Castle Adventure! -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

Slovenia has an abundance of many things, among which include castles.

Colorado has about as many castles as it has sea urchins, so I still get excited (even after eight months of vagabond volunteering in the UK) to walk around their ruins and imagine all the things that transpired in buildings old enough to have seen the birth of my country.

Sabina took me on a castle tour. We packed a simple lunch of fruit and vegetables, picked up Dusha and set off for Turjak Castle, a 13th century building 20 km away from Ljubljana.

Turjak castle was also the short-time home of Primoz Trubar, first fellow to write a book in Slovene.

I have to take pictures of all the signs. Else I forget where I've been. It's rather disturbing how easy it is for me to forget where I've been.

The castle has been destroyed on numerous occasions (as seems to be their habit), and this slab is from the 16th century version.

The linden tree, national tree of Slovenia. Its flowers are brewed in tea to cure colds, coughs, fevers, headaches, and a myriad of other illnesses.

The heart-shaped leaves of the linden tree.

I would learn Slovene and write a book if I could live here.

We drove to the spring of the Krke river for our healthy picnic (having picked up some cow cheese from a loquacious local cheese lady) and began to notice a rather odd phenomenon. Whenever we climbed into the car, it started to rain. Whenever we climbed out of the car, the weather cleared. Consistently.

We didn't complain.

We met a biking Belgian couple on our walk back to the car. They had hoped to tour the cave next to the Krka spring, but it was open on Sundays and by appointment only. We chatted for a bit and wished them luck with the weather.

"We've had a perfect day. Whenever we get in the car, it starts to rain. Whenever we get out, the rain stops," Sabina laughed.

"And I don't know how this affects you, but we're getting in our car now," Dusha saucily chimed in.

I laughed. The Belgians looked slightly perturbed.

Next stop, Zuzemberk. Yet another 13th century (it was a busy one for the Slovenes). It was also bombed to bits, but was restored during the 1960s and now hosts touristic events for much of the summer.

Battle wounds. Damn sea archers.

Dusha!

Sabi

Final castle was Otocec.

Guess when it was built?

Hey there, 13th century.

Guess what happened to it?

The Second World War. That happened.

One thing that makes Otocec Castle uniquely beautiful is that it rests on an island in the Krka River.

Sabi treated Dusha and me to a sinful chocolate mousse after our tour of the river island.

The waitress said it was "small."

The waitress was a liar.

We were running late (the mousse took a while to eat), so we called Simon and asked if he'd prepare dinner for three touring ladies.

"Did you tell him that we're not too hungry, though?" I asked, apprehensive about the portion sizes my gourmet host was prone to preparing.

"Well, I said that we'd just had a cappuccino and chocolate mousse," Sabina replied confidence I didn't trust. "He'll know that we'll be full."

"Sabi. Two things. Simon loves to cook. Simon just bought loads of food. Simon is going to cook us loads of food and will be sad when we can't finish."

Simon cooked us loads of food and was sad when we couldn't finish. 

Sea Archers -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

Simon had to work Monday morning (as most people do), so he drove me to Sabina's for the day. During the Lebanese dinner party two nights before, I had mentioned that I'd like to hitchhike to Bled for a daytrip. I'd heard it was a stunning lake and was one of the must-sees for people visiting Slovenia. Usually I disregard "must-sees" because they're overrun with tourists, but when they involve lakes and mountains, I turn down my turned-up nose and let myself see the must-see.

Sabina (because she's perfected the art of giving perfect gifts) offered to drive me there. Unless I wanted to hitchhike, of course.

Hitchhiking is all well and good, but so are trips with particularly beautiful people.

"That would be phenomenal," I gushed. "My goodness, I would be so happy to go to Bled with you."

So Simon took me to Sabina's. Where I was fed cheese and chocolate and coffee for breakfast and then introduced to Sabina's apartment.

I said hello to the keyboard and played a quick ditty, recognizing that the season of memorized Simon and Garfunkel has most definitely passed.

