Ruza

Sometimes its takes one awhile to find the heart of a place, to find your way to where it makes an imprint on who you are and who you are becoming. It took me awhile to really enjoy Athens but in retrospect I think that was due to my own immaturity. I didn’t yet understand how new places can reveal new parts of yourself. And yet, now, I always think fondly of my experiences
there, knowing that the good and the bad have shaped who I am today.

Istanbul took me about five minutes to fall in love with, partly because the chaos of the city takes a hold of you and partly because of its attitude of indifference, a quality I respect in both people and places. Istanbul hits you over the head and really doesn’t care if you like it. It says ‘this city has been her for 7,000 years, been the capitol of four different civilizations, we don’t need you.’ But of course I did like it, loved it and was sad to leave.

But I’ve now officially fallen in love with Ruzomberok. I’ve found the essence of this boring small town in Central Europe. There. I’ve said it out loud. It took me awhile, and we’ve definitely had our differences, but I think we’ve reached an understanding. In the beginning I think I wanted Ruza to change for me. I wanted more to do, I wanted more places to be open after noon on Saturdays, I wanted a disco where I wasn’t comfortable going in sweats, I wanted some fashion, some fancy food, some beautiful men. I wanted a slice of cosmopolitan life. Well, that it ain’t.

In all the places I have lived, my balconies served to open my life up to the world. My perch where I felt safe and secure but due to my perspective, could watch and learn without having to participate. I’ve loved participating, loved learning new cultures and finding my place among the natives, but it’s tiring. Sometimes you just need a book in English, or a drink, or a place to rest without struggling through tongue acrobatics and new words, or fumbling through Pidgin English, pantomiming your way through conversations. So my apartments overseas have been important, and more specifically so have my balconies.

My first apartment in Greece was on the top floor of a private home. My landlord lived below and I used to hang out with him as he drank whiskey and coke and pontificated on the merits of Dove soap. He was always there for me, not really for anything specific but consistent. We never really talked about anything significant; he wasn’t my shoulder to cry on or my ear to just listen when I needed to talk. It’s more that he was present and sometimes that seems to be enough. Plus, he normally had his pants half undone so he made me laugh. The house was white with dark blue shutters and I would open them and sit on the ledge, looking out onto our enclosed garden and watch Manolis’ daily friends stop by; all of them, just as anxious as he to waste away the afternoon drinking Nescafe or whiskey and talking about whatever crossed their minds. I’d hear them from my lookout, my own private villa, my respite in the craziness of Athens.

My second year in Athens I had a real balcony, three of them actually, that looked out onto a courtyard where a turtle and a dog would play, where every neighbors underwear hung in the sun, and family fights or singing traveled through the air and my open door. On days I wasn’t up for the beach, I would sit in the sun on my balcony, letting the cool air sweep through my flat and read my book. (Yes that was my life)

In Istanbul, I had a penthouse apartment in the heart of the city where I would look out between fiber glass windows to the Bosphorous and watch the tankers come in and out of the city, watch the sun go down, reflecting on the mosques, and hear the muffled call to prayer that wailed in and out of my daily life, sometimes noticed, sometimes not. I could feel the pulse of the city cloaked in chaos. I could hear the sounds of condensed living; cars and buses and motorcycles on the nearby thoroughfare honking and yelling, the aluminum collectors with their deep moaning announcements and rickety carts, the kids playing soccer in the street, the women yelling out windows for orders of bread and milk.

Due to the weather here in Ruzomberok, my balcony has only been recently discovered. I’ve known it was there, waiting for the snow to melt and the sun to come out, reflected on the nearby mountains. I have half of a fantastic view from my kitchen and living room. Above a recycling center in my back yard, stands low mountains, bare of trees in patches where sheep graze and our team cross trains.

Daylight savings came the last week in March and the sun opened up to welcome the yearly milestone. It was a beautiful day as I walked around the city, stopping for coffee and marveling at the green hills bright in the afternoon. The river through town was flowing fast from the melted snow and everyone had a lightness to their movements, awakening from the long winter hibernation.

I sat on my balcony in the evening, basking in the sun and the extended daylight. The energy of the town was palpable, kids playing basketball at an outdoor hoop in the next apartment building, old women stopping to talk with grocery bags weighing them down, laundry set outside to dry in the warm air. People with roller blades stopped at newly reopened ice cream stands. It was magical to watch the sun settle on the hills behind my house.

It’s wonderful to have longer days. Before the time change, I walked home in the dark, the streets deserted and warm light emanating from apartments serving as the only sign of life. Everyone spent the cold, dark nights at home, safe in their cozy houses with no desire or energy to do much else. The day was done by the time I left the gym.

