Last weekend, I went with a Slovak friend and her mom to the western half of the country. We spent a day checking out the school I'm going to go to in about a month, a day in Bratislava (Slovakia's beautiful capital city where I hope to be moving next month), and a couple nights in the town of Piestany (it has accent marks, but I don't know how to type them!). One of the reasons for our cross-country trip was to put flowers on the graves of my friend's great-grandparents. This is an important tradition in many Catholic countries like Slovakia.

I want to tell you a little about our trip to Nitrianska Blatnica, the village where my friends' relatives lived, died, and are buried. First of all, it was raining, so the mountainous countryside around us was all green and misty. The cemetery itself was slightly overgrown so we had to sweep off the grave and so forth. Actually, to say that I just sort of stood there with my umbrella and provided "moral support" as my friend's mom did the cleaning would be more accurate. Cleaning the grave is more complicated that it sounds because Slovak graves are not six feet under, but above ground, encased in concrete. After we (ok, she) cleaned it, they lit a few candles, took a few pics to show relatives back home, and we set off to explore the village.

There was a quaint old church with an even quainter old lady on the front steps. With a slightly perplexed look, she explained that she was waiting for a wedding that should be starting any minute. The only problem was, the church was locked and she appeared to be the only one there. She told us the wedding was at 3pm, and we told her it was only 2pm. She didn't believe us until the clock tower struck 2 and then with a rather embarrassed smile she said, "I think I'll go home and take a nap."

We bid farewell and made our way to the bus stop to go back to town. Like the lady at the church, we were an hour early. Next to the bus stop, however, stood the house where my friend's great-grandmother used to live. Another elderly lady lived here now, and my friends knew her. The yard was full of odd-looking chickens and an invisible goat. I needed to use the restroom, and this village was way too small for public toilets. My friend's mom kindly asked the lady who lived in the house if I could use hers...and where that toilet was. The lady didn't exactly look thrilled to see us. She said something in Slovak and pointed to the back yard.

"She says it's back here," my friend explained hastily. "Let's go," She glanced warily at the unhappy lady and pulled me to the backyard. After poking into a number of cluttered, toilet-free doors scattered around the yard, we gave up and decided to ask again. Truthfully, I was beginning to feel a bit nosy about poking through this lady's collection of old sheds. And around each corner, I began to worry that I might come face-to-face with the mysterious goat that was supposed to live here. I'd open a door, and he'd be there, staring at me with his creepy goat-eyes, munching on grass, and ready to head-butt me...

Eager to avoid that confrontation, my friend and I darted through a side door and found the sickly old lady chatting cordially with my friend's mom. A plate of huge, fresh buchta (jelly-filled donuts) sat on the table between them.

This time, the lady smiled at us. This time, the bathroom was the second door down on the right. This time, she'd figured out that we weren't salesmen and there was a big buchta in it for each of us! She packed us off with a bag full of more things she'd baked that morning, and a new appreciation for Slovak hospitality! I love Slovak babkas (grandmothers)!