The Yogurt Test -- Zagreb, Croatia

The sun is rapidly setting behind blocks of concrete buildings to my left (it doesn't mess around these days, the sun. It goes down with a skip, hop, see ya tomorrow), turning clouds pink and the windows of the grey towers sparkly orange. A murder of crows flits across the horizon, cawing rudely and aggressively chasing each other through the soft pink sky.

I have the apartment to myself for a few hours, as Matea is out running errands and the children are busy with their myriad of after school activities.

So it's just me, Choksa, the vociferous dishwasher and some delicious creamy chicken on the stove.

I'm in good company. 

I'd really almost given up on work exchanges. In my five years of on again, off again traveling, I've experienced everything from superlative to absolute rubbish in the work exchange arena. I've been exploited, underfed, molested and ignored. But in some wondrous nooks of humanity, I've also been made to feel like I'm part of the family -- what it's like to be at home in a different country.

However, unlike with couchsurfing, I'd almost concluded that the potential risks of work exchanges outweighed the potential benefits. I didn't want to end up at a hostel scrubbing toilets in Mexico, when I'd been told I would teach yoga and cook. I didn't want to end up pulling thistles and nettles out of driveways in Ireland, when I'd been told my work would be with horses. As of late, I get bored and resentful of the mundane manual labor, and I feel as if I should probably be paid for teaching three yoga classes a day, giving massages and leading meditation sessions.

I've certainly paid enough for my yoga and massage education. Sheesh. I think that even though I've been teaching for five years, I'm probably still just about breaking even in regards to how much I've spent and how much I've earned.

I'd planned to couchsurf in Zagreb, but wasn't having much luck finding hosts. So I opened my workaway account and browsed through the "Croatia" section.

And I found this family.

Gosh, I'm so happy I did. 

Since I arrived on Wednesday afternoon, I've experienced nothing but freakishly good food, meaningful conversations, consideration and care. Matea even passed my yogurt test, and only one other host in my history of Workaway has done that.

I adore Greek yogurt. The fattier and creamier, the more exalted it is to me. When I worked with Billie in Germany, she bought a rather runny style of yogurt and when told that I love it creamy, she went back to the store and bought me Greek yogurt. 

I will never forget this act of kindness and how extraordinarily cared for it made me feel.

Matea asked what I like to eat for breakfast on my first day in Zagreb.

Just that simple fact... the fact that she's asking what I like to eat for breakfast... makes me feel like it'll be a wonderful stay here. She's not saying, "Hey, we eat cereal for breakfast, so you can help yourself to that." She's asking, "what do you eat for breakfast?" She's going out of her way to meet whatever needs I may have. 

I like her. I like her a lot.

"I'm not picky, but when I'm at home, I usually just eat yogurt and fruit."

"What kind of yogurt?"

"I really like the Greek yogurt."

And Matea bought me Greek yogurt. And she's kept the fridge stocked with yogurt ever since. Because she knows I like it and she wants me to feel cared for.

It would be nice to say that this is just normal behavior. But it isn't. Not in the work exchange community, anyway. 

I've felt at home since Wednesday. Kaya and I cook together --

-- and then binge watch Stranger Things (a show that still makes me hide behind my gigantic mug of comforting tea). 

I help Matea with things like washing dishes and peeling 15 kilos of mandarin oranges for a marmalade she plans to sell over Christmas.

15 kilos.

Is not a small amount of mandarins.

In fact, it's a rather large amount of mandarins. 

I will have pith under my nails for weeks.

Kaya took me on a tour on Sunday afternoon. She told me many things about the history of Zagreb and introduced me to her favorite ice cream shop, where I happily consumed both sage and elderberry flavored ice cream.

BAHA...

Zagreb is a fascinating city to walk through. When strolling around the downtown area, one finds oneself reminiscing about walking through Prague, or perhaps, Vienna.  And then one encounters block after bock of massive concrete towers, a dirge to Croatia's recent dabble in communism as part of the former Yugoslavia.

And one no longer feels as if one's in Vienna.  

August Senoa. Kaya informed me that she's suffered through many of his books in school.

I just wanted a picture with my new hat (HAT!). And of my many shades of.. teal?

A monument to celebrate the date Croatia joined the EU

Matea asked if I would like to paint a white bookshelf in the hallway by the piano.

Whenever people ask me to paint, my stomach and heart do all manner of acrobatics.

My heart leaps and says, "Yes, I'll paint anything and everything 'cos I love to paint and it would be so nice to leave a pretty footprint in your home."

My gut lurches and says, "Bourget, you're not a painter. You took a few art classes as a kid and then one painting class in university. Who are you kidding? You have no business leaving these kinds of footprints anywhere. Just work on your silly postcards if you feel like you need to paint."

My heart usually wins. It did last night, anyway. I turned turn on my sad music (which Jackson referred to as "special... in its own way..." ) and spent a few hours meditating with my paintbrushes and a few bottles of acrylic Matea had lying around from a previous guest.

A few minutes into this kind of meditation, my gut always stops grumbling and I lose myself in the details of what I'm creating. 

 

I feel so lucky whenever I get to reconnect with this side of myself. The side that loves to make things. To paint, to work with wires and beads, to knit hats, to braid hair, to cook extravagant meals. Sometimes I get so caught up in my "healer" identity, with all my yoga and massage, or my "traveler" identity, with all my incessant vagabonding, that I forget to nourish my "making shit" identity. 

This is a part of myself that I would like to make more time for. To actively encourage growth. This is one of the many reasons I would like to settle down for a while in the not-so-distant-but-still-far-off future. 

I want to take art classes. I want to hoard beads and wire. I want to learn to knit gloves so I have something other than mistake-riddled hats to give my friends at Christmas. I want to stay up all night and learn to bake more of Boy's favorite French pastries. I want to have a piano in MY hallway and actually learn to play some of my "interesting" music...

But once I'm settled and making all the things, my traveling identity will start feeling woebegone and forgotten. 

This is the conflict of my life. Of most lives, probably. This is where I need to find a balance. 

I wonder what that will look like.