I said hello to her self-cleaning, bean grinding, coffee machine robot (which is 100% magic).

I said hello to the couch on which I'd be sleeping and the bath in which I'd be bathing. 

"If you want to take a bath while you're here, you can. Here's a scrub for your face and for your body. Here is salt you can use. And please take as many towels as you need. Do you have a toothbrush? Here's the toothpaste. Here's the extra toothpaste for when this one is finished. Do you want an extra toothbrush anyway? I keep them down here. They're very soft. I got them from my dentist."  

Moments that leave me speechless.

These.

Before we left Sabi's apartment, I found myself gifted with a new pair of sunglasses (Tessa had taken her John Lennons back to France) a wooden flute (the perfect vagabond instrument) and a new toothbrush.

"And your feet -- do they hurt?"

"Yeah, there's still a lot of sea creature stuck inside. I didn't realize the needles would break so easily."

"I'll call my friend who used to be a nurse and ask her what to do. Then we can stop by my doctor on the way back from Bled."

"I don't have insurance and I can't really afford to go to the doctor," I tried not to hang my head. "I can just wait for them to come out. I've certainly made enough holes in my feet for them to find their way eventually."

"We'll see if they can put you on my card," Sabina insisted as she dialed up her friend.

I've only met this person and she's taking such good care of me. I'm going to visit a DOCTOR. Wow. I can't even do that in America. 

"Okay," Sabi said as she hung up the phone. "My friend said to heat up olive oil and put it on the foot with a bandage." 

I'm not used to this kind of care, I thought as we bandaged my swollen foot. My grin-and-bear-it American nature is so confused right now. But I think I could get used to this. Yes. I could definitely get used to this. 

Instead of going straight to Bled, we took a quick detour to pick up a friend of Sabi's who'd be joining us for our touristic excursion.

Dusha. Yet another fabulous Slovene.

I think I love everyone in Slovenia. They have the perfect combination of carefree ease and sensitivity and humor. They also make super coffee. No Nescafe around here. 

Renato (Dusha's Italian husband) made another super coffee for me (whereby he proved his Italian-ness) and we laughed at my poor understanding of geography as I savored the hot drink.

I accept this whole no sense of direction thing, but I am rather pleased that I finally know what/where Albania is. I'll learn more about what/where other parts of the world are as I get to them. Central America will be next. 

We didn't leave for Bled  until about one o'clock in the afternoon.

Dusha and Sabi giggled in the front seat and were considerate enough to converse in English (between the giggle fits) so that I felt included. People in Slovenia speak remarkably good English, as they live in one of the few Eastern European countries that does not dub its films or television.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons I love it so much here. I've been traveling through non-native English speaking countries since September (with a month break in England to volunteer with the alien believing, cauliflower leaf eating crazy kundalini yoga teacher). It's nice to feel like I can communicate with everyone (without having to resort to charades or google translate), should I need to do so.

Perhaps another reason I love it so much here is because everything I see (and everything I eat) simply takes my breath away. 

 Bled Island used to be the home of a temple of Ziva, the Slavic goddess of love and fertility. Now it is home to an Assumption of Mary Church and is a popular location for weddings. Sabina and her husband were married on this island. A local tradition is that the groom carries the bride in his arms (not fireman style) up the 99 steps and the bride remains silent during the whole journey.

 I'm trying to decide whether or not I approve of this tradition. I generally dislike it when women are carried and told to be quiet, but this has the extra air of fairytale romance and island and Slovenia, so I'm conflicted.

Bled Castle peering through the trees. The oldest Slovenian castle complete with drawbridge and moat.

 We stopped for our picnic at a place with a view of which Tessa would approve.

Lake Bled properly appreciated and apple cores fed to properly devoted ducks, we drove to the less touristic Lake Bohinj.

I'm not sure why it's less touristic. It's every bit as beautiful.

