I've been in Slovakia for ten months now. I thought I'd share with you a few things I've learned in that time:

1-You have to press the button to request a stop on the Slovak night buses. Otherwise, it will keep merrily chugging along until the end of the line. And you have to get out, walk a few miles in the dark, and pray that no one attacks you on the deserted road.

2-No one will bag your groceries for you. You have to bring your own bag, do it yourself, and if you aren't fast enough, the rest of the customers will stare you down while they wait for you to clear out.

3-Showing up at least five minutes late to almost any event is not only acceptable, it's expected. This was not difficult for me adjust to. ;)

4-With the exception of a few mega-chains and shopping malls here, stores that are open after 6 pm are almost non-existent outside of North America. This saves you the trouble of having to go out in the cold after dark!

5-That waterproofing spray for your boots only really works if you stay out of puddles...and rain.

6-The bus driver has no qualms about slamming the doors in your face and driving off without you.

7-The streetcar driver doesn't either.

8-Or the train conductor.

9-Taxis are really nice sometimes.

10-Napkins or plates are not necessary if you are just eating bread.

11-Pretty much everyone knows more of our language than we know of theirs.

12-Pretty much everyone knows more about our pop culture than we know about theirs.

13-And yet, pretty much no one understands why Americans shower every day.

14-Wearing a watch is really not all that necessary. See #3.

15-If you don't eat all of your food at a restaurant, you risk getting a reproachful mom-like look from the wait staff.

16-If you aren't wearing enough layers to make you sweat profusely in the winter, you risk getting a reproachful mom-like look from the nearest elderly lady.

17-If you eat too much and wear too many layers, everyone will tell you that Americans are fat.

18-Only Americans smile enough to show their teeth in photos.

19-Only Americans wear sweat pants or running shoes in public.

20-Only Americans talk loudly enough to be heard across the room when speaking to someone three feet away.

21-Only Americans are surprised that they are perceived as overly-friendly sloppy dressers.

22-Few things in life can match the satisfaction of having a foreigner mistake you for a member of their own culture. Even if your accent makes it obvious the second you open your mouth, their little error feels like acceptance.

So, it all started when my flat mate Frantiska (Fany) saw a poster for beginner lessons at a local dance school. I'd been telling her how I would like to get more involved here and meet more people, so she suggested trying this class.

Now, I've always wanted to know how to do some classy European or Latin American dances (like the waltz or cha-cha), but to join the class, I'd need a partner. Fany helped me out once again by calling about 6 different guys she knew. Oddly enough, they were all interested. However, only one said it might work with his schedule.

Fany offered to take me to the class, since I didn't know where it was or who I'd be meeting there. We nearly missed the streetcar when it arrived. After running the last hundred yards, we made it just in time for the doors to shut. The driver had waited for us. We were talking on the streetcar, though, and forgot to pay attention to the stops. The mechanical voice announced our stop as the doors prepared to shut and move on. "Oh! We need to go out!" Fany realized.

We jumped up and ran for the doors. I barely made it out, with the doors nearly closing on me. Fany wasn't so lucky. The doors shut before she could get through and we both stood there for a second, pressing the open-the-door buttons. The driver had had enough of us, though, and drove off. Helpless, I smiled and waved as the little train moved off down the tracks. As I sat there, doubled over with laughter, she called and told me she'd get the next train back and meet me there.

After she arrived, we scampered through the slightly sketchy short-cut she'd found, trying not to slip on the ice. When we arrived at the class, there were about a hundred people there. But that wasn't the most amazing part. The most amazing part was that there were more men than women there! I love Europe!

My partner arrived at the last minute and I discovered with relief that he spoke English! This meant he could translate for me! By the end of the first hour, I realized that I wasn't quite as coordinated as I'd hoped I was. It was fine, though, because no one there had exactly mastered the dances yet.

Now, my Slovak is, uh, how do I say this nicely?...rudimentary. Luckily, Fany had informed the instructor of this. So, he'd stand there and explain a lot of things in Slovak, and I'd try to copy his posture and the steps. Finally, he'd start dancing, "Raz, dva, tri!" (one, two, three) he'd count off the steps. After this, he'd turn to me and, um, translate. He'd dance the last three steps again, but instead of counting in Slovak, he'd say "one, two, three!" and then turn back to the rest of the class.

"Thanks," I'd say, "now I understand," and I'd pray he didn't hear the sarcasm in my voice. I really did appreciate his efforts to help me understand, to be honest. After all, I'm the one in their country, not vice versa. Next week, I'm going to try to sign up for some Slovak lessons. ;-)

Chilly, damp, and overcast, this morning felt like England.

But I wasn't in England. Where was I? I looked out the train window and squinted into the pre-dawn murkiness. Too neat to be Romania, too soon to be Slovakia yet. Must be Hungary. I looked at my watch.

