I passed these women each morning in this southern Bulgarian beekeeping village. Evgeni got up early to care for his garden apiary, he being a third generation beekeeper. I hooded myself to watch closely as he smoked out the bees. Yes, sometimes he was stung but was nonplussed as he moved to scrape golden honey from the screens. We then walk in early sunrise to a small cafe, passing these women—friends, sisters—and stopping to greet the men on their bench by the cafe.