 Sabi wanted to take me on a short hike to see a waterfall, but my feet were throbbing angrily with bits of sea urchin (Sabi calls them "sea archers" and I haven't been able to correct her yet. I like it too much), so we decided to just enjoy the view.

Sabi.

 Sabi treated Dusha and me to homemade ice cream and I found myself remembering Simon's grandmother. I stopped in my tracks and "focused on the pudding."

Sabina and Dusha laughed at me. Which isn't unusual, as Sabina and Dusha are always laughing about something. 

We stopped by Sabina's doctor at about six pm. It felt odd to enter the clean office and sit on the big, sterile bed/chair.

I haven't been in a real doctor's office since... well... ummm... have I ever been in a real doctor's office? The one time I went for help was when I fell off my bike in university and needed stitches in my knee. But the receptionist told me it would cost hundreds of dollars, so I left and put a band aid on the HOLE in my leg. Is this really my first time experiencing a real, western doctor? In SLOVENIA? for SEA URCHIN needles? 

My life is hilarious. 

Things stopped being hilarious shortly after this realization. Feet are sensitive, and even with the doctor's expert fingers and high quality instruments, I experienced pain that I didn't think was possible from just a stupid little sea creature (I'm allowed to call them stupid. I'm still feeling bitter).

What a drama. 

"You must hold still," the doctor chided me as my foot involuntarily, violently twitched. "They are very deep. Yes. Very, very deep."

Coulda fooled me. Blurgh. 

"I'm from Colorado. We don't have a lot of sea urchins. I didn't know that that the needles were so delicate. They certainly don't feel delicate," I grimaced and forced laughs in between yoga breathing.

Sabi stood in the corner and looked concerned. 

"You shouldn't put oil on it again. Oil closes the holes and makes the needles sink in deeper. Next time, use alcohol. Half alcohol and half chamomile tea."

There won't be a next time. I'm going to let my fear of swimming alone for a while and keep my feet on rocks.

The doctor was only able to get one needle out, but it was the largest, most painful one.

I gave her a hug.

"Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!"

I gave Sabi a hug.

"Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!"

Dusha and Sabi prepared dinner for friends that evening. Turkey, sauteed veggies and salad. I sat at the table and chopped tomatoes as I chatted with "Garfield" about our day at the lakes and my vagabond career. 

Sabi loves animals as much as she loves people and has a penchant for reverse anthropomorphizing. Primarily with cats. Deano (Sabi's husband) used to be a black cat (but is now a marmot). Sabi is a black cat with a white face and chest. Dusho is a cat with loads of colors.

Andrej is Garfield.

"What kind of animal am I?" I asked as I tossed tomatoes into the salad.

"Hmmm..." Sabi pondered. "You're a blue cat."

"Nermil!" Garfield pointed to the comic strip on his phone. "You can be Nermil."

Is it silly that being the "blue cat" makes me feel like I've just found a home? I want to live here for months and be the blue cat. 

Dosha's husband drove over a few minutes after dinner had been served. He inquired about the bandages on my foot and I solemnly told him that I'd been cruelly attacked by sea archers.

"Are they still inside?"

"Some of them, yeah... but they're really deep."  

"Renato is an expert at this," Sabina told me as Renato gingerly placed my foot on his lap.

A magnifying glass was summoned. Tweezers appeared on the table. A lighter and a needle materialized in front of Renato.

Again? ARGH. 

I chose to laugh again.

What's that quote? If you're going to be able to laugh about it one day, you might as well laugh now. LAUGHING. 

I laughed harder when Renato attempted to suck the sea archer needles out.

I WILL LAUGH SO HARD ONE DAY. 

I stopped laughing for a moment and looked down my legs. Everyone was gathered in front of me, watching the surgery. Simon, Garfield, Dusha, Deano and Sabina. Renato had my foot against his mouth and was trying to suck the deep needles closer to the surface. 

This. I will NEVER forget this image. I will also NEVER step on a sea archer again. 

No more needles were removed.

"They are too deep," Renato shook his head and put down the instruments of torture. "I'm sorry."

