Comma Anxiety -- Ljubljana, Slovenia

It's raining again. 

Our host in Lochgilphead would look out the window and scoff, "that isn't rain. That's just cloying humidity." 

But I think it's raining. 

My time with Andrej is drawing to an end. A month in one place seemed like forever but flew by far too quickly. I'm going to miss the familiarity of this place. Of knowing how to work the coffee machine, of understanding the dishwasher, of being able to wash my clothes on a regular basis and not being stanky all the time. I'll miss hopping into the shower and having to lower the shower head because Andrej always raises it to the top, and I don't like my face to get wet. I'll miss our routine of practicing yoga every morning and then me making him crepes with chocolate hazelnut spread, 'cos life is about balance. I'll miss feeling 100% safe in someone's home. I'll miss someone caring about my needs being met to such an extreme degree. I'll miss having consistent, reliable internet I can use to contact my family

It's a little terrifying to think that for the next seven months, I'll be moving around every five days or so. I wonder how many beds I'll sleep in by the end of this trip....how many times I'll pack and repack Ellie...how many beautiful people I'll meet and how many nasty little interactions I'll just have to shrug off, let go of, not take personally.

I sent a couchsurfing request to a girl in Mostar this morning. A twenty-one year old student with a fairly empty profile, but with eight positive references. I sent as nice a request as I could, given the fact that her profile was so blank. I wrote that I'd hitched through most of the Balkans with a friend two years back, but I'd missed Bosnia and Kosovo, so I'd like to fix that now. 

When I wrote Bosnia, I considered writing "Bosnia and Herzegovina", but I got hung up on where to put the comma. 

It feels weird to write Bosnia and Herzegovina and Kosovo, like they're all different countries And it isn't correct to write Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Kosovo. Because I'm only talking about two countries. That's like writing "milk, and water." So I'll just write Bosnia. That's what I hear everyone saying, anyway. I don't think I've ever heard someone talk about Bosnia and commit to the full-blown "Bosnia and Herzegovina." 

Not even Boy does that. And he knows all the countries and all the capitals of all the countries. 

But I should have written Herzegovina. About two minutes after I'd sent the request, I received a "DECLINED" message in my couchsurfing inbox. 

"Mostar isn't Bosnia, sorry." 

WHOA. Hey now. That's aggressive. And unnecessary. Is she declining me simply because I didn't write Herzegovina in my request? 

"I'm sorry, what is it?" I wrote back, hoping there was another reason she'd reacted that way, not wanting to make assumptions. 

"You don't know the country where you are coming Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Mostar is in Herzegovina," Andrea replied.

Oof, I inhaled all the rude and stared at the hysterical emoji in shock. I thought of all kinds of responses to her message, some less pleasant than others, and then simply wrote, "Okay. I understand that it's called Bosnia and Herzegovina and I apologize for truncating the name. I did not mean to offend you and I'll be happy to get to Bosnia and Herzegovina and learn more. That's why I travel." 

I sent the message and then blocked her on Couchsurfing, making it so neither of us could message each other again. It wasn't a conversation I cared to continue.

I don't have time for this shit. Boy would probably keep the conversation open and try to understand exactly where she's coming from and why she was so offended that I left Herzegovina out of my first message, but I just don't have energy for those kinds of conversations at this point. There are plenty of nice people -- people who won't deliberately try to humiliate me -- who I'm sure will be happy to explain these things to me. And I can't find any nice people, I can always ask google. 

The former Yugoslavia is fucking complicated. My five weeks hitching two years ago taught me that I could spend years trying to understand relationships between countries and within countries and still be horribly confused. 

For instance, it's not just Bosnia and Herzegovina. It's the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina and Republika Srpska. I can hardly fathom how to pronounce Srpska. And I definitely didn't know it was a republic connected with Bosnia and Herzegovina. And Macedonia? That name is still in dispute. They're fighting with the Greeks about who gets to use "Macedonia", so right now, their official name is "The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia." FYROM, for short. 

I'm going to try to learn all I can about the countries I visit, but I'd rather not be criticized so harshly before I even arrive. Sheesh. None of the other... ummm.... Bosnia and Herzegovinans and Republika Srpskans seemed to care at all that I've left out the vast majority of the name of their country in my messages. 