It was 6:20. Or 5:20. Either way, Budapest had clearly failed to appear at 5:17 like it was supposed to. That also meant that I would almost certainly miss my connecting train, which left Budapest at 5:28. Of all the trains that this five-segment trip included, the one from Budapest to Bratislava was the one I had wanted to miss the least. I'd already bought my ticket for that train. And those sorts of tickets were nonrefundable. I sighed. I was way to tired to try to sort this right now.

Some hours earlier, I had said a sad good-bye to my wonderful friends in Romania and been glad that at least I had the excitement of travelling to lessen the the sadness of the farewell. I liked to travel. An uncertain number of hours later, I found myself questioning this assessment...

Besides the trouble of Budapest being late, there was that one Romanian woman who woke me up at 1:32 am in the waiting area in Arad. Judging by her expression, she was clearly trying to communicate a matter of life and death. Her face was just inches from mine as she repeated herself. I managed a sleepy smile, “I'm sorry. I don't understand.” But she didn't understand what I said either. Apparently, she thought I said “Please talk louder so that everyone in the room turns to look at us—and get a little closer so that when you talk to me you accidentally spit on my face.” She kindly obliged.

She shuffled my luggage around and I think she said “You don't speak Romanian!?” four times. I shook my head and said no, I didn't speak Romanian. Then I think she told me that the world was going to end really soon, using a lot of hand motions so that the stupid girl she was talking to would understand. She put her hands on either side of my face and (I think) told me that everyone was about to die!

I smiled, hoping this would calm her down. “Thank you,” I said politely. “Thanks for telling me.” I nodded reassuringly. I closed my eyes then, hoping that if she thought I was asleep, she'd just give up. I could still hear her talking, but I told myself that I wasn't certain she was talking to me. Maybe she had decided to share her important news with the lady next to me.

I didn't go back to sleep, though. I figured all the lady had been probably been trying to tell me, probably was, “Don't sleep! Watch your stuff!” I decided to stay awake and keep an eye on my luggage. The train I had been waiting on was late, though. I stayed awake more. Then it came, finally!

It was raining. I walked to the closest door. Two people were inside, clearly trying to get out. I stood there and waited for them. The handle would jiggle a little and then I'd hear them muttering in some language. I tried to help open the door from the outside. But the handle was wet and I didn't really want to get my felt gloves all wet. “Oh, sorry, it's stuck,” I said unhelpfully as I moved on to another door. I didn't take any chances this time and went to one that was already open. This car looked nicer than the others. This is the thing about the trains over here: unlike books, you absolutely CAN judge them by what's on the outside. The new ones are less dirty, less likely to stink, less likely to have heaters and lights that are broken, and less likely to have been designed during communism using colors that make you want to scratch your eyes out. Oh, and tickets almost never have a specific seat written on them, so you pretty much are stupid if you end up in a gross car.

Well, I had done it. I had picked a nice car. It was a sleeping car. The man in charge of it let me stay there for about half an hour for free before his boss found out and made him kick me out.

Before leaving, the “sleep wagon” man had told me that the next stop was the border. This is what happens at the border: two large men in dark uniforms appear. They knock twice and then immediately bang the door open. They both have flashlights, which they proceed to shine in your eyes and in every single corner of the compartment. Then they say the word “passport” in about ten languages reallyfastsoitsoundslikealloneword. You hand it to them. They flick through it seven times. Then they look at you and mispronounce your name. You nod and smile. They look back at it and pull open their special wooden box they wear around their necks. They stamp your passport in an awkward place and then scribble something on it. They then hand it back to you using only two fingers. You thank them and they nod and they stride off importantly to secure the next compartment.

I remember waking up two times, about 45 minutes apart from each other, and seeing the exact same sign sitting outside the window. It was a station marker. (The name of the place had two slanty lines over an “o.” That meant it was Hungarian.) That is another thing about the trains over here: for no discernible reason, they will just stop. Often it is nowhere near a station. Sometimes they will get going again after ten or fifteen minutes. Other times they will sit there for hours until it is already past the time when they are supposed to be in Budapest. Then, when they are good and ready, they will move on again.

Back to the fact that I like to travel. It makes some people nervous. I admit, things like five minute layovers make me nervous, too. But, I stand by my earlier assertion. I love travelling. Travelling is a bit of an adrenaline rush for me. It's also the only way I get to see most of my friends anymore. It also distracts me from the often depressing struggles against loneliness, confusion, culture shock, and feeling useless that often accompany living in a foreign country.

Most of all, though, I like travelling because I am really, really not in control. It's almost refreshing to realize that I have no power to make the train pick up and start moving like it's supposed to when it's decided to just sit and hang out in the place with two slanty lines over the “o” for three hours. It's refreshing because it's at times like these that I have to trust God completely with where I'm going and how I'm gonna get there. Pretty much no pressure on me, whatsoever. It's at times like this when I start to realize that God isn't just in complete control over how long we spend in slanty-“o”-town or which train doors work and which ones don't. He's that much in control of every little thing that happens in my life. And just because everyday stuff like missing my streetcar or my alarm clock dying in the middle of the night feel like they are partly my fault, doesn't mean He doesn't have space for those little mistakes in His greater plan, too.

