We climb up and over a tall mountain and descend past paragliders and gypsies, blueberries and cranberries and cows— down down down, along a stream, to a little valley.

I stop at the third house I see. It’s wooden and yellow with paintings hanging on the outside walls.

Nick pulls up behind me. Looking at the house, we hear a voice behind us. I make to move on, not wanting to disturb her. Getting up from a bench in the shade, she walks over to greet us. 

Where are we from? Where are we going?

She is Христина, sounds like “Christina” starting with an H and rolling the R.

She invites us into the yard to eat mushrooms.

These mountains are full of mushrooms. We see mushrooms and mushroom hunters everyday. They bring them home and dry them and sell them by the roadsides. They offer them on every menu…