Got. Stung. By. A. Bee. On. My. VAHOOHAA

After two and a half years of our apiary carreers, finally, a bee got me. It was the perfect storm: I wasn't wearing pants I should be wearing, we were just going to feed them, not open them, and my job was just to pass things; one of the newest hives is evil and aggressive as fuck, and I did the very thing you are never supposed to do - close your limbs without checking. There was a bee right on my crotch and PANG. Like a cigarette burn, right on the most tender skin in the fold between the thigh and the cunt. Not to mention I started sweating instantly and the rest came at me like I was covered in honey. But on the plus side, we can now be sure I am not allergic. (A wild wasp almost blew me up like a balloon animal once.)

Au. 

Day 4

Took a pinch to figure out this whole town is wifi covered. But no biggie - blueberry cheesecake and cold coffee instead of lunch, as I wait for another downpour, thinking.

This is a lovely vacation, but so far it is my least favourite of all we've ever been to - last year the weather was almost worse and yet the room was so much nicer and the huge TV kept the General entertained while I grabbed the car and drove around the hilltops and explored the lakes and belleviews. We had another hike in the rain, from the Planica ski-jumping site to the Tamar cottage. We left the wallet in the car, so no pie and coffee there, which I compensated later by going to get some ... dunno the English word, if even there is one, but it was two sweet, cooked dough with filling thingies, with toppings - excellent alternative. The General thus earned not one but two BJs, and has barricaded himself in the room for the rest of the day, again. He is not as happy with rainy hikes as I am.

While we were out, the cleaning lady either oversaw or ignored our 'do not disturb' sign, or she was just really into inertia and couldn't live with herself by leaving a room unattended for three days - she vacuumed and changed the TOWEL (we had nine, we only used up one, as I have my own for the hairy bits, which I am used to and prefer), and changed our entire bed - even understood that I only used the linens to cover myself, because the duvet is literally too heavy - dunno what it is made of, but the weight of it distresses me. I have, though, taken a photo of the sleeping General, as he lay asleep, hugging the duvet and boxing himself in with pillows: he was like a blazing white rectangular snail with his hairy brown butt sticking out. I could eat that creature instead of a pie, he's so cute.  

.. Ah, I can see the rain coming in. Few more minutes ...

Anyhoo. Tamar is the third of these magical thin glacial valleys coming down from Triglav - the glacier carved a tub 14.000 or so years ago, and then the brittle white rock from the jagged rims around it kept crumbling, until it turned the valley V-shaped in the cross-section, with boulders, rocks and gravel packing the bottom and the river rushing underneath. It's less than an hour of a hike up to the cottage and after that, you need climbing gear, because the walls are nigh vertical all around. The last time I was here was around 15 years ago in the middle of winter, everything was completely foggy and white and my army buddy and I hiked alone through untouched snow - it took us almost three hours, the snow being easily thigh high. Plenty of routes branch out from the cottage checkpoint, though, and for those who enjoy that sort of thing, it must be the perfect enchanted kingdom. 

There was supposed to be a WWII bomber that crashed into these walls, of which only some kind of a pump remained. I don't remember specifically, but I think I saw photos of this B52 in the war museum few years back, how people tore it to bits to the very last screw: even the poor ill fortunate crew's parachutes were taken by the local women to make umbrellas, underwear and all kinds of tough-cloth related improvisations.

Since we had nothing in our pockets, I didn't bother going in to get the stamp. If I was allowed to grab the car, I'd spend this afternoon driving around all the places we passed, collecting the stamps for the leaflet that encourages you to visit all those places. I love cottage stamps, I'm just really inconsistent collecting them.  

... hm ... The nimbus diverted. I think I'll go grab the macro and hike up the cute little lake again. See ya!

Day 3

Today's destination was Vrsic - a mountain pass between the Russian road and Soca valley and Trenta - it's a 1600m pass, accessible by busses, when accessible. It's a pass that has the most fun anytime anyone tries to take it by force. It's windy and in fould weather, catastrophic. Peaks around it may appear humbke and fuzzy, but again - if you try to force it, you're f**. There are a range of cottages and stops on the way, and a lovely tiny chappel made entirely of wood, in the Russian Orthodox style, dedicated to the dead prisoners of war from WWI, who were kept here to build the road and got killed by an avalanche. I don't know the details, because these things upset me. But the churchling and the tiny park before it are truly lovely, so either someone felt very bad or someone really loved these people and was heartbroken not to get them home. There's a small separate grave to an 'Unknown Russian guy'. Dunno what he did to deserve separation. Don't want to find out.

