When the weather gets hot, hOT, HOT!...

The kids get bad, bAD, BAD! They want vacation. I want vacation. It's basically time to ride out the year with all of our egos (and our mental health) in tact. I can not say my first year of teaching was a failure, but it was not a brilliant sucess either. I have resigned myself to the fact that the most memorable, inspiring moments of my Bulgarian career will not take place within the classroom -- a fact that is somewhat disheartening considering that, in effect, that's where they're are SUPPOSED to happen...I am here as a teacher, no?

But that's how life goes. No sense in kicking yourself about yesterday.

Becca VS The Bulgarian Postal System continues.....

I had my birthday on Saturday. Since so many people looove me in America, I got 4 packages the week leading up to the big day. Four packages?!...I said. How can I carry four packages on public transport back from Yambol?!

So I employed the help of my Bulgarian friend Peter. I mainly needed him for his extra arms and muscles, but he also has a car...which came in very VERY handy. Turns out he also has wicked Bulgarian skills (being Bulgarian) and can lay the smackdown. But I digress...

On Wednesday morning I met him at the bus stop and we drove to Yambol. It was too early to get the boxes (there is, as I have mentioned, an hour window in which to retrieve them), so we left the ticket stubs with a security guard and took a bit of a walk. Once 10:30 came, we headed back to where I have always gone for boxes. There was no one around, and I think GREAT! Fast.

The ladies in the room where I always get boxes looked at me strangely. I told them I had a package to pick up. They told me to go into the next room as if it had always been that way and I must have had some brain damage to not know this.

Now I will digress a moment to explain this switch. All winter, when there was snow and coldness all around, we were forced to wait outside on the loading dock until it was our turn.

With this new room, however, we are forced to wait in this cramped little mailroom where people go to pick up mail from their PO boxes...It's hot now. All winter we froze on the dock, and now we are sweating our bums off inside this tiny mailroom. But hey, it makes sense...no?

Anyway, back to the story. All through this, Peter is flabbergasted. He can't believe I have to go to Yambol. He can't believe the time and day restrictions. He can't believe they keep yanking the procedure around and changing it on me. When we finally got called into the room (after waiting behind tons of others confused by the new system), Peter found his final straw.

The customs man was there.

This is the man made infamous by my "I am a terrorist because my parents mailed me a Koran (which was actually a children's book)" incident. He hadn't been there in a while, but this time I had ammo. I had Peter.

As soon as we walked in, Peter vocalized his displeasure at the system. The customs officer got his panties in a twist and began to tell Peter exactly why he was wrong and exactly how much power he, the customs officer, had. He then began to look through the books to find my boxes' paperwork.

He couldn't one of the packages. I showed him on the floor where four packages with my name rested. He told me I had three packages in the books. I told him I had four packages on the floor. He showed me the page in the book. I showed him the package on the floor.

In his customs officer snooty voice, he told me he would have to investigate. I told him one final time that there it was, my package, on the floor, with my name, and they had it. In the meantime, he said without even acknowledging that I had spoken, he would begin to search the contents of the boxes.

This, THIS got Peter angry. When the customs officer opened the first box, he pulled out the customs slip of contents and began trying to sound out the English words. There were two words: Books and Candy.

Inside the box was a cake mix, a tub of icing, some random candy items, a wrapped gift that felt like books, and a box...of...tea...

The customs officer grabbed everything out one by one and asked what it was. I explained the cake, the wrapped books, the candies. Then he unearthed the BOX OF TEA.

"What is THIS?!" he literally yelled at me.

"It's tea," I told him. Peter looked like he was about to go postal.

"Is THAT books or candy?!" he demanded.

"OHHHH!" Peter interjected. "Yeah, tea is really bad! Tea is a problem!"

"It was not declared!" the custom's officer yelled.

"It's TEA! You aren't even supposed to open packages!" Peter argued.

"I can open any package I want to! I can open ALL packages!" the customs officer yelled.

Not sure if that was true or not, Peter said, "FINE! Check these!" He proceeded to shove the rest of the stack towards the officer.

The customs officer had met his match. "Get out of here," he said.

The nicer lady next to him interjected lightly..."She needs to sign for them."

I put down my signature, picked up half of the boxes, Peter got the other half, and we bolted out of the room.

Let me say this much...I hate the Yambol Post Office.

How to Have a Bulgarian Birthday

1. Get lots of food (it's your treat...You lucky Birthday-Person.)

2. Get a box of chocolates to give out to people. Scratch that, get FIVE boxes of chocolates. (There's a lot of people!)

3. Put on your best smile and listening cap. People will string together some of the most beautiful (and detailed) blessings you will ever receive, all the while shaking your hand and leaving you with no choice but to nod and smile blankly and murmur, "Merci. Merci."