But now, the evenings are long and relaxed and people take their time settling into their houses. I walk home now witnessing the slow approach of night. It’s comforting to see people winding down, stopping to talk to neighbors or grabbing ice cream or coffee at outdoor cafes with friends. I can watch the closing of another day from my balcony.

It feels good to have found my place here. It’s like a little accomplishment that is only for me. Basketball has been great too but that’s my job and there are a lot of other people that play into that success. But being happy here has been mine, a goal that I get better at each day, a challenge that has forced me to find myself and be open to all this world has to offer.

I’m more aware now of what a challenge it is to open yourself up. I don’t mean to go play or work overseas, anyone can do that. I mean to live every day with a vulnerability that allows you to find yourself. And to do it while you are overseas is the ultimate challenge. It’s different from traveling. Traveling you have a set amount of time and an expectation for adventure. You have a self-administered license to extend yourself, to step out of your life and be someone else. Hell you are even paying for that opportunity. But when you are doing it as part of your life, it’s a very different experience. Its not just that there isn’t a time limit, its that mentally you know its the true you that you are offering up.

And it’s so easy to be negative when things are difficult or new or different. It’s easy to think you are above things or better than other people. It’s a choice you make to protect yourself but it only serves to close you up. I’ve shed that part of me. I came here with a good attitude; I was intent on being able to make a life, convinced there are good and wonderful people everywhere. But then reality hit and actually making a life and find good and wonderful people was easier said than done. I spent the first week with no one to really talk to and my optimism waned a bit. I flirted with the idea of building up walls within me.

I recovered and spent most of the next few months alternating between attempting to be positive and struggling to not be too negative. There were ups and downs of course but I felt like I was on a solid path, aware that I wasn’t living in the hub of entertainment but intent on making the most of it. I slowly shed my big city girl narcissism and started to accept that there were benefits to living a small town life.

I also have learned that I am a bit of a contradiction, maybe another thing we learn to accept as we gain life experience. We are taught to find definitions for ourselves and others, to classify, to describe with certainty. And yet, I find I am both a small town girl and a big city girl. I love that I can look out from my coffee shop in town and see rolling hills totally uninhabited, snow capped mountains off in the distance and nature hugging this life of mind. And I realize that this small town atmosphere, of going to the same restaurant where everyone knows my name is something I search out in my life, whether that is in a city or town. I love meeting new people; I love the excitement of diversity around me, interesting subjects, people, vocations, stories, culture. But I also love a place where I know the regulars, where I can go alone and find someone who already knows my stories.

Basketball helps a lot for sure. Having people that love you and appreciate you always makes life better. But it’s more than that. Most people don’t know I am a basketball player or don’t care. Only at the games do I really get attention for my basketball accomplishments, and that is just fine with me.

That being said, our fans are the best. They run up and ask for my autograph every game, pull out camera phones and sneak over the rail to take pictures, they draw me pictures, give me stuffed animals and pottery and love me even when I play like crap. They try to speak English sometimes or shyly reply when I ask them something in Slovakian. They are ridiculously cute. The other day a girl ran up to me with a pen, excited and out of breath. She asked me if I was number 21, which I’m not, and immediately ran away when I told her who I was. Love it. I love how kids have their favorite players even when it isn’t me. It’s the innocence of watching sports as a kid and the innocence we are all trying to recapture.

The mentally handicapped are my favorite though. There are about 6 of them that come faithfully to every game. They have newspaper clippings and posters and ask us to sign things even if we’d already signed it the game before. Their enthusiasm is contagious so I say the three phrases I know in Slovakian as they rattle off responses I can’t understand as I nod and say ‘good’ over and over. We all took pictures on the court last game, each one of them waiting their turn to take an individual picture with me. I wish I could convey to them that I was equally excited to take a picture with each of them. It’s tough to feel too bad about a horrible game when you have them waiting for a high five after every single match. It’s humbling; it reminds you that what you do as an athlete is both totally insignificant and yet can mean everything.

I think I appreciate adoration more now because I know that it isn’t going to last forever. I know that when I finish basketball no one is going to be asking me to sign their arm or take a picture with me as I am picking my kid up from daycare. I know that its ephemeral, that it should be, and that these are sweet morsels of memory that I will take with me when I leave here.

But honestly it isn’t about basketball. It helps because its keeps me busy, it gives me a group here, a purpose, and a chance to feel productive. But it’s been more about the comfort of finding my place in this very foreign land. It’s not a Greek island; people aren’t smiling all the time over iced coffee or inviting you into their Turkish carpet shop for tea and kebab. Like I’ve said before, Central Europeans make you earn it a bit more. And maybe that is why I feel a sense of accomplishment; things always mean more when you’ve worked for them. And finding my place here has been work so now I find myself very much enjoying the fruits of my labor. What can I say? This little mountain town has grown on me.