Two post-adolescent girls serving drinks in the cottage where I tried to get us something were a challenge - so distracted by two flirting Checz offering them home-made slivovica (plum moonshine), it took one five minutes to make me cocoa, which, no, does not come in a glass, yes, it can be served in a mug, and yes, it is made with hot milk. Cute kids, but after a few shots of flirtation from cute boys, holy cow.  Who knew getting cocoa was such a challenge. It reminded me of that time I was in the habit of ordering MIXED pancakes (usually when they are offered, they are either chocolate, with walnut paste, or marmalade in these parts). And pancakes are tricky - some people are stingy as fuck serving them, you get two thin tiny dead flaps of tasteless dough with store-bought jam and that's it. Horrific. But, they can come as an almost religious experience. And some would not bat an eye, just bring me three different ones, others would just stop, mortified. 'What do you mean -mixed? How ... how would we charge for that?' Hm, charge the most expensive version and be done with it? Anyway, I stopped bothering people with my avantgarde fickleness. When I am on vacation, I am determined to enjoy anything they serve me.

* For anyone interested, as someone who is an Olympic champion of eating pancakes, I have a very well-developed criticism muscle when it comes to love put in a serving. It pisses me off when someone makes them as if they were garbage with chocolate on top. The best ones I have ever eaten, and on which all of which I make myself are based, were made by an unknown chef in a forgotten-name hotel on a December eve, where my army group went to have dinner. A shitty situation, I hated those people, and because I don't drink I never "relaxed", but whoever heard of my request for MIXED, went to town. They were: one large, not too thick, pizza-wide base (homegrown eggs, too, which make the dough golden as opposed to white), smeared with Nutella, folded twice, walnut paste and apricot jam (sour, yummy!) as toppings aside, ice-cream, whipped cream and butterflied slices of apples, peaches and pears, knife-thin, aside. Sprinkle of almond shavings and a pinch of cinnamon on the whipped cream.

Royalty.

The food in this hotel hasn't been the best, except for pizza, which finally I submitted to - and it was an excellent pizza: with blue cheese, sour cream, deer prosciutto and truffle paste toppings, on a base margarita with excellent crust. (I love the crust the most.)

While rolling around under the electric fence, something stung me. G had some burns, too, like he touched a poisonous plant, but there are not supposed

Day 2

Aaww, G is just the most adorable creature: he left the hotel room for exactly four minutes (needed to get something from the car in the lot) and still told me to lock myself in. Mind, this is a tiny, vintage, quaint center-town ski resort hotel cottage, owned by a family and peopled by other families. What exactly could happen to me here - I don't think there has ever been a violent crime in this town in the entirety of human history - in four minutes, I don't know, but that's G for you. He makes sure waterfall rain doesn't fall on me while I'm asking if he thinks spraying the face of a zombie with a fire extinguisher foam might be a good alternative to killing them, to render them disoriented. 

Day two: we offed to the base of our tallest mountain, Mount Triglav (Three-head), named after a patriarch deity, up a valley called Gate. It's a glacial valley, carved and young, though very small and of course no sign of the glacier exists any longer, except for the occasional polished round boulder. It's a bathtub of tall spruces, black soil and endless little white rock/gravel. A small rock avalanche thundered down the face, but never reached us. A tiny river as pure and bright as a stream of emeralds tumbled along us. Quite a lot of people took on ahead, set for climbing Triglav, some already returning, but the majority just only ever does as we did: hikes to the start of the ascend and marvels at the perennial pockets of dirty snow, deposited in the niches where sun never shines.

Getting home, we napped a bit and then I offed to photograph some old railroad bridges but got nowhere. The bandAid I wrapped my little finger around to protect the nail, gave me a blister on another toe, so about an hour into an easy walk, I called G and said I wanna gave diner. I made it back to the room at the exact same time the clouds rolled over the ridge and a downpour started. It rained so much everyone from the covered gallery of the restaurant moved inside, as the roof solved nothing, the rain was too strong. I had gnocchi, but they weren't very good. Then we cuddled and watched a documentary about Mont Saint Michel, which made me think I should invest in a drone.

Pickies to follow. We actually had a bit of sun, before the pour. 

