I’m here, how old I am, do I have
a boyfriend, etc. Your typical fare.
And oh yeah, I can answer these
questions flawlessly.
Uh oh, subject change. I had
no idea what he said next except:
mleko.
Right. Milk. I think, “What
about milk? Did he ask me if I
like milk? Sure. I like milk. Just
on cereal mostly, but whatever…”
He opens his bag and there is a
large bottle of milk. I think, “Oh!
He’s the milk man!” So I ask him
how much for the milk and I pay
for it. There’s a strange pause,
an awkward moment of staring
(again, Goce’s messages still
didn’t quite hit me), so I say the
proverbial “aide” which I hope
is the right word to wrap things
up. The milk man would have
nothing of it. He starts to speak
very slowly, very carefully and I
understand it perfectly, “Dali ke
bidesh moja zhena?” I think, “uh
oh…abort, abort!!” At this time in
my life, I would react that way to
any marriage proposal, let alone
one from a 5’5” milk man I hardly
even know.
So I do what every foreigner
does in situations such as
these, “Ne razbiram. Izvini. Ne
razbiram. Shto? Ne razbiram. Ne
razbiram, etc., etc.” Just over and
over and over again. After five
minutes, he gives up, shakes my
hand and leaves. Whew. I’m free.
Later that day, I tell Maya and
Ivan (my host parents) about
this encounter and we all laugh.
“Ho, ho, ho, Amy got a marriage
proposal.”
Fast forward to 9 p.m. that same
night. The phone rings, Maya
answers, her eyes bug out and
she mouths to me “It’s him!”
They chit chat for a bit and then
he makes an offer. The milk man
offered Maya 200 euros and free
milk forever if she finds him a
wife. Maya did a fantastic job
of keeping her composure and
she definitely had my back. She
said she appreciated the call and
would keep it in mind. I told her
that if he threw in a kilo of mordar
patlijahn and some kashkaval,
I’d think about it. I’m worth that,
right? To this day, I’m still a little
wary of men carrying bottles of
milk.
Lost in translation
I met a couple guys here in town
who were opening a coffee bar.
They needed a good name for
it and asked me the names of
various coffee bars in the US.
Thinking of the bars I frequent
back home, I told them a few of
my favorites, but they just didn’t
make sense, e.g., “Shorty’s,” “The
Local,” or “Psycho Suzy’s Motor
Lounge.”
The guys looked at each other
as though they were mustering
up some confidence and one
said, “How about ‘Flesh’?” My
left eyebrow went up, “Flesh?”
I had to make sure they were
using an English word…and they
were. I had visions of being in
a place called Flesh. It would
be frequented by dermatologists
where the walls would be the
color of the namesake crayon.
I imagined black and white
photographs hung abstractly
featuring various skin types:
saggy, wrinkly, freckly, flaky…
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