Up on the Mountaintop on Easter Morning

Last night at around midnight, Mercy informed me that there was to be a sunrise service on the up on one of the many mountains surrounding Albertville at 6:30 this morning.

It would be utterly absurd to pass up a chance to watch the sun rising over the mountains on an Easter morning. Of course I went.

5:30 this morning (which felt like 4:30 due to daylight's savings time which went into effect last night) I woke up. Forty-five minutes later, Kathryn and Mercy stepped outside into the rain. Obviously, this situation called for an umbrella. Mine is broken, Mercy didn't have hers with her, but thankfully there was one extra one which I pointed out to Mercy. 

Mercy - "Um, that one doesn't work."

Kathryn - "It sure looks like it opens."

Mercy - "Exactly. That's it's problem."

Sure enough, it opened into the most oddly shaped umbrella I think I've ever seen. But it was better than nothing, and so off we went feeling like the bad nannies in Mary Poppins with our dysfunctional black umbrella into the dark, rainy morning to celebrate that Jesus is alive. Over the course of the walk, it slowly began to dawn on me that no dawn would rise over us if it continued to be this overcast...

We got to the church. It was 6:30. No one was there but the rain and our pitiful umbrella.

After a bit of waiting, one of the worship leaders came. He informed us that the Pastor wasn't able to come due to his newborn baby. After a bit more waiting, we determined that no one else was coming, so up the mountain we went. Up and up and up and UP. Lots of very bendy mountain roads. Halfway up, the rain turned to snow. Not small little flakes drifting lazily out of the sky kind of a snow...no, it was nothing short of a blizzard. 

Eventually we stopped. Mercy was carsick from all the bendy roads. I was getting to that point myself, but the exhaustion was more overwhelming than the carsickness. Both of us were more in an unconscious dream-state than anything else. We managed to get out of the car, up the road a bit to the "lookout" spot where you have an utterly spectacular view of Mont Blanc, the mountains, the sun rising, the city way far, far down below. In theory you have that view, anyways. Not so much when you can barely see two feet in front of you due to the blizzard conditions.

Mercy noticed that I was shaking violently from the cold. She kindly gave me her blanket. Problem was, it was an African sort of a blanket meaning that it was actually just a colorful piece of paper thin fabric. The three of us sang a few songs, prayed a little bit, and then dashed back into the relative warmth of the car. 

The ride back was positively miserable for poor Mercy who was downright carsick. Thankfully, I was too tired for carsickness and could only lie there in a sad little ball of exhaustion and frigidness. An hour, a few minutes, some seconds, three days, who knows how much later someone was waking me up and telling me we were back home. I stumbled, barely conscious, back into the building. Didn't even make it into my room, but collapsed in a heap on the couch in the living room. The next thing I remember is someone shouting my name, informing me that we were leaving for church in 45 more minutes.

An Easter morning to remember. 

How wonderful is it that no matter how pathetically cold and miserable an Easter morning may possibly be that still the resurrection of our Lord and Savior was and is more glorious than a multitude of sunrises over the Alps. 

From there, it was a church service at a more decent hour of the morning with more than three people in attendance in a well-heated building. I must admit, in my delirium, I did struggle a bit to stay awake, and it just wasn't quite the same as worshipping with my Knox family, but it was still good. Very good indeed. The sun eventually decided that it was going to come out from behind the clouds after all, and the powdered sugar dusting of the mountains way up high were proof that we hadn't dreamt up the blizzard that morning. 

The Cropsey family welcomed Mercy, Rachel and myself into their home for a sumptuous feast that was greatly appreciated and much enjoyed.

And so now Easter in France is over. No school tomorrow, which means a McCropder kid Easter egg hunt and celebrations for Sarah's birthday! I missed you all back home very much today and thought of you often in your many celebrations. The annual Easter party is probably just ending now...

Also, thanks to all for your many comments on the last post. I've had some really wonderful discussions continued via private messages with many of you that I am very thankful for! Keep the feedback coming. 

What I Did Today: A Somewhat Lengthy Diatribe-like Rant on Piercings

Disclaimer: This post is in no way meant to be judgmental or vindictive in any way, shape or form to those of you who have piercings. I think earrings are generally speaking very pretty. This is simply what I experienced in my life today.