Day 1

It took a bit, but I have finally calmed down. I mean, I am still restless, neurotic and naggy, but that's closer to a normal me than the one nearing a catatonic mental gear lock. We set out yesterday morning, while Rockstar and my sis's BF took over the maintenance of the vineyard in our absence. At first, it was difficult and I was mortified by everything. Every time I had a moment of happiness, I burst into tears. I shook and trembled constantly. We had coffee in the old town of Radovljica, drinking from awesome handmade rustic cups with golden spoons, while a far old ginger cat basked near us on a vespa. (Having coffee in the morning sun is pure happiness, so: hysterical sobbing.) We visited an Apiary museum, which, since we know so much about bees, felt much smaller and rudimentary than we remembered it. But no matter, I love that museum. Finally, we arrived at our cottage hotel in Kranjska Gora and while the General passed out after lunch, I offed to visit lake Jasna, strolling happily around the Triglav national park. 

Shroomies pt 1.

These past couple of days, some parts have been perfect. Yesterday we were feeding the bees and these insanely beautiful clouds danced all around us - one moment fog, another moment the cloud snake in the valley, then puffy dense pillows rolling over crystal clear summer hills, with the sun setting behind. These things can't be described, repeated, predicted or even photographed. They were mesmerizing, though. And today, I treated myself to a camera-walk, although I don't take it out very often any longer, and I spent hours on end doing one of my favourite things, just macro-ing moss and dew on lichen. I even had a text conversation with mum, which seemed to be going great, until she, as she does, succumbed to an unstoppable urge to celebrate my birthday by draining a litre of vodka, and the day went to shit. Fuck I'm sad and scared because of her. She truly strives to ruin good for me. And I feel so bad, I feel so sorry for her. Unfortunately, my psyche isn't strong enough to shrug it off. The day was ruined by noon and it never picked up again. Though I would normally love to pack our bags, I told g to not expect me to cater to him this time. We had to get ourselves tested and several other stuff happened, but I seriously just don't care anymore, I don't even remember most of it. My brain needs to park in the land of shroomies and sunshine. The soul won't last much longer unless I find a way to care less, bracing for the worst. Over and over again. The best days and the worst. I'm so tired.

Rain ... raiiinn rain ... Sweet rain.

I've missed you. Of course, this is the one week of the year when G and I are supposed to go someplace nice and just chill, so of course, it started to rain at the same minute. But no matter. I've missed the rain. I got up at three tonight to listen to when it will start to rap on the street, gently and playfully. (I know, I know, I'm not much for sleeping as it is. But it still sounded nice.)

We've crossed taking the bikes with us - going to the mountains - due to a shitty forecast, taking chess instead, but I am wondering about taking the camera. Even today I was supposed to go to the woods - as per my new timetable - to shoot some moss. I may have to take some rain-proof hiking boots instead. Those should be fun, considering my feet have been in flippy floppies all summer and hate being trapped in shoes. 

Ah, mountain vacation in the rain. Who needs sunny seaside towns, ice-coffee and fishermen fixing their nets on old pier ruins and temples when you can have freezing drizzle in August?

I invented a prayer.

Ah, General. OnlyFans got shut down and he asked, carefully, if this will have any say on our financials overall. :D This, coming from a man whose page history I once combed through and found an endless array of searches on cars, trucks, ploughs, Canada, guns, car dealerships, hunting legislations, videos about trucks, taxes, how to do your own taxes, stretching exercises for old knee injuries and videos about ploughs in Canada. 

My mental health has upped a little, I've stopped losing hair and the swelling of the right leg is under control. Might have had a bit of a breakdown the other day and we may need a few new pieces of furniture (and can't find one of the cats) but I've also been sleeping more and have arranged a timetable for my week for when we come home from the trip. Such that it leaves me at least two if not three days per week for non-work related stuff and dealing with family. My family is, after all, the sort of a family if I suffered a nervous breakdown, they'd say I'm a pathetic drama queen needy for attention, because nobody likes me, and the only one feeling responsible would be G, for failing to protect me from them. Normal family stuff. 

A couple of years back one of my old professors asked what is the one thing I want more than anything in the world. I responded I'm not a ficus, I can have more than one ambition at a time. But today I figured it out.

I want the opportunity, at an old age, to find such calm and clarity regarding emotions, spirituality, intellect, financials, social interaction, seasons, such stability as to have my days spent without any need to regard the future, and justify all the past sacrifices, struggles, discomfort and restraints, and exist at liberty to contemplate mortality and the beauty of life all around us. In short, I want a small cottage, surrounded by woods, where I can see the sunrise and a goat and my old husband and my old self can do nought but talk to dogs, eat pie and compare who has fewer teeth and who less hair. 

But we're not there yet. Some social discomfort and personal sacrifices yet to go, and time is running wild.