of the month. Well, I'd worry about that another day. After all, Zoran was coming.
RM was ecstatic about seeing his old friend again. He hadn't been able to spend much time with him at the wedding and he really wanted to catch up. He started digging through the boxes we'd brought back from France, looking for photos from his Malta years. He found a few and for the first time, I saw RM as a high school kid, average height, wiry, long blond hair. I knew I would have found him incredibly cute had we met then, just as I had found him handsome all these years later.
There were also photos of Zoran who was the opposite of RM. He was very tall, wore big glasses and had an afro-like head of dark, curly hair. Based on the stories RM had told me, what they shared was a sense of curiosity equal only to their sense of mischief. And they all had nicknames for each other. Zoran called RM "Fritz" because he looked like a little blond German. There was a friend from Pakistan they called, rather unimaginatively, "Paki." And Zoran? They called him "Lipsy," due to his rather pronounced lips he had undoubtedly gotten from his part-Montenegrin lineage. Boys will be boys.
I was excited about meeting Zoran and Nena. After all, Zoran had done what I had originally wanted to do when I headed off to college; he'd been a foreign correspondent. I had wanted to work for the print media, but Zoran had been in television and had reported from places like the first Desert Storm. Images of Wolf Blitzer reporting from Iraq ran through my mind. And who could forget Arthur Kent, the "Scud Stud," dodging to and fro, microphone in hand, as missiles exploded around him? Zoran had been reporting from there as well.
Nena, who now worked for the Serbian government in Belgrade, had met Zoran while working as a reporter at the television station he had started and managed in Serbia after the dissolution of the Yugoslav Republic. Fortunately for me, Zoran and Nena spoke English. That would certainly make their visit more enjoyable for me and for RM, who wouldn't have to constantly translate for me.
RM waited anxiously. Zoran was supposed to call when he reached Vipava so RM could give him directions and meet him down in Mance. They could drop off their luggage and ride up to Goce with RM. When the call finally came, RM dashed out the door and I was left alone to finish prepping our New Year's Eve meal. We'd busted out the raclette grill we'd bought in Spain and splurged on this pungent cheese that smelled lousy but tasted great, melted on potatoes, grilled onions and proscuito. I guess it's the French version of potato skins. All I cared about was that it was easy to place a large platter of fixins' on each end of the table, put the grill in the center, and let everyone customize his or her own fare. We'd bought liters and liters of red and white wine and even a bottle of champagne to toast the big event. All we needed now were our special guests.
When I heard voices at the gate, I walked out of the house to greet Zoran and Nena. As they emerged from the darkness an into the light radiating from the front door, RM and Nena looked small next to the man the lanky, curly-haired kid in the photos had become. He was a big guy who had more or less grown into his lips. But immediately, it was his huge personality I liked.
"You must be Michelle," he said, his voice booming and resonant with a surprisingly strong British accent. Funny. I had assumed he would sound like RM when he spoke English. Instead, he sounded like a member of the British Parliament.
"Yes, I am, and welcome to Goce," I replied with a smile.
Zoran, Nena and I did the customary kiss-the-air-next-to-one-cheek-and-then-the-other greeting, and we walked into the house.
After the two-minute tour, we sat down, RM directing Zoran to his designated chair, to eat and enjoy some local wine while RM and I kept the fire in the old stove burning.
Instantly, I discovered that Nena and I wouldn't get to talk much. Of course, I knew that RM was a talker; perhaps because of his profession as a tour guide. But Zoran made RM look like a quiet guy. Not only could he talk a lot about a lot of things, he could make a story last for hours. For most of the evening, the guys talked about their school days -- teachers, friends and foes. For hours the wine flowed as did what has become my favorite "Zoran story," which took Zoran more than 45 minutes to tell from start to finish. It wasn't that the story itself was so long, but despite the number and length of interruptions during his telling of it, he continued to string us along with his tale.
It seems that Zoran wanted to be a good athlete, like RM, but never really had that gene. Nonetheless, he kept trying one sport after another to see if he could do marginally well at any of them. At last, he found one. Cricket. Now, all I know about cricket is that it's quasi-baseball-like and played with a ball and a bat that looks like a 1" x 4" piece of lumber. Apparently, Zoran was good enough at the sport to start getting some significant playing time which, of course, left some other boys on the bench.
"So one morning," Zoran spoke with his sharp British accent, "Paki approached me, looking quite nervous and extremely serious," he continued.
"Zorrran," Zoran said with a clipped Pakistani accent, rolling his "r"s and speaking in the stereotypical rhythm of someone from Pakistan. "Zorrran. Weee must talk."
"Okay. Later," Zoran replied to Paki, reverting back to his own voice.
"No, Zorrran. Wee must talk now!" Zoran imitated his school chum again. "You haave beeeeen playing crrreeekeet."
"Yes," Zoran replied as Zoran. "I like cricket and I'm not too bad at it."
"Daht ees dee prrrooblem. Crrreeekeet ees zee only shporrrt wee subconteeeneentals arrrrr goood aht. You haave udder shporrrts you yurrropeeeons kahn plaaay. Beisball, bahsketball. Kahnt you leeev crrreeekeeet for us subconteeeneentals!"
Of course, RM, Nena and I were laughing so hard that we had tears running from our eyes. Zoran's story might have been funny on its own, but his accents and expressions made it absolutely hilarious. It seems that Zoran did quit playing cricket and had actually spoken to Paki a few years ago. Apparently, his heart was big as well.
As we were recovering from our laughter, Nena, beautiful, petite and lively, asked RM a question in her Serbian-accented English.
"Why did you call Zoran, 'Lipsy'?" she asked with complete and utter innocence.