Remember the girl who I lasted blogged about? The one named Mercy Szobody? She had this idea a few days ago. An idea for my birthday present. She wanted to go get my ears pierced for my birthday.

Yes, it's true, I'm 18 going on 19 without pierced ears. Many people when they hear this statement are shocked, confused, intrigued... But it is very true. Never really wanted earrings. It only ever occurred to me as a possibility about once every six or seven years in my life. Just doesn't really seem like a Kathryn sort of a dealio.

Well today Mercy and another friend Abby went to get a second ear piercing. And I was called to come along for my first piercings.

Fear and trepidation pierced (yes, PIERCED) my heart. Not only fear about the pain (though a great large amount of that was certainly caused by the pain aspect). But it felt so irreversible. Like a violation of my body. Something unnecessary. Something that I could very happily live without. The rebel against culture which is at times quite strong reared up in me - who ever said earrings were pretty? Who ever decided that puncturing a hole through your ear and sticking metal in it was smart? Is there a Biblical basis for having earrings? It's true and cannot be denied - I care a whole lot less about clothes and appearance and personal hygiene than the average girl of the developed world. It's just not who I am. Earrings did not feel like me. They felt very NOT me.

Not only that, but they feel vain. I feel like I would be saying I'm not pretty enough, so much so that I need to puncture holes in my earlobes to enhance my beauty. It's totally not necessary for life. It's an extra adornment, an extra thing to worry about. What would be my motives in getting my ears pierced? I could come up with absolutely no admirable motives other than curiosity to see what I would look like which is only half admirable since curiosity is generally speaking an admirable thing. Peer pressure wasn't really a motive. I can't say Mercy didn't pressure me, but at the same time, I did not feel overly pressured and I certainly wouldn't have had a problem saying no to her.

Last night, Mercy blithely bid me goodnight with a, "Tomorrow at 5:00 PM, you, me and Abby to the piercing shop!"

Until that point, it hadn't really seemed real. I had been in denial. It was something in the future, but the very far away future. Not anymore. A pit of unheard of fear, doom and uncertainty began to brew in my stomach like poison. The night before, I had sent out several emails titled: URGENT!!! to several friends, all to my friends who remain pierce-less. Each and every one of them (two in total, that is) encouraged me to do so. I prayed about it. I journaled about it. I went to the cemetery today, a beautiful cemetery overlooking Albertville and mulled over it until I could mull no more. On my way home, I walked past a little shop with big glaring words that read "BODY PIERCINGS." The words haunted me all the way back home.

4:50 this afternoon - I walked downstairs and found Mercy. As evidenced by my last blog post, I really love Mercy, but it took a significant amount of self-control not to run the opposite direction. I gulped, continued on, and said hello to her. A few minutes later found us walking down the road on our way to the Bijoutier.

Not too long ago at all, there was a bijoutier here in Albertville who was robbed and then killed. Happens to be right next door to the place Mercy was taking me too. Cool. Chances of the same thing happening to us while we were there? Pretty darn high in my mind.

My palms were sweating. My stomach was all flip-flopping and acting extremely abnormally. My head throbbed. Over and over and over again I told myself, Kathryn. It's okay. If you really detest it, then you just take them out and let the skin grow back again. Not a big deal. Settle down. It'll be okay.

In Hebrews 11-12, it recounts a great many heroes of the faith and talks about the cloud of witnesses that we are surrounded by. In my mind, I systematically went through all the incredible women of faith that I know and thought especially about all of the ones with pierced ears, and thought to myself wow, that could be me. It consoled me a bit. A very tiny little bit. Quickly reversed, though, whenever I remembered an incredible woman of faith SANS piercings and thought, "THAT COULD ALSO BE ME."

We arrived. A French woman came out from a room in the back. With long blonde hair and with earrings. I noticed the latter element immediately. I also noticed right away that I positively did not like how her earrings looked. I couldn't take my eyes off of them, even when she was talking to us. They were ugly. I imagined what it must have been like to be her poor ear when she got them pierced. So unsuspecting. So innocent. And then BAM! A demoralizing shock of horrible pain just at the softest most squishy part of the ear. Could I really do something that cruel, that horrible, that unfair to my ears?

