Today I woke up at 6pm from day 5 of Metformin coma with no groceries in the house. Off I went, on foot, to the nearest large-ish supermarket, 4km away.
Strange weather: rainy, but too hot to be refreshing. I got to the store 15 minutes before they closed, bought more stuff than I could comfortably carry while holding a huge umbrella, and was on my way back when a little red car stopped and someone hailed me in English.
I didn’t know the person, but apparently they were from my area and knew me. And I didn’t really want to carry all my stuff for four kilometers back home, so I accepted their offer for a ride.
I found myself in the back seat of a car with a white-blond four-year-old boy who was busily talking into a toy cell phone. “Say hello!” said his mother from the front seat. “Hello!”, said the little boy into the phone.
The car was full of confused gabbling in Slovene, much of it coming from the little boy. He handed me the toy phone, and I said “Hello!” into it. Then we said “Hello!” to each other. Hey, this is more conversation than my landlady is capable of.
“She can’t speak Slovene! Speak English to her!” said his mother in Slovene from the front seat. (I understand a little, though I can’t speak it really). The little boy ignored her. He handed me his toy car, which I pretended to wonder at.
I made it zoom around the back of the car like a rocket ship, which amused him very much.
And before we knew it, I was at home again, and the people pointed out to me where they live, which you can almost see from my house.
Sometimes I get down about the country I’ve moved to, the corruption of its government and its backward attitudes about women in particular. I don’t speak the language, so I can’t socialize much. But I have to balance these things against the fact that quite often, if it’s dark or raining, people who don’t even know me offer to help me. And unlike in America, there isn’t a serious reason to fear that they’re actually going to murder me and leave my body in a ditch. People can be really, really nice here.
Then I try to get into the house without being bowled over by Rexy, the landlady’s dog, which fails because he’s very sneaky (and large) German shepherd who knows how to squeeze by me. And there’s a puppy in the hall.
My landlord’s old dog died and he got a new German shepherd puppy. He lives elsewhere; I share this house with his mother (who I call my landlady, even though her son is really the owner). Anyway, the puppy’s here, so landlord must be on vacation. German shepherd puppies are so darn cute, with their stubby little ears and muzzles. The puppy happily tries to eat me alive. The landlady laughs at his antics. She’s more cheerful than I’ve ever seen her.
So basically baby animals are the cure for everything.
(Yes, I have puppy footage, but it’s too dark to post. Later.)