"No, thank-you for trying," I took back my foot and gave him an awkward hug. "I guess they'll come out when they're ready."

Too Focused on the Pudding -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

Falafel quieted and Sunday breakfast finished, Simon and I loaded into his blue car (which was a bit fetid smelling from its traumatic experience with wet hippies the day before) and headed west to visit his grandmother with dementia. We popped into a supermarket on the way and purchased some chocolate pudding for grandma and some local cheese and prosciutto for a picnic on the beach (not for grandma).

The brief interaction with Simon's grandmother taught me a very important lesson. Her doting grandson presented her with the chocolate pudding, handing over a spoon and peeling off the lid and speaking softly in Slovene.

Grandmother hardly responded. She plowed into the pudding, slowly, methodically, deliberately. Simon asked her a question. Grandmother brushed it off and licked her chocolate covered spoon.

"She won't talk with me," Simon grinned. "She says she's too focused on the pudding. As soon as she finishes, all the questions will come."

Too focused on the pudding! I wanted to burst out laughing but chose to smile discreetly instead. I want to spend my life too focused on the pudding. When something is good, enjoy it thoroughly and don't let yourself be bothered by questions that can wait.

Simon then drove me to a nudist beach from which we could see the buildings of Trieste protruding into the horizon.

Win. This makes... what... twelve countries? Yeah. Twelve countries in two months. 

I felt proud indeed as I untied my sarong and allowed the soft fabric to fall around my feet.

Learning to move in a different way. It used to take me a year to see six countries. Now I know I'm capable of whirlwind travel. I don't think it's my favorite way to hop, but it's nice to know I can. Hoppity, hop, hop. All over them Balkans. 

I laid out my borrowed towel and napped naked in the sunshine.

I've only been in Slovenia for two days and I've already managed to get naked twice. This must be my country. I belong here. 

Even though I'm technically in Italy. 

Slovenia is a tiny country. Its 7827 square miles are home to a mere two million people and most of those people seem to live in Ljubljana. However, for being such a small place, Slovenia is remarkably diverse.

It has the Alps (the regular kind).

It has the Dinaric Alps.

It has the Pannonian Plain and the Mediterranean I tried to ask Simon about cultural food and he always responded with the unsatisfactory (but completely justifiable) remark, "Well, it depends on the region."

There are twelve regions in Slovenia. We went to the spectacular karst/coastal region, which is famous for its prosciutto and dry red wine.

If I were a region of Slovenia, I wouldn't mind being famous for my prosciutto and dry red wine. 

We avoided carnivorous wasps and itsy bitsy rain showers (which aren't quite as pleasant when one is stretched out on a towel on a rocky beach) by crawling into a cave whenever we felt too attacked by one or the other. I waded into the Adriatic and Simon dove from a rock and went for a swim.

Swimming, the Adriatic gently pushed me from rock to rock and I felt like I was stumbling in a standing room only metrobus in Istanbul. I still don't like you. Most people I meet on the Mediterranean tell me I ought to like you (I'm sure you're a likable guy), but I still just don't. You're kind of like the mutual friend that everyone insists I should fall in love with but with whom I have no romantic connection whatsoever. 

I looked down at my fingers and the seaweed clinging to my chest.

I like the way water plays with me. I just don't want to take my feet off the rocks. 

Then Simon swam over. Deftly. Easily. Looking the part of someone who was born by the sea.

"Do you swim, Aimee?"

"Well," I pondered the question. "I don't sink."

"Come on, try to swim," he encouraged me.

"I really don't like swimming," I felt like such a spoilsport. "Being in the water is great, but that's kind of where it ends for me."

"Just lift up your feet."

I need to keep exploring this fear.

"Okay," I tried to sound bright as I reluctantly lifted my feet and reverted to my standard back float.

 "See, you can swim!" Simon congratulated me half enthusiastically and half regretfully. Most people enjoy teaching a newbie to swim and it's a little disappointing to see that they already have the basics down. Teaching someone to swim is like seeing someone drink alcohol for the first time or taking the training wheels off a trike. 

