so there i was...

Farewell, Old Friend

2007-06-04T02:55:00.000-07:00

This is the official retirement of "so there I was..." It was a good blog. It did what I asked of it, even though I neglected it. It contains so much of the last two years, but at the same time lacks so much. It was there when I was frustrated, happy, bored, amused and verbose. Sometimes even angry. Sometimes even happy.

But one month from today, I will be eating hot dogs and drinking root beer and watching fireworks for the first time in two years. I will be jet lagged (I fly home July 3), but home.

I can't say these two years went by quickly. Perhaps, once I am home and the tiny details of my time in Bulgaria are blurred together in the stories I will tell over and over, it will seem like a blip. But sitting here, in this apartment, looking at my last month of service fill up with good-byes and final grades and last-minute trips, it seems like I have been here forever. I was 22 when I stepped off that plane, and now I am 25. That, dear friends, is no small chunk of time.

I am daunted by the prospect of starting over, again. I am daunted about trying to find a real job and move to a more permanent home (at least home-city) and set up a life. But I am ready to do it. I am ready to jump into the unknown again. I came to Bulgaria for the challenge, and I have taken all I can from it. I, in short, am burned out. Burned out, burned out, burned out.

For the past few weeks, I have been overwhelmed with moments where I want to be sitting on a plane, and moments when I just want to live this lifestyle forever. I want to leave, but I don't want to leave. I like being a foreigner, but I don't like being a foreigner. I like my solitude and freedom, but I miss living with people and having more constraints. I am so utterly ambivalent towards this month that I can hardly stand it.

So with this ambivalence, let me relate my one certain truth. This is my goodbye. I am signing off. It was good knowing you, and may this honest, rambling, sporadic and gap-filled blog represent my time in Bulgaria, out there in cyberspace, for years to come.

Crisis in Crimea and the Good Friday Miracle

2007-04-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

So, we recently had our spring break (which for my group is the last time we can really leave the country without a work excuse). I took the chance to go visit a friend, Sarah, in Ukraine. She had been a volunteer in my group but went home in the spring of last year and found a job teaching English in Kiev. We like to consider ourselves travel warriors, and I think we earned our stripes on this trip...

I arrived on Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon we caught a train from Kiev to Sevastopol, Crimea. The train ride was 19 hours, made better only by the fact we had beds in a 4-person compartment complete with sheets and tea service. We got to Crimea early Monday morning, found a hotel, and deposited our stuff before heading out to find a bus to Balaklava, a little town near Sevastopol that has an old Soviet nuclear submarine factory hidden in surrounding caves. It was while trying to find a boatride over to this factory that I realized I no longer had my wallet. Someone had stolen it, and with it $200 in Ukrainian grivna, my Bulgarian ID card, my Peace Corps ID card, our return train tickets, my only American debit card and credit card, my Bulgarian bank card, my return flight info, and most fatally, my passport. I had no money, no identification documents. Plus, in Ukraine, you need a passport to even by a train ticket, and I was as far from the American Embassy as one could be in Ukraine. In short, I was screwed.

Luckily I had Sarah, who had money and a Russian dictionary. We hightailed it back to Sevastopol, back to our hotel, and I emailed everyone in the PC Bulgaria office I could think of with my hotel phone number. Within half an hour, Sergei (the Safety Director of PC Ukraine) was on the line, arranging for me to meet with two volunteers in Sevastopol to go to the police station and report the crime. They were very new volunteers and barely knew Russian, but between my Bulgarian and amazing charades ability, we managed to get the job done and I was able to use the document to buy a train ticket for the next night.

Determined to enjoy Crimea while we were there, we spent the next day wandering Sevastopol, a wicked cool city with CRAZY Soviet military memorials (there is still a fleet of Russian Navy stationed there). Sarah and I are both avid lovers of Soviet military art, so we were in heaven. As evening rolled in, we caught our second 19-hour train ride in two days and headed back to Kiev to deal with "the situation."