Thinking it over, I kinda wish I could apply this “travelling faith” to my everyday life more.

Yes, I am wearing heels. Because yes, I am a city girl.

While we were filling the bottles, a truck full of men in red jackets pulled up across the street and they got out and started hopping around while the truck played old American songs that had been dubbed in Romanian. They were campaigning for an upcoming election. (Obviously)

On the way back, we started talking about how it's so freeing to get rid of all your old stuff when you move. "It's amazing how God has provided so much since we gave away most of what we owned and left home," Paula was saying when we saw a man running down the hill. He was wearing the same sort of outfit his great-grandfather would have worn as a Romanian peasant 100 years ago. The man ran across our path and over to where several bored-looking goats were sniffing around the dump. (He was a goatheard, in case you hadn't figured that out.)

Now, the thing about two-liter bottles is that once you fill them with water they get kinda heavy. Mikayla especially was kinda struggling juggling her three bottles, so when the lonely goatheard walked up and asked (in Romanian) for some water, she just gave him a whole bottle. "What a great object lesson!" Paula exclaimed. "See? God always provides."

She was right, too. We got the tire fixed the next day and were allowed the luxury of driving to get water once more. So, the next time you drink from the tap...well, just be glad that you can :)

(more pictures of Romania coming soon to my facebook!!)

Several of you have asked if there were celebrations concerning the fall of the Berlin Wall here (November 9th was the 20th anniversary). While this was celebrated, the even bigger holiday here is the 17th of November, when the students started demonstrating against the oppressive government in Prague. That eventually led to communism falling here too (Prague was the capital of the united Czechoslovakia.)

It was fascinating to hear the stories people had about what they were doing during those days. People started speaking out in one of Bratislava´s main squares on the 17th, too. My landlady said her job was near this square. One of her collegues came in and told them all what was happening outside. Everyone got up and left their desks and went outside to listen. Some famous actor was out there speaking against the government. A microphone and speakers were set up and, for the next six weeks, hundreds of people gathered each day to enjoy the freedom of speech they had been denied their whole lives. Apparently aware of their impending doom, communist government officials did little to stop the growing crowd out in the square.

Another of my friends was a college student in Bratislava during this time. She said classes were effectively cancelled when all the students refused to show up for the second half of November and through December. They went to these protests instead. Her mom called her from Kosice and begged her to stop attending the rallies, afraid her daughter would suffer the same fate as many of the students in Prague (many were beaten by police, although they were unarmed). Like any college student, Viera couldnt resist the excitement and attended almost every day from then until she went home for Christmas.

On November 28th, the Communist government agreed to dismantle the single-party state. A largely non-communist government was appointed, including a new president on December 28th, 1989, and the "Velvet Revolution" came to a peaceful end.

Several of the prominent figures who had spoken out against the oppressive government attended a panel discussion which was aired on national television on the 17th. My landlady was surprised that the current government had allowed this. "There are so many communists in the government again. Have people already forgotten what it was like?" I won´t pretend to know anything about Slovakia´s current government, but I want to thank you for keeping me--and Slovakia--in your prayers!

Two weeks ago, autumn began. It was so abrupt—suddenly, for the first time in months, I needed my jacket to go out at night. I've needed it every night since then. Today winter started. I need my heavy coat, gloves, and scarf. I wish I had my hat. How abrupt! Two days ago, walking around my block of flats made me want a shower. This morning, I briefly considered pinching the earmuffs off of the little girl sitting next to me on the streetcar. Here's the strangest part: I'm told it won't get warm again until the spring. Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter. The seasons actually go in that order. Apparently in Slovakia, certain temperatures correspond directly with certain times of year. This weather is so simple that it baffles me. Thirty degrees Celsius (86 F)? Must be summer. Five degrees (41 F)? Winter. Eleven (52 F)? Spring or Fall. Weird.

Precipitation is almost alarmingly predictable here, too: spring and summer are sunny. Fall is rainy. Winter is...well, I haven't really experienced winter here yet, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it includes snow.

The reason I find this strange is because I'm from Virginia. If you attempted to determine the season based solely on the temperature and precipitation in Virginia, you might think the seasons went something like this: winter, winter, summer, spring, winter, winter, winter, spring, spring, fall, winter, spring, winter, summer, fall...and that would just be January and February!

A Slovak visiting Virginia would be so confused, I think. Day 1: “Oh, today it's summer.” Day 2: “Hmm, today it's fall.” Day 3: “Summer again.” Day 4: “Spring in the morning, summer in the afternoon, fall at night.” Day 5: “Summer and fall got in a fight and spring won.” Day 6: “I have no idea what to wear today.” Day 7: “So this is why they all watch the Weather Channel with religious regularity.”

It's a really good thing I don't need the weather channel here, too, because I don't have it. I probably wouldn't understand it if I did :)