And has the tendency to look like both combined.

A wave splashed water into my face. I sputtered, splashed and reached for the rocks with desperate toes.

"DAMN!" my sputtering turned to cursing as my toes lifted back up with a smattering of extra desperation and heaps of sea urchin needles.

"What is it?" smooth Simon looked concerned.

"Sea urchins," I stumble/swayed from rock to rock and let the tide push me towards the shore. "Lots."

"Is it very bad?"

"Meh. Not bleeding so much," my peppered feet tingled, throbbed and caterwauled (or would have, had they mouths with which to caterwaul).

I returned to my beach towel and starting poking, pinching, prodding the black needles.

My feet didn't need mouths to caterwaul. I did enough caterwauling for the three of us.

"Can I try?" Simon asked.

"Sure," I handed over a foot in frustration. "But I don't think they're going to come out. They're in too deep and I keep breaking off the tops."

Cactus doesn't break like this, I glared at the pieces of sea creature in my fat red feet. It's a much more sensible spiky creature. This mountain girl doesn't know how to handle sea urchins.

Sea urchin stayed in my foot and we stayed on the beach. I laughed off the pain because there wasn't much else to do.

My feet are already complaining. I don't need to add a bad attitude to the general unpleasantness. 

We climbed up the cliff a few hours later and I tried not to imagine the black spikes driving deeper and deeper into my fruity feet (although they were fairly difficult to ignore), tumbled into Simon's car (still rank with river hippie) and drove home. 

"I'll make a nice dinner to help you forget the pain," Simon offered as he passed me a sewing kit and a lighter.

"Can we have music, too?"

"Of course," he obligingly hooked up my laptop to his speakers and Snow Patrol started blaring through the spice bedecked kitchen.

I stabbed my feet again and again and again, laughed when I wanted to scream and grinned stupidly when I wanted to cry.

How does this hurt SO bad? 

I removed one whole needle. One. And half of about ten.

Even Simon's spectacular dinner couldn't help me forget how much it hurt.

Naked in the Rain -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

I sincerely don't know where to begin (which seems to be happening to me more often than not, as of late).

I'm in love with Slovenia (I seem to be falling in love more often than not, as of late).

I'm in Slovenia and I love it.

I suppose that's a start.

The first time I learned of this little Balkan country was on a train ride from Copenhagen to Belgrade. My boyfriend and I rumbled through Slovenia at dusk and I barely glimpsed the landscape as the sun set over the green horizon.

However, my brief glimpse was big enough to convince me that Slovenia was the most beautiful place I'd seen in all of my life (at that point, I'd only seen a bit of the United States, patches of Canada and a coffee shop in Copenhagen. But still).

I've been pining for the little Balkan country since that train ride in 2010.

And now I'm here. In Slovenia.

And loving it.

Dear Slovenia,

Nice to get out of the train and finally meet you. 

Mind if I stay forever? 

Yours (truly), 

-Aimee

The Slovene I'd contacted via blabla car drove me all the way to Simon's apartment just outside of Ljubljana.

I was looking forward to staying with Simon for many reasons.

a) he wrote this in his original CSing message:
I am a chocoholic and I can offer you much chocolate (between 10 and 20 different kinds - depending on season ;) and much Italian coffee too. I love cheeses as well, so you will not starve here (not French but mostly Italian; currently: mozzarella di bufala, pecorino sardo, parmiggiano reggiano and some more). I (usually) have fresh figs from my mum's garden on the Slovenian-Italian border. She will be glad to give me some, because I usually do not take them because I do not like them :)

b) he has walked the Camino de Santiago, and as I'm obsessed with the idea of attempting this pilgrimage at one point in my life, I wanted all of his ideas

c) he wrote this in a following CSing message:
First, on Saturday afternoon 2 very good close friends will come to visit me. Sabina is a pregnant girl and Kristijan a sporty doctor with immense knowledge about healthy food. You will like them for sure. They are already keen to meet you. I have organized a Lebanese dinner for the four of us as well. The menu:

