isoglossia

Things have been fairly busy around here. A cousin dropped by to visit, which is always nice. This brings to five the number of family visits we’ve hosted here. Which over the course of more than four years does not exactly constitute an endless parade of guests. We are so unused to company that it’s a bit pathetic how exciting it is to host someone. Ben had been prepared to represent New Zealand at the Olympics in Torino, but instead found himself with some time on his hands in central Slovenia. So the natural thing was to head west to “chick oat Nover Grica.”*

“We took Adam out and I showed Ben around Nova Gorica,” Magda reported when I came home from work on Tuesday.

“How long did that take?”

“About 15 minutes.”

Ben on his superfat tele-boards at 2100 meters

Okay, it’s not the most exciting town in the world, to be sure, but it’s conveniently located. Yesterday was a national holiday, officially called “Slovenian Culture Day” but falling on the anniversary of the death of France Prešeren, the poet. Midweek holidays! Ben and I drove an hour up the Soča Valley to Kanin for Slovenia’s highest skiing. Spending even the laziest day skiing with an Olympic-class athlete is a really really REALLY bad idea for someone as creaky and ancient, not to mention sucky, as I am. Having my Mariana-trenchlike fitness level so glaringly revealed made me weep like a schoolgirl. An ancient, creaky, crybaby schoolgirl. Though that analogy is an affront to ancient, creaky crybaby schoolgirls everywhere when you take into account how much I sucked. Bitter, mascara-streaked tears froze to my blushing, parchment-like skin as I flailed like a panty-waisted nancy-man, becoming intimate with the interior of every adoring bank of snow. And still I failed my friend Matt’s acid-test for did you really tele-ski?, which is can you sit down on and get up from the toilet unassisted the following day?, but just barely. Walking is not so wonderful today, however. An overrated activity, walking.

Ben brought a gift for Adam from New Zilend**, an authentic canned kiwi (flightless bird, not fruit; toy, not food), which you can see in the upper photo.

I like the idea of national-mascot-in-a-can; is anyone else doing this? Can I go to Mexico and get a can of Speedy Gonzáles, for example? Oh, wait, that’s not right. Never mind. Adam is so happy playing with a can that it seemed a shame to finally open it and let the bird out. See? Pathetic.

*accent is not guaranteed to be authentic
**or guaranteed not to be authentic