Impressions from an unimaginable time that is not so very far behind us.

Since I am currently doing a lot of learning at my new job and a lot of writing to finish my overdue PhD thesis, I don’t have a lot of surplus writing inspiration for my blog. I still want to keep it updated at least semi-regularly though, so it feels like a great time to finish all the almost-done posts that have been sitting in my drafts for a while.

This is an old one from March 2020, when the coronavirus pandemic just started in Slovenia and I was documenting the vibe on the bus to work in Ljubljana with short, rather cynical updates on my personal Facebook profile. People seemed to enjoy them under the hashtag #koronalj, so I always planned to translate and potentially illustrate them for my blog one day, but I never got around to it. Well, here they are, almost 4 years later, as an opportunity for reflection and with a quick middle school level drawing of an ear-bus. Let me know what the vibe was like in your country during the pandemic in the comments below.

1 day after the corona outbreak in Slovenia

Early morning: the city lies shrouded in fog and smog. Lonely figures in dark coats, white sneakers and brown Uggs all arrive at the same destination: the bus station. The mood is gloomy and subdued, as if none of them have properly woken up yet. The bus arrives. The driver is crushing a disinfectant wipe between his hands while he carefully monitors everyone and greets them as they enter. It’s quiet, more than usually. Someone on the bus attempts a discreet cough. All 5 old ladies present simultaneously twist their head around by 180 degrees and stare at the offending cougher. A malignant whisper starts at the back of the bus: “corona, corona, corona…” It echoes through the whole bus, as if generated by a thousand disembodied voices. Suddenly one of the high school kids laughs out loud – a bit of nervous, tentative laughter and the spell is broken. Stay tuned for day 2!

The original in Slovene:

Jutro: mesto je zavito v meglo in smog. Samotne postave v temnih plaščih, belih supergah in rjavih uggicah hkrati prispejo do iste točke: avtobusna postaja Ruski car. Vzdušje je tiho, moreče, kot da se nihče od njih še ni zares prebudil v nov dan. Prispe avtobus. Voznik vsakemu, ki vstopi, vošči dober dan in jih pozorno premeri, vmes si mane roke z razkužilnim robčkom. Tišina je, bolj kot ponavadi. Nato nekdo na avtobusu diskretno zakašlja. Vseh 5 starih mam simultano obrne glavo za 180 stopinj v smer kašljajočega. Iz zadnjega dela avtobusa se zasliši zlovešč šepet ”korona, korona, korona…” Zdi se, kot da bi bil sestavljen iz tisočerih glasov in odmeva po avtobusu. Nenadoma se eden izmed srednješolcev nelagodno naglas zasmeji. Urok je pretrgan. Stay tuned for day 2! #koronalj

2 days after the corona outbreak in Slovenia

The epidemic is sweeping across the nation: 2 confirmed cases and at least 30 unofficial ones according to all the experts on Twitter. It’s raining, as if the very sky itself is commiserating with the bleak fate of the Slovene nation. Despite the invisible threat, people are crowding under the bus station roof. A young man with a macho haircut is smoking a cigarette and audibly, obnoxiously clears his throat. An older man with prominent sideburns swiftly opens his umbrella and steps away from under the roof. He waves his open umbrella at the smoker, explaining to all the others: “My umbrella is just about 1.5 metre (the officially recommended social distance), heh heh.” A middle aged woman who is still standing under the roof quietly smirks to herself: “Let’s hope no one has a bigger one.” The bus arrives and the driver is forced to point out: “Sir, you’ll need to close your umbrella if you want to get on.”