- Gluten-free Tabouleh Salad
- Falafel with Sesame seeds
- Home-made Hummus
- Lebanese Meatballs with orange and peppermint
- Chicken filet with harissa and yoghurt
- Yoghurt dip with cumin and walnuts

Whoa. This person seems slightly enthusiastic about my visit. I hope I don't disappoint him. My blog does tend to portray me as a good deal more exciting than I actually am... oh well. Not much I can do about that. 

Simon was on his balcony when I arrived at 1:30 in the morning, so he whispered a quick "hello" and scurried inside and down the stairs to meet me. I payed my Slovene for the ride (which felt very out of place after all my hitchhiking), hoisted my rucksack onto my tired back and mind-over-mattered my exhausted self towards Simon's apartment.

The apartment was small (the way I like them) and chocked full of exotic spices, wines, liqueurs and a dozen varieties of dark chocolate.

"It's a smaller stack than usual," Simon gestured to his chocolate pile apologetically as my eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets.

Smaller than usual? Whaaa?

"Make sure to help yourself. Whatever you want. Any food, chocolate, cheese -- whatever." 

Simon introduced me to many of his spices and oils. Walnut oil, pistachio oil, hazelnut oil.

It was very nice to meet them. I hope we become very friendly during my stay in Ljubljana.

He then opened one of his cupboards and introduced me to Crema Novi, a gourmet hazelnut chocolate spread that has forever ruined Nutella for me.

We didn't go to bed until three in the morning. I was probably too busy mourning the loss of Nutella (like a child who just found out that Santa Claus isn't real or that chocolate eggs are not, in fact, laid by special chocolate chickens) to feel tired.

I woke up late the next morning (my body doesn't want to live in a world where Nutella is a cheap substitute). Simon woke up later.

"Can you go into the other room?" he asked after he'd mixed his batter and washed the grapes. "I want the presentation to be a surprise."

"Sure," I took my laptop into the bedroom and sat at his desk.

I'm getting a surprise breakfast in Ljubljana. Goodness, CSing is the strangest, most beautiful thing. I'm staying in the home of a complete stranger in a gorgeous city and waiting for HIM to surprise ME with breakfast. Umm...

Simon made me this. Complete with cappuccino.

Gluten-free crepes. One generously smeared with Crema Novi, another with honey and cinnamon, and the last with unbelievably delicious pistachio butter. Freshly pureed apricots sprinkled with slivered almonds, goji berries and grapes served as a side/sauce.

This breakfast made me purr. It was awkward.

I cleaned up in the kitchen and Simon checked the weather.

"We have just a few hours of sun," his voice carried into the kitchen. "We can go to a river where I've never been, to a medieval city or to the old town of Ljubljana. But it will rain this afternoon, so I recommend leaving Ljubljana for another day when we have more time."

"I think I'm ready for some nature," I mulled over the choices. "Can we go to the river?"

"Yes."


We piled into Simon's blue car and clumsily made our way to the river (sign posts aren't Slovenia's strong point and my host's GPS wasn't working).

The soft, musty smell of rain in the air.

The clear, crisp sound of water rushing along the riverbed.

The feel of damp earth giving way underneath my barefoot shoes. 

The simple little things that I love to stop and notice.

As predicted, the came down in the early afternoon. 

Rumbling, grumbling, FEROCIOUS thunder. 

My skin tingled. 

Streaking, glittering, DAZZLING lighting. 

My heart skipped all the beats. 

The rain did not wash the CSers out. 

"I have an idea," Simon sputtered through the torrential downpour. "Shall we take off our clothes and swim in the river?" 

"YES!" I trumpeted. "Let's take off our clothes and swim in the river!"

I found the roots of a tree in which to stuff my bag (for some manner of protection) and tiptoed into the shallow, bubbling, bouncing, tingly cold river. 