When we got home the following afternoon, I had an email from Sergei...All it said was, "Your documents seem to be found. Call me immediately." After a small freak out, I called him and he told me to come to PC Ukraine office to discuss it. Once there, he explained that someone had called the American Embassy to report that he had found my passport, but he "seemed reluctant to hand it over to the police" in Crimea. According to Sergei, this guy wanted a bribe, which is against PC policy. He said that we would just have to try and convince the guy to go to the police and hand in the wallet. He set me up an appointment at the embassy on Friday (this was Wednesday), and told me to sit tight until then. Meanwhile, the president disbanded the parliment and there were protests everywhere, so we were told to keep a low profile and stay away from crowds.

Also, mom and dad managed to Western Union me some money, so that made me happy.

So, Sarah and I took in the sites of Kiev. There are some amazingly beautiful churches, as well as amazingly hideous statues of dead people. The most stunning statue sits on top of the "Museum of the Great Patriotic War (WWII)" and is called "Rodina Mat" (Motherland). She is sort of the Soviet Statue of Liberty, only she's tin, muscular like a bodybuilder, holding a shield with a hammer and sickle in one hand and a sword in the other, and is just hideous. We also went to this monastery where a bunch of monks lived in caves and died there and now they are put in glass coffins lining the walls of the cave...Tourism in Ukraine truly is bizzare.

On Friday morning I prepared myself to get a new passport...I had photos taken, I put $100 in my wallet, and we headed to the PC office. Serei wasn't there, but "my case" as they called it, had been handed to his assistant, Andrei. Andrei came out with the news that the man in Crimea who had my wallet was in fact a border guard, and since there is some sort of hostility between border guards and the regular Crimean police, he refused to hand my wallet over to them. He wanted to use "his channels." He said he had given my wallet to a colleague who was leaving for Kiev, and that it would be waiting at the embassy for me by 9am. We called the embassy, but no wallet. Andrei sent Sarah and I to the lounge to wait, and we waited.

At 1pm, precisely one hour before my appointment at the embassy, Andrei came to find us. The wallet was at the Borisopol airport outside of Kiev. In a PC van, Sarah and I made our way out to the airport, met with a security guard, and retrieved my debit and credit cards, my Bulgarian and PC IDs, my return flight info, and most importantly, my passport. This was Good Friday, and I call it my Good Friday miracle.

That night we met with some friends and celebrated. On Saturday we went to Chernobyl, which I might write about at some later date. For now, I would like to close saying when you travel in Ukraine, WATCH YOUR BACK.

Thracian Kukeri

2007-03-14T04:05:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh, Thracian Kukeri. If I was an evil spirit, however, I don't think I'd be scared...

Kukeri Backside

2007-03-14T04:03:00.000-07:00

The backs of my Kukeri...These bells, by the way, are LOUD.

Contrary to popular belief, I am alive

2007-03-14T03:40:00.000-07:00

I am so off on writing...I haven't written a Dover Post article in ages...I haven't written a blog since January. Part of this is because I am lazy. Part of it is that life doesn't seem so exotic as it did last year. Part of it is that senioritis has set in, and we are encouraged not to be negative about Bulgaria in public forums...But whatever the reason, this blog has been dying a slow death.

I can't promise a vitally healthy blog anymore, but I will try to include sum-ups of my last few months in the Balkans.

Since I last wrote I have had two visitors (training-mate Ethan and fellow Doverite Monica), gone to Istanbul, watched my town's Kukeri and bided my time at school. In short, have guests was fun, Istanbul restored my faith in the Balkans, Kukeri was amusing as always and school has gotten progressively less good. I have had to call my director in the middle of class on my cell phone to have her remove a student, another student and his mom almost killed another boy during a spectacular fight including a car (note: the guilty boy is still at school), no student has gotten above a 50% on any test I have given even though they get the test a week in advance, two boys almost broke my laptop sitting on my desk while I was walking around the classroom to check homework, and the level of whining and lying and cheating has hit fever pitch. I am soooooo ready not to be teaching anymore.