The original in Slovene:

Epidemija se širi po državi: potrjena sta 2 primera, neuradno pa vsaj 30 po informacijah ekspertov na Twitterju. Dežuje, kot da bi še nebo sočustvovalo s turobno usodo Slovencev. Ljudje se kljub nevidni grožnji gnetejo pod streho na avtobusni postaji. Mlad moški s čefo frizuro kadi cigareto in se mastno odkrhne. Starejši moški z zalizci naglo odpre dežnik in stopi izpod strehe. Z odprtim dežnikom zamahne v smeri kadilca: ”Moj dežnik je ravno metr pa pol, heh heh”, razloži vsem prisotnim. Gospa srednjih let, ki še vedno stoji pod streho, si tiho zamrmra v brk: ”da ja neb meu kdo večga od vas”. Pripelje avtobus. Voznik: ”Gospod, dežnik boste mogl zapret, če hočte it gor.’ #koronalj

5 days after the corona outbreak in Slovenia

The weekend has unfortunately passed by without social interactions with any bus people, so today’s post will be all the more poetic. The disease continues to ravage the nation, all larger events have been cancelled, arts and culture are suffering and the divide between citizens is thriving as never before. Monday morning starts off promising, with low temperature and an even lower mood – most people would rather be quarantined with a 90% salary compensation than on the way to work. The bus arrives, three quarters empty. A middle aged lady with horrid blonde highlights enters and starts looking around for a seat. As she looks around, scoping out the bus, she spots a fellow on a double seat and kicks up a fuss – he’s wiping his nose! Seeing that, she asks: “May I sit there, kind sir? That is, if you are not sick or were?” He gives her a smile of smiles and bows: “Not sick, not sick at all, my lady dear! But there are plenty of other seats, should you fear.” Caught so indelicately, she considers and withers: “Oh no, those are for the old, pregnant and infirm, not me.” Smiling, he titters: “They are for special cases like you too, see.” #koronalj poetry edition

The original in Slovene:

Vikend je žal minil brez socialnega stika z avtobusnimi ljudmi, zato bo današnja toliko bolj poetična. Bolezen še naprej pustoši po državi, večje prireditve so odpovedane, kultura trpi, razkol med prebivalci pa uspeva kot še nikoli. Ponedeljkovo jutro obeta z nizkimi temperaturami in sivim razpoloženjem, večina bi bila namreč raje v karanteni z 90% nadomestilom kot na poti v službo. Pripelje tričetrt prazen avtobus. Vstopi gospa srednjih let s faljenimi blond prameni in se ozira za sedežem. A kar se ozira, in sedež izbira, zagleda na dvojnem sedežu junaka, enacga pod soncem mu ni korenjaka – namreč, briše si nos. To videt, gospa nemudoma pristopi:”Al se lahko tukaj usedem?” mu pravi. ”Samo veste, sprašujem, da niste kej bolni morda?” Sladko se nasmeje ji gospod smrkajoči:”Nisem, nisem, če vas pa skrbi imate pa še polno drugih sedežev.” Gospa v zadregi situacijo ocenjuje:”Ne, ne, saj ni take nuje. Te drugi so za noseče in stare.” Gospod pa smejoč nadaljuje:”Tudi za vas so, gospa, ste le poseben primer.” #koronalj prosto po Prešernu

6 days after the corona outbreak in Slovenia

The situation in Slovenia is getting serious: gatherings of over 100 people are now banned, as if we’re planning a long awaited revolution. The universities are closing down and transitioning to the 3rd millennia with remote classes, companies are finally figuring out which meetings could’ve been an email. Coughing. So much coughing all around us. People are starting to become uncomfortably aware of every basic bodily function – it’s getting hard to breathe. Absolute silence reigns on the bus, occasionally broken by previously irrelevant human sounds. An old lady rubbs her hands with disinfectant and firmly grips the bus pole. A high school boy loudly sneezes into his palm, wipes it off with a tissue and scratches his nose. A middle aged woman disinfects her hands, coughs into her sleeve and disinfects her hands again, hazards a quick look around the bus, discreetly farts and disinfects her hands again.