Because it's long. And gives me comma anxiety.

Andrej took me to a wine festival on Friday afternoon. He paid the twelve euros for our tickets (seven for him, five for me. Mine was discounted, because apparently, I'm still a young person. They don't know my sleeping habits) and we received our wine glasses and marched into the first massive room full of wine and cheese and people in various stages of tipsy. 

Best kind of room there is.

The first booth we encountered was manned by Italians who maybe spoke five words of English and not a bit of Slovenian (like me). Their wine was by far the best of the evening. And not a drop of it was for sale. 

"What a tease!" I muttered to Andrej as we left the booth and the lovely Italians behind. 

The majority of the wine at the festival was from Slovenia. So the majority of the wine toed the broad line between tolerable and awful. Probably because I prefer full-bodied, jammy red wine, and 75% of Slovenian wines are white. And since the country generally get so little sun, all the Slovenian wines I tasted at the festival were horribly astringent. 

Boy would probably like it, though. He'd tell me that he tastes minerals and smells floral things. And I'd glare at him and tell him I'd rather have jam. 

We left Saturday morning around 11:00 for a truffle festival in Croatia. 

Wine and truffles in the same weekend. 

Umm... 

How did I get here? And can I please stay? 

Nope. You can't stay. That's the blessing and curse of your life. You end up in all sorts of surprising places, some amazing, some absolute shit, and you can never stay. So enjoy this weekend for all it's worth, 'cos you're not staying. Wine and truffle weekends aren't your norm.

Chaos is your norm. 

Leaving is your norm. 

The unexpected is your norm. 

Extremes are your norm. Beans and rice in Iceland followed by truffles in Croatia is your norm. 

Thinking, "who knows what's next?" is your norm. 

After a minor car fiasco wherein we had to drive back to Ljubljana and switch to Andrej's father's car, we arrived at the Croatian border. Passport control stamped my passport on the Slovenian side and on the Croatian side. I flipped through the pages and felt a bit concerned about how few blank ones remained. 

Will this passport even last me until the end of my trip? I mean, it doesn't expire until 2020, but what do I do if I run out of pages? Just use my Canadian one? But what happens when I come back to the US in May with a totally filled out US passport and only a Canadian passport with room for stamps? 

I hate bureaucracy.  

Bureaucracy and commas. 

I hate them. 

 The truffle festival was fantastic. Piles of fresh truffles, jars of preserved truffles, truffle cheeses, truffle oils, honey and --

-- wooden penises?
 

After purchasing an epic amount of cheese and truffle paraphernalia, Andrej and I headed up to the Motovun, a small medieval village on a hill.

Olive trees! I still get excited about these kinds of things.

And Andrej is very patient when I get excited about these kinds of things. Which happens quite frequently.

We shared a dinner at a stunning restaurant that evening, shivering in the cold outside because all the indoor tables had been reserved.

And it was amazing.

Tomato cream soup with fresh shaved truffles. Eggplant risotto with fresh shaved truffles. 

No, Bourget. You can't stay. But you can thoroughly enjoy this evening. Just don't be attached to having another one like it any time soon. 

At the border, my passport was stamped on the Croatian side and ignored on the Slovenian side. So now I'm sure that my passport is such a disaster of random stamps that no one could ever know how long I've been in the Schengen Area.   

The next day, Andrej and I walked around Ljubljana. We passed through a flea market, where I'd hoped to find some Christmas presents for family, but just found a bunch of old, dysfunctional, romantic crap that Boy would love. Like sconces. So many sconces.

Then we walked to Metelkova City, a former military barracks in Ljubljana that is now an autonomous cultural center.
 

The former jail in Metelkova has been converted into a hostel.

And it's awesome. In a slightly terrifying, avant-garde sort of way.

I cooked dinner for Andrej and his father that night. Butternut squash soup with sage, thyme and cream. Risotto with courgette, Parmesan and white truffles. It felt good to cook a real meal. A meal I'd put thought into. A meal that took time.

I can't wait until Boy and I have our home in France... or in Seattle... wherever we are... and we can just cook for people together again. All the time.