I went to church again yesterday, and although I arrived about five minutes before 8:30 (when the liturgy is supposed to start), the lights were already up, and they were well on their way.
This time I received only a few glares from under bushy eyebrows, and only a few be-whiskered chin wiggles of indignation. I am of course talking about the women here. The men don't seem to care that a new comer has invaded their sacred space.
I even got a smile from the old lady next to me. I decided, not based on her kindness of course, that she had been very beautiful in her youth. She has brilliant blue eyes, and a delightfully shaped face.
After the liturgy was over, and everyone trooped up front to get bread from the basket, I stayed in my seat. I was both tired from a restless night, and hungry from not having had any breakfast. I thought I would just be quiet for a minute to summon my energies.
Then, quite suddenly, a red lined basket was shoved into my line of sight, and I looked up to see the gruff candle tender smiling and trying to offer me some bread. I took a piece, and as I chewed it, I meditated on the delightful nature of small kindnesses.
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After church, I walked to the square where the weekly farmers market is held. They were selling chickens as well as produce (live, clucking chickens), and the smell was overwhelming.
I got half a dozen tomatoes, two fuji apples each the size of my head, a peach almost that big, 4 carrots, and two bananas for 4 euro. The farmer even shoved an extra tomato into my bag. He must know of my love affair with them. He told me that "fuji....delicious!" a theatrical kiss of the fingers "delicious!"
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Walking home, I engaged in my usual arm workout. Seeing as how I had about 60 pounds of clothes and shoes, and 30 pounds of medication packed to come here, I had no room for dumbbells. I follow trends, and the current trend is for women to have manly ripped arms, so my lack of free weights disturbed me not a little.
About a week ago, it occurred to me, that I should make use of my 10-15 pound grocery bags. So I spend the 20 minute walk doing grocery bag variations of arm workouts.
I am pretty sure I look idiotic.
In fact, I know I do. A farmer passed me on his bike, and he gave me a such a glance of bewilderment, mixed with withering scorn, that I felt like shrinking down into an ant hill.
It was a look of "What are you doing, silly girl? If you worked in fields and milked cows, and courageously stomped on bugs, you would have no need of flailing about with grocery bags. And beyond that - what are you even doing here? Go back to your own country. Idiotic girl."
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That is something I like to think about. What do the locals think of people visiting their sleepy little town? They must find it odd that Brits, and Aussies, and North Americans come here to spend a few months at a time. This village is all they know, all their parents knew. I am sure they might not be able to fathom the chaos of a lifestyle outside of it. And so, foreigners using their village as a means of escape must strike them as mightily strange. No wonder they treat us all like we are a touch crazy.
This time I received only a few glares from under bushy eyebrows, and only a few be-whiskered chin wiggles of indignation. I am of course talking about the women here. The men don't seem to care that a new comer has invaded their sacred space.
I even got a smile from the old lady next to me. I decided, not based on her kindness of course, that she had been very beautiful in her youth. She has brilliant blue eyes, and a delightfully shaped face.
After the liturgy was over, and everyone trooped up front to get bread from the basket, I stayed in my seat. I was both tired from a restless night, and hungry from not having had any breakfast. I thought I would just be quiet for a minute to summon my energies.
Then, quite suddenly, a red lined basket was shoved into my line of sight, and I looked up to see the gruff candle tender smiling and trying to offer me some bread. I took a piece, and as I chewed it, I meditated on the delightful nature of small kindnesses.
-------------------------------------------------------------
After church, I walked to the square where the weekly farmers market is held. They were selling chickens as well as produce (live, clucking chickens), and the smell was overwhelming.
I got half a dozen tomatoes, two fuji apples each the size of my head, a peach almost that big, 4 carrots, and two bananas for 4 euro. The farmer even shoved an extra tomato into my bag. He must know of my love affair with them. He told me that "fuji....delicious!" a theatrical kiss of the fingers "delicious!"
--------------------------------------------------------------
Walking home, I engaged in my usual arm workout. Seeing as how I had about 60 pounds of clothes and shoes, and 30 pounds of medication packed to come here, I had no room for dumbbells. I follow trends, and the current trend is for women to have manly ripped arms, so my lack of free weights disturbed me not a little.
About a week ago, it occurred to me, that I should make use of my 10-15 pound grocery bags. So I spend the 20 minute walk doing grocery bag variations of arm workouts.
I am pretty sure I look idiotic.
In fact, I know I do. A farmer passed me on his bike, and he gave me a such a glance of bewilderment, mixed with withering scorn, that I felt like shrinking down into an ant hill.
It was a look of "What are you doing, silly girl? If you worked in fields and milked cows, and courageously stomped on bugs, you would have no need of flailing about with grocery bags. And beyond that - what are you even doing here? Go back to your own country. Idiotic girl."
------------------------------------------------------------
That is something I like to think about. What do the locals think of people visiting their sleepy little town? They must find it odd that Brits, and Aussies, and North Americans come here to spend a few months at a time. This village is all they know, all their parents knew. I am sure they might not be able to fathom the chaos of a lifestyle outside of it. And so, foreigners using their village as a means of escape must strike them as mightily strange. No wonder they treat us all like we are a touch crazy.
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