The original in Slovene:

Situacija v državi se zaostruje, izdana je bila prepoved zbiranja nad 100 ljudi na dogodkih, kot da načrtujemo dolgo pričakovano revolucijo. Faksi se zapirajo in prehajajo v 3. tisočletje z elektronskim učenjem, v firmah se ugotavlja, kateri sestanki bi lahko že prej bili emaili. Kašelj. Kašelj povsod okoli nas. Ljudje se začenjajo neprijetno zavedati vsake osnovne telesne funkcije – dihanje je oteženo. Na avtobusu vlada absolutna tišina, ki jo vsake toliko prekinejo prej nepomembni človeški zvoki. Stara mama si mane roke z razkužilom in se nato močno oprime štange. Srednješolec glasno kihne v roko, jo obriše v robček in se popraska po nosu. Gospa srednjih let si razkuži roke, zakašlja v rokav in si ponovno razkuži roke, nato na hitro pogleda okrog sebe, diskretno prdne in si ponovno razkuži roke. #koronalj

7 days after the corona outbreak in Slovenia

Morning dawns, grey and cold like the lab fridge for biological samples. Excitement is afoot! Somewhere near the Stadion bus station the sun comes up and a person of visibly Asian descent enters the bus. There’s quiet wave of reaction across the bus; a secret, intangible wave, so that no one feels racist. Although the bus is almost full today, a clear social vacuum bubble forms around the newcomer. Soon, the whispering starts: “China…corona…foreigners…Eh, he doesn’t understand us anyway!” A twinkle of amusement shines in the Asian man’s eyes and he loudly coughs once – panic! A palpable discomfort sweeps through the bus; a quiet, secret, intangible type of discomfort – we shouldn’t be racist, after all.

The original in Slovene:

Jutro je, sivo in mrzlo kot laboratorijski hladilnik za biološke vzorce. Razburljivo bo! Nekje pri Stadionu namreč posije sonce in na avtobus vstopi oseba vidno azijskega porekla. Po avtobusu završi, tako na skrito, po tiho, da se ne bo kdo počutil kot rasist. Kljub temu, da je avtobus danes skoraj poln, se okoli novega prišleka v hipu naredi opazen socialni vakuum. Kmalu se začne prvi šepet:”Kitajska…korona…tujci… Eh, pa sej nas itak ne razume!” V očeh Azijca se utrne hudomušen pogled in glasno zakašlja – panika! Občutno nelagodje na avtobusu – tako na skrito, po tiho, rasizem nam vendarle ne pritiče. #koronalj

8 days after the corona outbreak in Slovenia

Thursday morning. It is sunny and rather optimistic for a change, and a ray of something resembling reason finds its way even into the bus world. An older man enters the bus. Let’s call him Superhicc, after a popular Yugoslavian hiccuping drunk superhero comic book character, because he faintly reeks of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. He claims a seat at the front of the bus and his super-ear intercepts a conversation between two typical Ljubljana old ladies, the type with purple puffed up perms and neon blue eyeliner. “You know, this was all manufactured in some lab to kill us off, they want to get rid of us ageing folks…” “Of course, yeah, they used to respect the old, now all them young ones are so badly brought up and with all their science stuff…” Superhik loudly clears his throat to attract their attention: “My dear ladies, if you want respect, you’d first need to earn it. Starting with not believing everything you hear and certainly not spreading it around further. A virus is a virus and if someone wants to get rid of us, that may be because we’re always talkin’ smack about everyone, ain’t it?” Both grannies are left momentarily speechless, a high school boy across the aisle salutes Superhik, with most younger bus passengers mentally joining in too.

The original in Slovene:

Četrtkovo jutro. Enkrat za spremembo je sončno in optimistično in tudi v avtobusni svet posije žarek nečesa podobnega razumu. Na avtobus vstopi starejši gospod. Recimo mu Superhik, ker malce smrdi po alkoholu in postanih cigaretah. Usede se v sprednji del avtobusa in njegovo superuho prestreže pogovor dveh klenih ljubljanskih mamc, tistih z vijolično natupirano frizuro in neonsko modrim eyelinerjem. ”Pa veste, to so v laboratoriju nardil za nas tastare, ker nas nimajo več kam dat…” ”Ja sevede, včas se je nas starejše spoštoval, zdej je pa mladina tok nevzgojena pa še s to znanostjo…” Superhik se glasno odkrhne, da pritegne njuno pozornost:”Moji lubi gospe, če želita spoštovanje, si ga je treba zaslužt. Za začetek ne verjemte vsemu, kar slišta, pa ne širta tega okol. Virus je virus, če se nas hoče kdo znebt je pa to zato, ker skos vse po zobeh vlačmo, kne?” Obema mamcama kar vzame dih, srednješolec nasproti mu salutira, večina mladih na avtobusu pa se mu verjetno mentalno pridružuje. #koronalj