The rain drenched my hair and shoulders and naked chest. The river danced around my legs. Thunder boomed directly overhead and lighting flashed silver white through the thick grey.

That might have been the moment I fell in love with Slovenia. 

Not many words were spoken. Simon walked naked through the river in the rain. I walked naked through the river in the rain.

I saw a bench. A rickety old bench. Sitting in the river.

(I am using my prepositions correctly. The bench was not beside the river. It was not on the river. It was in the river) 

Just hanging out. 

I went and sat on it. 

Simon sat beside me. 

I'm in Slovenia. Sitting on a bench in a river in the middle of a deluge. Naked with a fellow I met at an ungodly hour this morning. 

I chuckled. Simon chuckled. 

Thunder boomed. Rain splattered. Lighting streaked. 

We shivered. And regretfully abandoned our bench, tugged on our drenched clothes and danced through the sludge all the way to the parking lot. 

Simon's nice blue car has nice cloth seats. Nice cloth seats do not take kindly to drenched clothes and smelly hippies (Simon is not the smelly hippie in this scenario). 

But Slovenes are kind people who take kindly to drenched smelly hippies. Simon and I approached the park café and asked if we might be able to borrow/have two large garbage bags to act as seat covers. We were laughed with by the barista, laughed at by the customers, and granted our two large bags just before we shivered, shook our way into a damp pile of cold and wet. 

"We have the big dinner planned for tonight, so it would be better to have something small for lunch," Simon commented as we tumbled into his apartment, dripping half the river on the floor. "Cheese. Do you want sweet or savory?"

"Mmmm.... sweet sounds good." 

Sweet tasted good, too.

Simon napped. I did something that resembled work (but was mostly google mapping various routes through South America).

Sabina arrived at 17:30.

Tiny woman. Sparkling green eyes. Dark, dark hair. Deft, delicate hands. Quick wit. Easy smile. Contagious laugh.

She gave Simon a bottle of wine and then passed a gift to me.

Dark chocolate with orange. A small tube of lavender hand lotion.

Life gives me what I need as I need it, I thought as I looked at the dry skin on my hands and the scars around my nails from peeling cuticles.

"Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you," I sputtered helplessly. "This is just what I needed. And you managed to get my favorite kind of chocolate, too."

She smiled happily. I got the distinct impression that giving perfect gifts is one of Sabina's favorite pastimes (and one that she's perfected over time).

I gave her a quick yoga lesson wherein I did my best to explain some of the contraindications for pregnant women.

"Take open twists."

"Keep a wide stance."

"Do you best to stay off of your belly." 

I need to read a book on prenatal yoga. Or take a class. I want to be able to offer more to people with baby bellies. 

It didn't take me all that long to run out of exercises, so we moseyed back into the divine smelling kitchen and waited for the doctor and his girlfriend to arrive.

It didn't take me all that long before I had both the doctor and his girlfriend (a Pilates instructor) upside-down. It's almost disconcerting how easy it's become for me to convince people to let me put them on my feet.

Simon called us in for dinner.

Amaranth salad

Homemade hummus

Yogurt dip with cumin and walnuts (he even made his own Greek yogurt)

Meatballs with orange and mint

We talked and laughed and moaned.

I think I caught myself purring again.

This is getting absurd. I can never ever actually live with a gourmet chef. I would turn into a cat.

I wandered off to bed around midnight. It took effort to move.

A few days of meals like this and I'll need to design a prenatal yoga routine for MYSELF. Good grief. 

I asked for a small breakfast the next morning.

"I'm still so full from last night," I patted my second trimester belly (full of meatballs and falafel).

Simon made me this.
 

Crepe stuffed with Crema Novi, bowl of pureed papaya with cardamom and almonds and a cappuccino.

So NOT small, my mouth watered but my belly screamed in protest

So first world problem, Bourget. 

I told the falafel to pipe down and I ate my Crema Novi.