There was a mirror on the wall. I turned and I saw my face. My 100% natural ears. And I liked them that way. I really liked them that way. I saw myself in the mirror and I loved the way I looked (minus the utter trepidation blatantly displayed across my face, that is).

First Mercy went.

Then Abby.

Next, me.

I sat in the chair. It was as if my life flashed before my eyes. All my years of pierce-free life. All 19 of them. Beautiful wonderful years.

The gun was in her hand. Dark blue and plastic. A weapon of destruction. She approached my ear. It took every ounce of self-control and concentration to stay sitting in that seat of doom.

She tightened her grip on the trigger. I felt the pressure closing in. Then, BAM.

I felt the metal piercing through every single little cell. The pain, dubbed by my peers to allegedly be "only a little pinch that you can barely feel" was more than barely felt. It was quite the contrary to barely felt. It was completely felt. The pain shot in all directions, up my ear, in my ear, the anguish was insurmountable. Not only the physical anguish, but the mental and emotional anguish of WHAT HAVE I JUST DONE?! SHALL I REGRET THIS FOREVER? IS THIS IRREVERSIBLE?! I overdramatize not. This is truly exactly how I experienced this occasion.

Well ear number two was not any better.

And then. And then I looked in the mirror. And the very first thing I thought (and said too) was, "I look positively barbaric. I LOOK LIKE A BARBARIAN. THIS IS HORRIBLE. I WOULD PREFER TO WALK THROUGH LIFE LOOKING NON-BARBARIC." I honest to goodness thought that it looked terrible and that I looked like a barbarian. I kid you not. I looked, or rather LOOK like a Barbarian and that is that.

The next hour Kathryn went through a major identity crisis. My body was still sweating, shaking, unnaturally disordered. Poor Mercy and Abby had to deal with it, and had to try to figure out how to distract/console/talk some reason into my positively erratic body. I didn't feel like Kathryn Wong anymore. I didn't even feel human anymore. I felt like a disembodied, barbaric spirit with suffering ears. I felt vain for thinking that somehow I could or should or ought to enhance myself with metal studs. How absurd. They tried everything. They tried jokes, funny stories, feeding me chocolate pastries. All to no avail. I could barely turn my head. I couldn't relax. I couldn't do anything but lament the loss of my former self.

To make things even worse, I have to clean them. Daily. 2-3 times per day these next few weeks. Anyone who knows me will know that hygiene, particularly when it comes to mundane details such as this, is simply not my strong point. Try as I might, it's simply never been a priority for me. When the fact that I have to wash them that often hit me, I immediately envisioned (and to this moment still envision) both of my ears getting so horribly infected that an ear amputation is the only plausible solution to the problem. Mercy and Abby told me that was utterly ridiculous and that they certainly had never heard of such a thing. I feel it is a very possible reality in my near future.

I have more to say on the subject, but I believe that shall suffice for now. I should like to say thank you ever so much to Mercy for such a nice, thoughtful, original birthday present. It definitely broadened my horizons. Pushed me out of my comfort zone. It was even harder than my first time skiing down a blue. I'm not likely to forget it. Indeed, it seems as if it shall stay with me forever.

Happy Birthday to MERCY SZOBODY!

I should now very much like to take a moment to publicly recognize all the things I love about my friend Mercy (or "Misou" en français) Szobody (pronounced something like Zuh-bode-ee), a rare and beautiful blossom, who on this day turns 19 years-old. Unfortunately, there are just so many things I appreciate and admire and love about this girl that one simple post shall not suffice to cover them all, but it's something at least.

She is a living, breathing Rapunzel with golden hair that streams down her back in a luscious abundance. She has a lilting voice so pure and so strong and so clear that I could listen to it for days on end and never tire of hearing it. Good thing, too, because I sure do hear it for days on end.

This girl spent most of her childhood in Chad as a missionary kid, although the first three years of her life were in the States and when she was three she lived here in Albertville for a year and when she was in her teens she lived in the North of France for thee years (I believe, although it's taken me quite a bit to get her whole history sorted-out) and when she was 14, she spent a year in the states traveling around with her family in a trailer to 40+ states. She is a fascinating blend of a great many cultures.