On the good side, the weather has been very nice, we had a couple of really fun holidays (including Baba Marta -- my favorite Bulgarian holiday), I have acquired 4 new pairs of knitted baba socks, I have a lot of fun plans that should make the next few months fly by if my wallet can handle it, and I have finally found Heinz ketchup in Sliven. All I have to say about the last part is IT'S ABOUT TIME!

So that's the update for now. Don't know when I'll update again. Until then, happy trails to you.

The Cat Came Back

2007-01-23T13:06:00.000-08:00

Well, she didn't so much "come back" as "I found her!"

I was sitting in my chair when I heard an unhappy meow from the ground 3 stories below my balcony. I decided it had to be Zaeka...

I grabbed a flashlight and a can of tuna and proceeded to lean in all of the open windows along the back of the basement dripping in tuna water. In the window directly below my downstairs neighbors, I heard a thumping in a pile of broken down boxes. I called her name, and heard the slighest meow.

After dripping some tuna water around the pile, I heard the creature working her way towards me...When she popped her head out I instantly knew it was her. It was Zaeka's adorable little head peeping out at me!

She was still pretty spooked, so I put the tuna in a place where she'd have to climb out a bit, then I literally grabbed her by the neck and manhandled her until I got her into the apartment. (Actually she recognized the door and immediately started bawling.)

When I put her down inside the door she meowed loudly at everything, as if saying hello to it after a long absence. Tail piqued, ears back, she slowly remembered the more comfortable, safe life she had lead with me.

For fear of a flea infenstation, I gave her a bath right after I fed her. That was where this photo was from. As you can tell, she was none to happy (and very cold afterwards), but now she's adjusting.

So, she's back. Yay.

Requiem for a Cat

2007-01-18T05:53:00.000-08:00

Zaeka (my cat, my companion, my headache and my main object of conversation) has disappeared. She bolted from me out of fear on Sunday during our "Get Zaeka Adjusted to Outdoors" romp, and the last I saw her she popped through a broken window into my building's basement. Where could she have gone, you ask? God only knows.

The search for Zaeka began immediately...I put food at the two places she could have entered or exited the basement. A neighbor who has the key to the basement opened the gate to let me walk around for a while. I called for her and psssted for her and got no response. The next day at school I had a collegue make a little advertisement for me to put on the building's doors. And I played the waiting game.

The search has had it's lighthearted moments. Tuesday afternoon a little boy from fourth grade rang my doorbell after school and shouted they had found her by the place where I had last seen her. I followed him with flashlights and some food and found a crowd of fourth and fifth graders huddled around the door trying to block her in. But when I decended the stairs and crouched in the corner where they had seen her run, I found nothing.

When I went back outside, I found a pack of ferral cats who all look exactly like Zaeka...I assume it was one of them that the kids saw. I was sorry to disappoint them so.

Everytime I go out, I walk by that broken window and call in to her. I wander the back of the building where she could have escaped through another open window...I'm sure the neighbors think I'm crazy. But they all ask about her, if I've found her. One couldn't ask for more friendly people.

But as it looks like she might be really lost...and I mean GONE...I will send this out into the world as a bit of a reverie for her.

She was a cat named "Rabbit." She liked sunny spots and the small of my back when I laid in bed, her pink nylon cube mom and dad sent from the States, licking everything, climbing the curtains, pooping when I had just cleaned the litterbox, sleeping on my radiator in the winter, and chirping at flies and other intruders.

She sighed when she settled...a deep, contented sigh. She ate very slowly. She put her ears back to hunt me. She wasn't scared to bite. She wasn't scared to scratch. When she was really pissed, she even spat.

She was not a gentle cat, but she was spunky. She was pretty, and I'm very sure she knew it. Wherever she is, I hope she overcame her fear of outdoors and is having fun hunting for real.

Goodbye, Zaeka. I hope all is well.

More Sliven

2007-01-12T09:40:00.000-08:00

Again, the view from the Sliven lift.

Isn't it lovely?

2007-01-12T09:38:00.000-08:00

Here is the view coming down the lift in Sliven. My god it was cold.

One-Hundreth Post! HOOPLA!!