4. If your birthday falls on graduation, put on a nice outfit and hit up the prom. They will sing to you, stand and applaud you, give you flowers, request your favorite slow Bulgarian song and dance with you. They will give you (and all of the other teachers) whiskey and rakiya, and have you drinking until you can't feel your teeth.

5. Wear comfortable shoes for the 30-minute horos through the restaurant, the garden, the parking lot, and back through the restaurant.

6. Prepare yourself to dance the Twist, for when the DJ finds out a real live American is in the audience, he or she WILL play it.

7. If you go to bed at 2 a.m., do NOT get up at 6 a.m. to catch an 8-hour train ride.

8. If on that 8-hour train ride a couple comes into your first-class compartment with a box full of baby chickens, do not be alarmed. This is normal.

9. Celebrate with Americans at some point. It's super-fun to speak English.

10. If you can find a rugby party with unlimited beer and wine, go to it. But make sure it has a working sound system or else you will end up singing '80s chick songs to a crowd of strange (and drunk) Frenchmen.

11. Be thankful for your friends -- American and Bulgarian....In America and in Bulgaria. They make you feel loved.

Disclaimer for Pending Inactivity

I have frequently been MIA as of late, but this week I will be more so. This weekend (Friday through Sunday) I will accompany the recently-graduated 12th class on their trip to northern Greece. Once we return home I will get myself to Sofia, and from there to Bobov Dol, for three days as a resource volunteer for the new trainees. I am looking forward to meeting the fresh faces who have not yet been mangled and hardened by a year in the Bulgarian education system. If I can say one thing that they carry on throughout the coming year I will have suceeded. Wish me safe travels, and I promise a lot of cool pictures later.

A Murder Mystery for Ninth Grade

Here is a little skit I wrote for my ninth graders to learn. Not the greatest in history, but it's something...

Detective: Are you Mrs. Collins?
Mrs. Collins: Yes, I am Detective. I’m glad you’ve come.
Detective: Where is the body?
Mrs. Collins: In the kitchen. Just this way, sir.
Detective: How did you know the victim?
Mrs. Collins: She was my sister, Katherine. She was visiting from New York.
Detective: When did you last see her?
Mrs. Collins: Last night. We ate dinner at 8 o’clock, and then she went to sleep. She wasn’t feeling well.
Detective: When did you find her?
Mrs. Collins: When I woke up this morning. I went to the kitchen to make breakfast. She was lying on the floor and there was blood everywhere. That’s when I called the police.
Detective: Have you touched her?
Mrs. Collins: No.
Detective: Do you know anyone who wanted to hurt your sister?
Mrs. Collins: No! She was very kind, very happy. She never hurt anyone!
Detective: Was anyone else in the house yesterday?
Mrs. Collins: Our other sister, Alison Williams was here with her husband, Roger. Oh, and my friend Amanda Jameson was here in the afternoon.
Detective: I will have to talk to all of them.
Mrs. Collins: If you want, I can call them.
Detective: Very well. Tell them to come to your house.
Miss Jameson: Good morning. Are you the detective investigating Katherine’s murder?
Detective: Yes I am. You must be Miss Jameson. Pleased to meet you.
Miss Jameson: It’s quite horrible, isn’t it? Katherine was such a wonderful woman.
Detective: Yes she was. Please sit down. I have some questions to ask.
Miss Jameson: Of course. I will do anything I can to help.
Detective: How did you know the victim?
Miss Jameson: I am her sister’s colleague, and we were friends.
Detective: What were you doing at her house yesterday?
Miss Jameson: It was her birthday. We had a small party at lunch. Just Katherine, her sisters and her brother-in-law.
Detective: What time did you leave?
Miss Jameson: I left around 4 in the afternoon. I had work at my office.
Detective: When did you finish the work?
Miss Jameson: Oh, I don’t remember. Probably around 10 o’clock.
Detective: Where did you go after you left the office?
Miss Jameson: I went home and got in bed. I was very tired.
Detective: Did anyone see you go home?
Miss Jameson: My doorman. We talked for a few minutes before I went upstairs to my apartment.
Detective: Thank you. That’s all I have to ask at the moment.
Miss Jameson: Let me know if there is anything else you need. Here is my phone number.
Detective: Thank you. Good-bye.
Mrs. Williams: Hurry Roger! I need to see Laura!
Mr. Williams: I’m coming, sweetheart. Please calm down.
Mrs. Williams: Calm down?! How can I calm down? My sister was killed!
Mr. Williams: I know, Amanda. But you need to breathe.
Mrs. Williams (sees the detective): Oh sir! Are you the detective?
Detective: Yes ma’am. May I ask what is your name?
Mrs. Williams: I am Amanda Williams, Katherine’s older sister.
Detective: Oh yes. And you must be Roger Williams.Mr. Williams: Yes sir. Where is Laura?
Detective: She is in her bedroom. She has had quite a hard morning.
Mrs. Williams: I will go to her.
Detective: Very well. I will just ask your husband some questions. (Amanda leaves.) Now, I understand you were in this house yesterday.
Mr. Williams: Yes. Amanda and I came to celebrate her birthday. We all had lunch together.
Detective: When did you leave?
Mr. Williams: I was the first to leave. I went to the dentist around 1.
Detective: What did you do after the appointment?
Mr. Williams: I did some work at home. I don’t really remember.
Detective: So, you were at home all evening?
Mr. Williams: I think so. I really don’t remember.
Detective: Well, if you remember anything, please call me.
Mr. Williams: I will. Let me find my wife.
Detective: Thank you…I have some questions for her. (Roger leaves. Amanda comes.)
Mrs. Williams: Can I help you Detective?
Detective: Yes ma’am. What time did you leave the party yesterday?
Mrs. Williams: Oh, I stayed with my sisters until the evening. I suppose I left around 6, just before they ate dinner.
Detective: And was your husband at home when you returned?
Mrs. Williams: No, he wasn’t. I think he was at his office.
Detective: He said he came home after his dentist appointment and stayed all evening.
Mrs. Williams: Really? No, no. He wasn’t home when I returned. I made him dinner, but he never came back.
Detective: After the party, when was the first time you saw your husband?
Mrs. Williams: In the middle of the night. He came in while I was sleeping. I woke up for a few minutes, then fell back to sleep.
Detective: Interesting. Does this happen often?
Mrs. Williams: Well, yes. My husband works a lot and often stays at his office until night. It is not unusual.
Detective: Mrs. Williams, do you have keys to your sisters’ house?
Mrs. Williams: Of course. Oh my god, do you think my husband murdered my sister?!
Detective: I didn’t say that. Mrs. Williams, I think we need to talk some more….