She grew up in a family of, count them now, not one, not two, not five, not ten, but twelve children. Yes, twelve. Three girls and the rest boys. She is the youngest girl with four brothers after her. Her family is so large and now so spread out all over the world, that only for two occasions has the whole Szobody family actually been all assembled in the same place.

She's seen The Lord of the Rings, extended version, not once, not twice, but a whopping TWENTY-ONE TIMES. This in and of itself makes her highly esteemed in my eyes.

They speak French in Chad, and she is fluent in the language with an immaculate accent and a beautiful way of expressing herself. She also knows a bit of Arabic, another language spoken in Chad, and because of her, I now know how to say goodnight in Arabic which directly translated means something like, "Until the sun's next rise".

She is an accomplished woman of many talents. Watching her in the kitchen astounds me as she makes lasagna from scratch without a recipe. And when I say from scratch, I mean from scratch. She rolls out the dough for the noodles while the tomato sauce (smelling approximately 10 times more heavenly than canned tomato sauce) simmers in the pot. Oh and the cheese, too. Yeah, she can make that stuff from scratch as well. No recipe. C'est incroyable. She crochets the most beautiful, intricate, lace patterns. When you walk into the kitchen and see someone warming up the deep red, purple syrup of a hibiscus flower, it could only be one person: Mercy. She plays the harp and she's really good at playing it. When she reads that, she will forcefully disagree with that statement, proving to me her humility which makes it even more wonderful to behold. Each time I hear the melodies floating down the hallway, I can tangibly feel myself relaxing in the beauty of the notes. The calligraphy she does puts mine to shame, so full of flourishes and grace it is.

I've met few people who I can actually sit down and have a well-fueled conversation that goes on for hours on end without stopping. Mercy is one of those people, and we have more than once stayed up until the most horrendous hours of the night, deep in conversation, topics ranging from family to God to philosophy to politics to literature to the best way to raise kids to every single topic under the sun. I shall never forget how appalled I was when, after starting a conversation at about 10:30 PM on a school night, I looked at the clock to realize it was 2:15 AM. Utterly ridiculous, but so worth every minute.

She has an absurd sense of humor that finds it absolutely hilarious to jump out of dark corners and scare the living daylights out of me. In retrospect, perhaps it is a bit funny. A teeny tiny little bit. Especially when I scream so loud that I scare the living daylights out of her.

I've slept in her room before on account of our adventures into haunted houses. She's the kind of person whose room I could just pull my mattress right on into any night pas de problème. A good friend to have in a foreign country. She listens to my stories, she seeks me out, and she knows just how to make someone feel special.

I am so thankful for this girl. I never would've guessed that God would have a friendship with a girl like her in store for me here, but God is good, and he did, and I will be forever grateful.

P.S. So sorry your coffee cake this morning turned out to be a slight debacle. I'm relieved it still tasted good even if it started a fire in the oven and looked like a pile of mud gone wrong.

The Ski Shop

There is a ski shop I have now been to a great many times here in Albertville just past downtown and across the bridge. It's a bit hard to find if you've never been there before - tucked in the corner of an odd intersection. It's always the same in the ski shop... The same old man with deep wrinkles and a square-shaped face; the same friendly dog; the same hollow bells that ring when you open the door; the same middle-aged French woman with short, blonde-brown hair, glasses and tall black leather boots; the same tall skinny man with longish, brown hair and an earring. I've seen the three of them taking their lunch break at a café across the street, and making a bread run at the bakery, always the three of them in a little group together.

Inside, the walls are lined with skis, rows and rows of skis. Skis of all sizes and colors, poles of varying lengths and shapes. Rows upon rows of ski boots. Snowboards, helmets, poles. A hard, wood bench where you sit and make sure the ski boots fit you. On the walls, there's an eclectic assortment of ski posters both old and new, ancient wooden skis, and a black and white photograph of someone (I'm 95% sure it's the old man) in his skiing glory days. I wonder what kind of a skier he used to be. I can only imagine it was something incredible to behold.

