With a knife.
I just ate an apple with a knife that I could have very easily eaten with just my teeth.
I'm becoming less and less American by the day.
I use kilometers now. I talk about weather and cooking in terms of Celsius.
Kilograms are still hard. Centemeters are well beyond me.
But I say "rubbish" instead of "trash", "brilliant" instead of "awesome", and I have become quite accustomed to mentally converting dollars to euros to kunas to pounds to ---
Slowly, slowly, softly, softly, the few bits and bobs that still scream out "American" are fading.
Except perhaps, my unreasonable love/romance/passion for peanut butter.
Girl loves her peanuts.
My host had asked me to get off the bus at the Montenegrin border, but since this isn't actually a designated bus stop (and customer service people in Montenegro don't believe in bending over forwards, backwards or sideways for anyone), I had to fight with the stubborn ticket taker to let me off before Herceg Novi.
But I won. The Balkans are forcing me to grow some balls.
Pardon the expression.
Martin gave me a quick hug and shot a text to Steve and Denise, telling them I was waiting at the border. Then he climbed back into the bus and continued his journey to Budhva.
I was sad to see him go. Perhaps I'll meet my German friend in South America somewheres. In between my stints teaching yoga, making chocolate, and leading people on horseback treks through the Andes.
You know.
Standing alone at the Montenegrin border, tendrils of anxiety started creeping, crawling along my skin.
Do you know what he looks like? Who is this Steve guy? Does he know what YOU look like? Did you write down the phone number correctly.
Creepy, crawly, crazy critters.
I dug out a small bag of peanuts.
Sometimes I forget how absurd my life is. I get so distracted by living it that I can't really grasp what's happening.
I'm waiting at the border of Montenegro -- a country I've never visited before and know absolutely nothing about. I'm waiting for a man I've never met and know practically nothing about to pick me up and drive me to his clothing optional campsite.
ummm....
Peanuts.
I ate peanuts for fifteen minutes.
Then Steve rolled up in a big red van, rolled down the window, smiled a distinctly British smile and shouted, "Aimee?"
"YES!"
Waves of relief (small ones) rushed over me. I still have baby anxiety attacks about being accidentally stranded somewhere because the person with whom I'd arranged to stay couldn't find me/doesn't actually exist.
Steve very much exists. And he found me.
My new host warned me about Daisy before I entered through the palm leaf fence.
"Don't worry, she's all bark. But I'm trying to train her not to bark at people, so don't make eye contact with her until she settles down. If you ignore her for the first few minutes, she'll be calm for the rest of the week."
It was very difficult to ignore Daisy. Daisy is adorable.
As the weather was already suffocatingly hot when we arrived, Steve quickly introduced me to the eco-friendly facilities --
-- taught me how to make the tea (priority of a proper English person) and then promptly brewed himself a cup.
I kept myself busy poking about the composting toilets, waterless urinals and solar panel system.
This is what I wanted Ivan's to be like -- place wherein I could learn how people make this eco friendly lifestyle work. Realistically. Without counting on a check from Oprah to keep them going or living off of kale and... green onions.
Steve removed his clothes and sat with his tea and a cigarette on one of the many outdoor couches under a canvas canopy in naturist, English glory.
I awkwardly pulled at my shirt. Rolled the sleeves up. Rolled the sleeves down. Looked sheepishly at my pants.
And took off my shoes.
How do I start? Is there an appropriate time to get naked? Should I go to my tent? Am I supposed to go into the composting toilet to take off my clothes and then put them away? It feels odd to strip in the open, but it also feels odd to strip behind closed doors when I'm just going to come out naked anyway...
I glanced about the abandoned room. The walls seemed to give a knowing chuckle. A wink. A smirky, smirk that made my knuckles itch for a bit of plaster.
They'd seen my kind before, these whitewashed walls bedecked with a GIGANTIC mirror that emphasized the fact that I was still wearing clothes.
It just feels so damn bizarre to take off my clothes before joining someone for tea. The order of my life has been reversed. I don't know how to deal.
I took off my socks.
Disappointment. Why is this so difficult? You'd think that five years of being a nude art model would make it easier for me to just be naked. But this is different. Being a nude art model has structure. One minute poses. Five minute poses. Ten minute poses. Thirty minute poses. Props. Timers. Music. Tea breaks.
There are plenty of tea breaks here, but they're certainly not structured. People aren't looking at me and sizing up my dimensions as they squint at their pencils.
Being naked is just... normal.
I don't know how to start. I need a robe in order to disrobe. I need a model stand in order to feel comfortable. Where are the lights? the art students with their disheveled hair and paint stained aprons? Where's the smell of turpentine and why aren't my feet covered in charcoal dust?
I didn't take my clothes off that day. I just didn't know where to start and the lack of structure made me tremendously insecure.
Only one chap had expressed any interest in yoga week, so I gave him a quick introduction to acro yoga (with the help of another volunteer and my hosts) --
Giuseppe sent an obscure text saying that he was on his way and that he hoped he would make it. We figured something had gotten lost in translation, so Steve and I jumped into the van and drove down the road to meet him. My Italian friend was soaked with sweat (it's a freakishly steep hill), but stalwartly trudging along.
It was good to see him. So good. I believe that we will explore all the eco friendly (although sometimes overrun with melancholy) campsites in the Balkans together.
And perhaps tomorrow I'll run into the proper time to take off my pants.
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