Becca's Return to Music, Music's Return to Becca

Musica. Music.

I have often heard math geeks say that theirs is the international language. But for me, it is not. For me, the international stabilizer is music.

For those of you who have known me only in the Peace Corps sense have no real idea how much the rest of my life has revolved around music. My mother is a music teacher. My grandmother was a professional organist and choir director. I have been singing since I could talk, and I learned how to read music along with reading words.

I have been good enough a musician to make it into some really good groups, but I am not good enough to be considered "good." I sang in four All-State choirs. I went to an extremely musical college and sang with the amazing choir there. I even got to sing in Carnegie Hall with the All-Eastern choir when I was 16. I've done church choir, church handbells, community choir, marching band, concert band, recitals, music fesitvals, mucial theater.

Some of my happiest memories revolve around music, and nothing in this world has ever been able to calm my sometimes-uncontrolable nerves like singing in a choir. (Singing solo, however, can set my uncontrollable nerves on fire.)

But for the first several months of my time here in Bulgaria, I neglected this part of my personality. Everything was so new, I almost didn't notice the lack of it. The first time I noticed I was lacking something in my soul was during our In-Service Training in November when one of my fellow volunteers played guitar and sang during a break. It was such a comfort to me, I realized I had to work making music back into my life.

About a month ago, my chance came. It had come up in conversation that I have something of a musical background, and the music teacher at school approached me about playing or singing something for the school holiday this Friday. I said I'd be glad to, and I met her after school one day to play through a flute-piano duet.

It was the first time, the FIRST TIME, that I knew the Bulgarian I was with was experiencing the exact same thing I was. We were reading off of one peice of music, and it was a native language to both of us. She doesn't know English, and sometimes I don't know Bulgarian, but when we were sitting at that piano, we were both reading a language that was native to us. And it made me feel very, very close to her...very, very close to someone native to this chunk of rock I live on.

Last week she gave me a CD made by a choir in Yambol. I haven't had time to listen to it until today, so I popped it in while I washed dishes. The third song made me drop my rag and run into my living room.

I had sung it before. I think it's John Rutter, though I am not certain (it is one of the billion choral peices I have committed to this brain over the last 23 years). It is a rendition of the Pie Jesu text, a Latin text as familiar to this protestant as her native tounge. (There are some Latin texts used so frequently in choral music that over time you think of them as English.) And here is this Bulgarian choir singing a song that enters my brain as a sentence of my naroden ezik (mother tounge).

BUT, it is also a naroden ezik for those Bulgarians as well. They have probably sung that Pie Jesu text so much that it enters their brains as Bulgarian. When they look at a sheet of music, they see a bunch of lines with dots and tails.

If you put an American, a Bulgarian, a Chilean, a Belgian, and an Ethiopian together in a room and handed them a sheet of music, the same sounds would eminate from each of them. And they would be making sounds as familiar to them as their mother's voices. It doesn't matter if in one head the note "B" is pronouced "Bee" and in another "Beh" and in another "Bay"...it means the same thing to each of them.

In short, I have found music again. And I think it will make my second year here much richer, as it has in the other 23 years of my life.