Today was my last time skiing for the season. Sad but true. I've frequented the ski shop often enough that they know who I am, they know the size of my ski boots, and they know which small pink skis are my favorite. He calls them the "Barbie skis". True, they are pink, but other than being pink there is absolutely nothing on them that has anything associated with Barbie. Usually, you go to the ski shop Friday evening, get your skis, ski on Saturday, and bring them back on your way home from skiing. Sometimes it costs 10 euros to rent the skis and boots and poles, sometimes 13, sometimes 15. They write down your name on a piece of paper, and sometimes you pay before you ski, sometimes you pay after. No electronic system, just a box of papers and a pencil.

But yesterday, yesterday when I got my skis there was something a bit different about the interaction with the ski shop personnel. I had everything I needed, the boots had been fitted to the skis, and I was mustering myself up off of the bench to go...and then they asked me a somewhat unexpected question, "Où est-ce que vous allez en Afrique?" ...Where in Africa are you going?

So they know I'm from the school, they know that all the people from the school are learning French not to stay in France but to go to Africa, and they're clearly curious about it. They had all stopped what they were doing, and stared intently at me, an undeniable curiosity in their eyes.

I explained who I was, how I know a team going to Burundi but I myself have just graduated from high school and am taking a year off before college. I told them about Haiti, they were intrigued by the thought of an orphanage on a tropical island of great poverty and persisted in asking me more about it. They asked me what I want to study in college, they asked me when I was leaving France and if I was going to become a missionary after college. A missionary. I wonder what they think of that word. I wonder what that word entails for them. I wonder what kind of people they saw when all the school came in twos and threes to rent skis for the skiing field trip. I wonder how many people in Albertville know that the Centre d'Enseignment du Français exists in their city as a place to train missionaries in the French language. I wonder.

Today when I dropped off my skis, they asked if this was the last time I'd be skiing. Yes, yes I told them, the last time. Apparently the season goes until April 22, for a whole month longer, but today the lower parts of the mountains were a bit slushy and icy. The ski season is over for me. And so I bid them farewell and stepped out of the ski shop one last time.

My little pink skis. I kid you not when I call them little -

C'est tout!

After four days of testing, I just finished all of the exams. Done with compréhension écrit, production écrit, grammaire, vocabulaire biblique, compréhension orale, dictée, lecture, et production orale!!! A good feeling, to be sure. And tonight there shall be a whole slew of celebrations starting with pizza night with the singles followed by an Eric McLaughlin concert (terribly exciting stuff. I've been listening to his music for years and years, and I highly commend it to you. Download it for free here.) Shortly thereafter, there shall be a viewing of the Hobbit with friends from the Centre. Also terribly exciting stuff. For now, the sun is out and shining brightly, and I think I shall go for a run! More stories from Slovakia to come soon.

Slovakia: The rest of the story on how I got there.

I shall recommence the tales of Slovakia from where I left off - at the airport in Vienna. The airport in Vienna was rather disappointing, because I was fully anticipating an Austria stamp in my passport, but alas! It was not to be so. There wasn't even any customs official to interrogate me. Up to this point in time, I would say that everything had gone more or less as planned. This is about where everything stopped going more as planned and started going less as planned.

My next objective: find the Eurolines Bus office and particularly the Slovakia desk and buy a ticket from Vienna to Bratislava. Can't be too hard, right? After a decent 15 minutes of walking to and fro and fro and to, the man at the airport information desk kindly pointed me in the right direction and the destination was soon located. Communication with the girl was somewhat rocky. She didn't speak English. She definitely didn't speak French. I can count to ten in Slovak, and I know the words for bellybutton and duck and that's about the extent of my Slovak. But a few minutes later, I was walking away 6 euros poorer and one ticket to Bratislava richer. After some deciphering, I figured she was directing me to bus stop #4 that was outside. Hmm. Bus stop #4 outside. Real helpful. Thankfully, I had more than an hour before my bus left. So. Outside. Whereto next.... I followed what basically seemed to the be the crowd, but instead of taking me outside, they took me underground to a train station. Oops. Eventually, I found my way out of the train station and I was out in Vienna. I decided that this would be a very good time to stop and call Katarina to let her know what time my bus would be getting into Bratislava. And it did not work. I tried literally every single combination of numbers and stars and zeros and country codes and plus signs that I could possibly contrive of. I tell you every single allegedly internationally minded phone I've ever tried using (and that would be a grand total of two, in case you were wondering) has proved itself to be nothing but a useless piece of plastic when it actually ends up going to some place international.

