Lucky

The sun is finally shining with no threat of rain for the first time in weeks. I have a free morning and a party to throw that night. I don't mind the day of small tasks and chores and baking ahead. I make some coffee, eat some granola, and sit down to write a letter in the sun that's spilling onto our desk. Later, I stroll down our bright street--an colorful, architectural jab at communism with its yellow and orange houses--and take a left, reaching our corner grocery store a block away. A tired, tanned man sits outside lazily smoking a cigarette. The store is only open in the mornings on Saturdays, so it's crowded, but not as much as it was last night when everyone (including us) stopped on their way home from work before the weekend. I grab some drinks, some flour ('muka'), and cram it all into the canvas bag I brought with me. My fingers are jingling in my pockets, as I absentmindedly search for the larger coins to pay with. The line is longer at my favorite cashier, but I don't mind.

"Dobry den." A standard greeting, then she looks up and sees it is me. "Oh! Knedla!" she exclaims when she sees me and she hops away from her register and pushes through the crowd to the back of the store. Everyone glares at me. I try to act confused, but I know exactly where this dear woman went.

At every grocery store, there is a section in the refrigerators for large mounds of this dough-like substance. It looks like a loaf of unbaked bread or the largest block of gooey cheese you've ever seen in your life. Last night, Mike and I finally decided to test our theories on what it might be.

"Cho y knedla?" we asked the cashier, our faces trying to look as inquisitive as possibly in case our Slovak was weaker than we hoped. "Syr? Cheilb?" Cheese? Bread?

"Knedla?" She explains in English that she doesn't know our word for it. Instead, she goes into a healthy paragraph in Slovak about what it is. I catch the words "not bread," "flour-y," and "small and large." I think. We nod along. She definitely thinks we know more Slovak than we do. We thank her anyway and leave with a "dovidenia."

Today, however, she remembers our question and thinks I want to know what it looks like, as though I'd read it somewhere in a story. She returns moments later with the heavily wrapped substance in her hand, gesturing wildly and saying "This is knedla." The glares from fellow patrons in the long line have not ceased, but nor have my "dakujem"s when she returns. I am thankful and moved by her thoughtfulness.

I am throwing a party for my friend, Heather, tonight; I know this cashier knows her because Heather buys an exorbitant amount of chocolate to make daily brownies for her students. The one time Heather didn't buy chocolate, the cashier asked why and appeared worry. I try to explain I'm buying all the drinks because today is Heather's birthday and we are having a party:

"American. Brown hair. Chocolate. Birthday. Party."

The cashier totally gets it, thankyouverymuch, and she tells me to tell Heather "Happy Birthday." She always sends us away with a "bye bye!"

I walk home with a grin on my face, soaking in the sunshine and walking so slowly that (no lie) a nun passes me on my left. I cannot believe how much more I know--the language, the food, the people--than last time I was hear. Such an improvement! The birds are chirping, the dogs are barking (as always), and I live in Slovakia. I also couldn't help being thankful for the fact that I'm wearing a t-shirt of Mike's, and his familar scent is wafting against my face with the breeze, and that is certainly an improvement from last time.