The other three of us burst into laughter again.
"Darling," Zoran drawled a bit as he took her hand. "Perhaps it would have something to do with the size of my lips," he said, looking at his wife with an adoring smile then pursing his lips at her in a feigned kiss.
Nena cocked her head to the side slightly for instant, looking at him, then her face and eyes lit up with the brightness of understanding.
"Oh, my Lipsy!" she said, getting up to kiss him as RM and I laughed. Despite the fact that Zoran was seated and she was standing, she barely had to lean to plant a kiss on his famous lips and giggle. For the rest of their visit and probably for the rest of their lives, Nena would adoringly call her husband, "Lipsy."
At midnight, RM popped the cork on the champagne and the four of us, old friends and new, toasted to a healthy, happy new year. We all shared a couple of fat cigars Zoran had brought with him and talked until the wee hours of the morning before RM took them back down the hill to their room.
We didn't hear from them until about noon the next day. We drove down to fetch them, then further down to Vipava to pick up some provisions at the grocery store. We spent the afternoon and early evening seeing the house interior and exterior in the daylight, touring Goce, eating, talking and, of course, enjoying more local wine. Zoran, whose native tongue is Serbo-Croat, was fascinated by the "Gocan" dialect, so he and RM took to the streets in the early evening to meet some of the neighbors. Nena and I stayed behind and without the two talkers in the room, found we had much in common, despite our differences of native language, religion and cultural heritage. She gave me one of her business cards, writing her personal email and surface mail addresses on the back. Her card was in both English and Serbian in the Cyrillic alphabet. I discovered her first name is actually "Sneznena" which, when translated into English is charmingly "Snow White." We visited until the guys returned, bursting through the door and telling us to put on our coats and come with them. Goce was having a fireworks show to celebrate the new year.
We walked through winding streets and down a gravel path to join several other Village People who had gathered in their cars and along a fence to watch the spectacle. Some of them smiled and greeted me with the "Novo leto" I had learned was the customary "Happy New Year" greeting. Zoran snapped photos with his camera with the long telephoto lens, another cigar stuck between his teeth. I heard "Americanka" a couple of times and smiled, knowing they were talking about me, not with malice but out of curiosity. It was the first time I had seen some of these villagers. We all stood there -- Zoran, Nena and I the foreigners in the midst of the village -- and listened to the boom, rumble and zzzz of the fireworks exploding above this ancient place.
"Remind you of scud missiles over Iraq?" I asked Zoran.
"No," he said with a wry smile. "It's warmer here."
The next day, Zoran and Nena wanted to visit Postojna to tour one of Europe's most magnificent network of caves. It was an easy 20-minute drive to the caves. We bought our tickets and decided we had time for coffee before our tour. We walked into a little cafe there that served drinks, sandwiches and sausages (of course) from behind a counter. It was there that I saw, for the first time, the warm, spinning, stainless steel rod upon which the server impaled a baguette-looking loaf of bread, then inserted into it any one of a variety of sausages.
"Do you call that a hot dog here?" I asked RM while continuing to watch this alien food-preparation process. "You actually put a hole down through the bread then shove the sausage into it?" I continued.
"What we do is nothing like you do in the States," RM replied with more than a hint of superiority and disdain in his voice." "We don't put hot dogs in exploded bread," he said.
"Exploded bread? What are you talking about?" I asked while chuckling at his choice of words.
"You know, that bread that is just running away from the sausage," RM said.
"The bread is 'running away'?" I was laughing now. "It might be exploded bread, but at least it's a heckuvalot easier to load up that dog with mustard, onion, pickle relish and sauerkraut that way!"
RM just shook his head and asked me to make up my mind. I ordered an espresso.
Being with a group of multilingual people, I noticed all of the words used for "cave." The caves attract an international crowd so signage appeared in several languages besides English. In Slovene, it's "jama," pronounced like "yah-mah." In Italian, "grotto." Any my favorite, the always-efficient, tell-it-like-it-is German, "hohle." Yep. Like "hole."
This was the second time I had visited the caves and found them just as fascinating as the first time. The caverns of stalagmites and stalagtites shaped like gnomes and angels and churches and city buildings, the bridge built by the Russian prisoners of World War I, the huge cavern where full orchestras perform, taking advantage of phenomenal natural acoustics, and the aquarium that holds another phenomenon -- the "human fish" that lives in complete darkness without any obvious source of food for hundreds of years. Postojna Caves are really remarkable. And like so many other sites, so close to this place I have chosen to live.
Postojna was also having its own little Christmas Market. And while the shopping wasn't an attraction for me now, the gluwhein, or kuhano vino as it's called here, was just what we all needed when we emerged from the cave. We walked back to the little mall of shops and restaurants tucked beneath the massive hotel, built during the Yugoslav years in the boring, blocky and totally unremarkable Socialist architectural style, and now sadly sitting largely empty and deteriorating.
We shared warm mugs of the mulled wine before heading back to Goce for a last evening meal together. Zoran and Nena would be leaving tomorrow to take a scenic route back to Belgrade. Three days together and I felt as if I'd know them for years. As for RM, he felt the joy and peace of reconnecting with his dear friend. As much as he missed his kids in France, he had never felt a connection to that country. Coming back to Slovenia had allowed him to start reconnecting with family and friends, like Zoran, while I was missing my family and friends in a bittersweet way. Together, though, we were making new friends and pulling our separate lives closer to each other, despite our many differences.
Maybe it was better to just drill a hole down the center of the bread rather than blow it apart, leaving only one side delicately hinged in a valiant effort to hold the sausage in place.
"Nah," I thought. "It's no good without all of the stuff you put on the dog. I'll take my bread exploded and running away."
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