So! There was I, with a phone that didn't work, in a country whose language I did not speak, and there was no bus stop #4 in sight. Just a lot of tall, grey buildings. There were signs to the airport, signs to the train, signs to the taxis, but no signs to the bus. But stress or worry did I not! Instead I found a café and bought myself a chickenbagelwich (beacuse it was the only thing on the menu that I could come even remotely close to pronouncing) and found someone there who spoke a tiny bit of English. They gave me some great directions to the bus stop, "It's over that way" (proceeds to point). So over that way went I. After a bit more unsuccessful wanderings past tall, grey buildings, I saw an old man sitting in a parking lot booth near the airport who looked to me like he might be able to speak a different language. Not sure where that gut instinct game from, probably the grace of God, but voila! Lo and behold, il parle français! He spoke French really very well, and gave me detailed directions to the bus stop. Which I had maybe walked right past about a half hour beforehand....

I sat down on the bench at bus stop #4 and chowed down on my chickenbagelwich. Eventually, it hit me that I still had not contacted Katarina and it was imperative for the success of my journeys that she knew which bus I got on. So it was back into the airport and back to the information booth. A different information booth, but the same exact man... "Ummm...Hi again! I found the Eurolines ticket booth, thanks for giving me directions there, I bought my ticket, it's right here!" I received a very blank stare. Clearly, he either did not remember me or did not share my enthusiasm about purchasing a bus ticket. "Well, umm, anyways, now I'm looking for a payphone, would you please point me to the nearest one?"

Called Katarina. Talked to her, figured out a plan, everything looked good. I was parched from the chickenbagelwich, so I stopped by the McDonald's at the airport and bought myself a cup of orange juice. If you ever go to the Vienna Airport, don't buy orange juice from their McDonald's. It's lukewarm and pulpy, and they only fill the cup about 70% of the way. I sat there and you know what I did? I studied for my French exams. Yuppers. At last it was time for the bus to leave. I got up and stopped by the bathroom. I almost ran smack into guess who? The very same airport information man. Third encounter of the day.

made eye contact. Promptly looked the other direction. Awkward.

So now! Bus! On the bus headed to Bratislava! Success! Happy day! But the ride was a somewhat unpleasant one, for over the course of that bus ride, I slowly realized a very horrible thing. By the time I stepped off of the bus in Bratislava, I was 95% sure that the bus I was on was in fact, taking me to the wrong bus stop in Bratislava. Thankfully, I still wasn't stressed or panicking. Next objective: find someone who could speak English or French and who could give me a phone. First try: Bus driver!

Kathryn - "Excusez-moi, monsieur, parlez-vous français?"

Blank stare.

K - "Do you speak English, sir?"

Bus driver (big, ancient, really big, gruff sort of a fellow), "SLOVAK."

K - "Oh, okay thanks anyways, bye bye!"

Kathryn was trying to get to the city center. I asked (count them now) not one, not two, but THREE people if this was the city center. They all said it was. It was not. I could tell by my very gut (and by the fact that these people clearly didn't really understand my question) that this place was not the city center. So. To find someone who I could communicate with... I was very unsuccessful at first. I asked a woman at a little store...

Kathryn - "Parlez-vous français?"

A few seconds of the blank stare, then a grunt of recognition. The vendor disappeared momentarily, and came back later with a bottle of water. Sorry lady. Not what I'm looking for.

Then after what felt like a very long time of asking the same questions and receiving blank stares in response, a voice behind me on the left said with a very thick Slovak accent, "I speak English. You need help?" I turned, and lo and behold! A tall, old, very old man, with not many teeth, a red coat and a black hat riding a blue bike. The statement, "Don't talk to strangers" had become, "Feel free to talk to strangers as long as they speak English or French." He apologetically listened to my tale of woe. He checked his pockets, and then told me that he was terribly sorry, but he hadn't brought his cell phone with him that day or I would certainly be most welcome to use it.

