Na Gosti

At night in Kratovo, it is still warm enough to wear only a light jacket. The moon has not yet risen above the horizon to outshine the tiny diamond-flecks of stars strewn across the black-velvet sky. Clicks from my host mother's heels on the cobblestone paved streets are a percussion calling to the house before we arrive. "Dobra Vecher!" Nanna greets us at the door. We enter and take off our shoes and jackets. "Kako Ce?" Nanna asks me in a language that still sounds like rocks clashing upon themselves in the shore break of the ocean. "-um," I pause. The words are stuck in my head; the rows of filing cabinets that hold the language files mix the Macedonian I learned this week with the Spanish I learned in high school. "Dobro," my host mother saves me with the words. I giggle to break the tension. The two women laugh and pat me on my back in appreciation for my effort. Entering her typical Macedonian home, I notice pictures of her family in frames covering the walls. As a collective society, relationships are very important to them, and they don't pass an opportunity to show you their families. Nanna hands me a picture of her son and one of her daughter. "Sit," She tells us. I can tell that she is now trying to use as much English as she knows. Nanna serves me hot tea and cake. Despite my efforts to refuse the cake, the plate is placed into my hands followed by a fork and napkin. "Birthday. Nanna son," explains my host mother. From this I understand that this is cake leftover from her son's birthday party. We all have small plates with a slice of birthday cake on them. Nanna and my host mother chat in Macedonian as my mind wanders to the lull of the rhythm of the language in the background of my thoughts. Observing Nanna's home further, I notice lace doilies on coffee tables, couches covered with sofa covers, and throw rugs on the floor. It reminds me of my grandmother's home the way she decorated it the same since my mother was a child. Small, sentimental knickknacks line the shelves: a painted doll, an ornate box, a glass vase. The rhythm of the foreign language has stopped. Suddenly, I become aware that both Nanna and my host mother are staring at me. I am a trapped deer in headlights. "Ne sakash da yadash," Nanna frowns at me. I have upset her in some inexplicable way. "Eat cake, Kristi," my host mother explains. I fork a bite-sized portion of the moist, hand-made cake into my mouth; it is delicious, but not what I had in mind this late in the evening. Both women are still staring at me. In a culture where feeding people enormous portions and saving face by being judged how tasty each bite is, I know what they want, so I give it to them. "Dobro!" I gush with a thumbs up, then a pat to my belly. We all laugh and Nanna is pleased. Eventually, I put the cake down and pick up the tea with both hands. "Kristi tired?" my host mother asks. After a day of clashing rocks of language tumbling in my head, traveling on too little sleep, eating unknown foods in too-large quantities, my usually accommodating attitude relents when the thought of a warm bed and a soft pillow are presented. Slowly nodding my head, my host mother, who is still a mother and empathizes with a tired child in any language, says, "Okay, let's go." Kissing Nanna three times on the cheeks, we say, "Chow," and slip on our shoes and jackets. On the walk home, we find the stars in the night that are outshone by the moon who walks us home through the cobblestone streets.