9 days after the corona outbreak in Slovenia

Friday morning, a first with no traffic jam at 7 am. Last work day of the week, last regular work day until further notice and also the last #koronalj post. Not just because the coming days will likely pass by without any encounters with the bus people, but also out of respect for everyone in Slovenia whose lives will inevitably get f*cked up by the virus. It’s starting. A young woman sits on the bus and stares at her mobile phone screen, which is likely covered with more microbes than a public toilet. The bus is both empty and full, alive with nervous energy. She is contemplating how sarcasm and documenting social absurdities can be both a perfect counterbalance to overblown mass panic and a mental preparation for the tougher times ahead. However – she’s left with a bitter taste in her mouth, which isn’t from the disinfectant a gentleman in a fashionable shirt just sprayed allover the bus. She has decided: we’ve reached the point when even sarcasm no longer serves its purpose and is borderline inappropriate. She puts down her phone and looks out the bus window which is dotted with advertisment stickers that make her world seem darker and distant. Extraordinary circumstances are, after all, extraordinary and should be treated as such.

The original in Slovene:

Petkovo jutro, prvič brez jutranje konice ob 7. Zadnji delovni dan v tednu, zadnji običajen delovni dan do nadaljnjega ter zadnja #koronalj objava. Ne le zato, ker bodo prihodnji dnevi verjetno minili brez stika z avtobusnimi ljudmi, temveč tudi iz spoštovanja do vseh v Sloveniji, ki jim bo virus neizbežno zajebal življenje. Začenja se. Mlada ženska sedi na avtobusu in zre v ekran svojega mobilnega telefona, ki je verjetno prekrit z več mikrobi kot javno stranišče. Avtobus je prazen in obenem poln, prežet z živčno energijo. Premleva, kako sta sarkazem in popisovanje sociološko absurdnega lahko odlična protiutež pretirani javni paniki ter mentalna priprava na težje čase. Pa vendar – v ustih čuti grenak priokus, ki ni od razkužila s katerim je pred kratkim po avtobusu vse povprek pršil gospod v modni srajci. Odločila se je: prišli smo do točke, ko je tudi tak sarkazem neokusen in ne služi več svojemu namenu. Odloži telefon in se zazre skozi okno, pikčasto prekrito z reklamnimi nalepkami zaradi katerih izgleda njen svet temnejši in oddaljen. Izredne razmere so le izredne in na njih se je potrebno odzvati – izredno. #koronalj

Bonus post:

On the bus again. This time it’s a Friday, one of the last May mornings, and a new reality. Expressionless people with facial masks are entering the bus through the back door, which could’ve been done years ago for the sake of practicality. You are no longer greeted by a carefully selected comment from the driver, but rather by a screaming red tape separating the driver from the passengers, as if he was the very source of coronavirus. Certain seats are decorated with similar prohibitive markings, but many old ladies nonetheless manage to sit on exactly the wrong seat. The sharp smell of disinfectant cuts through the air and under your mask with each new entrant, mixing with the unfortunate smells of your own exhaled air. Did you happen to eat salami for breakfast? A fatal mistake.

The original in Slovene:

Ponovno na avtobusu. Tokrat je petek, eno zadnjih majskih juter. Nova realnost – brezizrazni ljudje vstopajo z maskami pri drugih vratih, kar bi bilo v imenu praktičnosti lahko omogočeno že leta poprej. Zjutraj te ne pozdravi več skrbno izbrani komentar voznika, temveč kričeče rdeč trak, s katerim je voznik odsekan od ljudi, kot da bi bil prav on izvor korone. Na sedežih so podobne oznake, a kljub temu se prenekatera stara mama še vedno usede na napačen sedež. Po zraku se z vsakim prišlekom pod maske zareže oster vonj razkužila, ki se meša z nesrečnimi vonjavami lastnega izdihanega zraka. Ste danes morda jedli salamo za zajtrk? Napaka. #koronalj