His next suggestion: "You can come with me and we will find a hotel or a hostel where you can use a phone. Or maybe the post office." I had but seconds to assess my options. I either wander around Bratislava by myself looking for a phone, or I could wander around Bratislava with this old, English-spekaing man. Who had just offered to help me find a phone. A large part of the side of my brain with common sense told me to refrain from following a man I did not know into a city I did not know that does not speak a language I know. But he had a kindly face, a very kindly face indeed. I sensed no malice, trickery, or ulterior motives on his part. Maybe he was my guardian angel, although it would've been rather nice if my guardian angel could've been carrying a mobile device with him. I said a quick prayer of thanks... Dear God, thank you that even if he isn't my guardian angel, you still have plenty of them protecting me so I don't need to worry! and decided to go with my gut on this one and hope that it turned out to be a good guiding gut. We sauntered into the city. Within seconds, we had walked into an absolutely enchanting part of Bratislava. The old part of the city. No cars, only pedestrians. Magnificent old buildings, cobblestone streets, gold-gilded terraces, truly a pleasure at every corner. I was slightly alarmed at how many corners there were. We were getting further into the city, and I had no idea how to get back to the bus stop. Not that getting back to the bus stop would do me any good at this point in time. We were chatting, and it occurred to me as I said the words that I was being very open with this stranger. Perhaps I told him my age, the city in France where I'm currently living, what I'm doing in Slovakia, and that it was one of the first times I had travelled by myself. Perhaps. I was beginning to think that maybe my guardian angel wasn't so much of an angel anymore, and I informed him that I could definitely find a phone by myself, but he said it was no problem at all. He was old, retired, and had nothing better to do. I wasn't feeling threatened in the least, but at the same time, this old man seemed to be making it up just about as much as I was making it up.

Since I was living in France, he told me he was going to take me to the French embassy. At last, we stopped at our final destination... The second to last thing I felt like doing was walking into the French embassy as an American citizen and ask them for a phone. The last thing I felt like doing was spending the night in Bratislava with my new friend (his name was Victor) who had just offered me his son's empty room in his house in case I needed to spend the night. He could even show me around the historic sites of Bratislava, not a problem, not a problem at all. In fact, here was his phone number if I wanted to take him up on the offer. Very nice of him, and I still don't think he had any malicious intent, but at the same time, that is, perhaps, a little bit odd. Or maybe a lot. So I bid him farewell, and off went Victor, the maybe-guardian-angel without a cell phone.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the doors of the French building. No one at the receptionist desk. Hmm. Strange. Not sure what I was expecting out of an embassy, but in retrospect, I believe it was a rather violent image I had in my mind of lots of French military personnel who guarded the place and closely interrogated anyone who dared enter the doors. Yeah not so much. Instead there was no one. So I pushed further up and further in to the cubicle office land of this building, whatever it might be, and eventually found a lady in her office who ushered me in. I explained my dilemma in the very best French I could possibly muster from my brain and out of my mouth. She magnanimously let me use her phone (guardian angel #2?) and seconds later...the sound of Katarina's voice!!!!!!!!!!! Alleluia. Problems solved. "Katarina! I'm here at the French Embassy" ("not embassy, institute!" interjected a co-worker who had peeked her head into her neighbor's cubicle at the sight of this foreign child with a big back pack.) Katarina sounded quite relieved, I must say. She asked me to hand the phone over to someone who spoke Slovak and knew where in the world I was currently located. So the two of them jibber jabbered in Slovak for a few seconds, and then she hung up and informed me that I ought to stay put at the French Institute and "elle va venir ici." (she is going to come here). Perfect.

This is the very square in the heart of Bratislava where the French institute was located:

I went outside, sat down, and grew roots. Nothing could've moved me short of Janka (Katarina's friend who was bringing me on another bus that would take me ultimately to the train station). 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes, at last 17 minutes later, there she was! I saw Janka coming, and Janka it was. And I loved her. She was one of those really deeply wonderful people that you just really don't want to leave, and who you really do have a hard time ever forgetting. She was beautiful, with a blue hat and tiny pear earrings (yes, pear, not pearl!), and so gracious to me in my time of distress, and so very personable, intelligent, and clearly incredible. A lot like Katarina. When I walked away from her at the train station feeling refreshed deep down, but also sad that that brief encounter was likely the last time I'll ever see her on this side of Heaven.

So then came the train. The train was long and cheap with nice accommodations - only 7 euros for 3+ hours in the train with 6 people in compartments with very cushioned chairs and coat racks. Thankfully, I happened to pick a compartment with a very dear old Slovak lady who spoke English. She was also married to a Pakistani man, and she was on her way home from Pakistan. She shared sun-dried apricots - picked fresh off the trees in Pakistan and baked on their roofs in the hot summer sun. They were delicious. I was very glad she was there to help me figure out when to get off the train as the Slovak trains never announce the stops and neither do they illuminate their train stops very well in the night, making it nearly impossible to figure out which stop is which if you're not an insider. And so off the train, and then into the arms of Katarina and then into the car where Samuel, the most wonderful and incredible and intelligent Samuel who I love so very much, was waiting.

And then after a short drive, we were there in her little mountain village, and in the house she had always told me about, and I was being fed warm lentil soup by her mother in the coziest kitchen, and then brought up to my room upstairs - Katarina's old room - and it was the most wonderful room with wood floors and walls and ceilings and cupboards and bookshelves, all handmade by Katarina's dad, and then it was into bed and slumber sweet slumber. Eighteen hours of travel has it's benefits - the greatest one being, perhaps, the satisfyingly deep sleep that inevitably ensues at the end of those hours. And that is the full account of my travels from Vienna to Katarina.

And some more tales from travel!

Today in Albertville was lovely. The sun shone brightly and the sky was blue. The highlight of the day was visiting the park with Abi. A very awesome park it was, I must say, with all sorts of ingeniously designed structures. I also biked to the sports store and bought myself a pair of running shoes so that the training for the 5K in May can begin in earnest. Also did a smattering of study here and there throughout the day, although the exams I have on Monday and Tuesday are a little bit more difficult to study for. The other exams this week were good - written comprehension and written expression, grammar, and Biblical vocabulary. Next up is lecture (tests your pronunciation and intonation), oral comprehension, oral expression, and dictation.

The week also bore great sadness for many here in Albertville and, indeed, for people all across the world who were following the story of Hannah Kelley. There is a missionary family at Tenwek in Kenya (the same place where the McCropders served for two years) who very suddenly and unexpectedly lost their baby girl, Hannah, barely one year-old, to a brain tumor. The story is heart-wrenching, devastatingly and deeply sad, but the family's faith throughout this trial of immense grief and suffering is incredible to behold. I urge you to go read the story for yourself in their own words on their blogs - mrskelleyinkenya.wordpress.com and http://www.aaroninkenya.com/2013/03/we-treat-jesus-heals/. There is also a beautiful, raw, honest reaction on the McCropder's blog: http://mccropders.blogspot.fr/2013/03/tenwek-tragedy.html. If you read these posts, you will go away with a heavy heart, but you will also be encouraged for the Lord has been glorified greatly throughout it all.

The week brought good news too - three of my babies have progressed in their adoption! Two of them will be going home very soon... Tuesday and Wednesday's little boys in case you still keep track, which I most certainly do. And Thursday's girl's parents will be going to Haiti shortly for their first visit. I am overjoyed by this news; it is so exciting to see their processes finally moving! Thanks be to God. I will keep you posted.

As evidenced by the title of this blog post, I was planning on recounting further stories from travel, but thus far this post has had nothing whatsoever to do with the stories from vacation, and now I'm off to an evening with some friends. All French-speaking friends, so it will certainly count as studying for the oral expression exam on Tuesday. Hopefully stories from travel will come shortly!

The [ all-too-brief ] photo recap

...some photos to whet your appetite. Just begins to scratch the surface...more stories coming soon!

My fortnight via google maps (note - Slovakia back to Albertville was the same way I came, however I didn't bother to plug that all back in again...)