2007-01-10T10:22:00.000-08:00

So my folks came to spend Christmas and New Years with me in Bulgarland. Aside from a few catastrophes, it was a good time. We schelped up and down the country, almost slid off of icy mountains, went na gosti to eat freshly-killed pigs, watched men in goathair dance around driving out bad spirits, slept with earplugs. Crazy.

While we were gone, I had my elderly neighbor stop in to feed and love on the cat a bit. I told her the catfood was in the fridge. I figured she'd run out, so I stocked up on some kremvish...

When I returned home, I saw three brown chunks of something sitting in her food dish. at first glance, I took them to be...feces. There was another blob on the floor, and with trepidation I approached it to discern what it actually was.

As I got closer, I caught wiff of mint. What the...?

Then it hit me. It was my Aunt Dori's fudge.

My Aunt Dori had sent along a tin of her chocolate-mint fudge with my folks for us to eat on Christmas. I had left the tin on the TOP of the fridge, and when the food ran out I guess Stoika thought it was cat food. FUDGE! CAT FOOD!

I got a good laugh about it, cut up some kremvish and watched Zaeka gobble down food she could actually eat.

The next morning I was woken by the sound of keys jingling in my door. I stumbled out of bed and opened the door to find Stoika trying to come in with a pan of banitsa (a Bulgarian pastry with cheese). She had made the banitsa for the cat, since there was no more food.

BANITSA! FUDGE! What do they FEED Bulgarian cats?!

Anyway, all's back to normal now. Zaeka's taken to sleeping on my back at night, and on the heater during the day. All's well with the world.

Aaaaand that was my feeble attempt to force myself to write. Happy 100th Blog. Check ya later.

Not for the faint of heart

2006-12-25T10:42:00.000-08:00

My friend Plamen sent me this photo to show me what my folks and I missed out on by coming into town a little too late. Bummer.

A more family-friendly entry

2006-12-25T10:37:00.000-08:00

This is where we were...Not too shabby.

Killing Pigs

2006-12-19T07:36:00.000-08:00

So, my kids are getting more and more geared to the coming vacation. This is obvious through their constant tangents, laziness and, let's face it, fist fighting.

But my 7b class got onto a pretty funny tangent today I let them run with for a while...But first let me recount a recent experience.

For those who are unaware, one of the long-standing Bulgarian Christmas traditions is the slaughtering of a family pig. It's a day of family togetherness, along the lines of going into the woods to find the perfect tree. Only this is in their yards, and it is much more...bloody.

I woke up this Saturday to the screaming of a neighbor's pig. Of course I rushed to the balcony to watch. It was a cold morning, gloomy, thick frost on the ground, but that made it perfect.

They were dragging the pig out of the pigpen, and he seemed to know what was coming. He was screaming and kicking and being more violent than any pig has the right to be. The men of the family brought him to the center of the courtyard and laid down on him to keep him still.

Then they began the cut. Across the throat. Slow, deliberate. The screaming is indescribable if you've never heard it. But then it happens...the moment of recognition and resignation. As the blood begins to collect on the cement, the crying stops, the thrashing slows. This might be due to the encroaching weakness from loss of blood, but I like to think that in some cosmic way the pig realizes he is fulfilling his destiny...This family has nourished him, and now he must nourish the family. The moment of death is obvious (a total-body jerk), and as soon as the pig is dead he is hoisted onto a table and the skin is blow torched off of his bones. His fat is stewed. His meat is divided up into portions. His ears are given to the kids to chew on. And when that family eats the meat it is not just meat, but rather an animal they raised and knew and cared for.

But enough of that...Back to my 7b class.

This is my class of 13 boys and 2 girls, and today was a very "boy day." While they were working in their notebooks, one kid asked another kid when his family was killing the pig. The other kid replied they had killed one over the weekend, and planned to kill another this coming weekend. Another boy asked one of the girls when her family planned to kill some of their rabbits. She said soon, to which another boy said that all of his family's rabbits had been taken down by some disease in September. The girl then looked at me and said, in Bulgarian, "Killing rabbits is the worst. They sound like children screaming."

The boys started to laugh at my mildly shocked expression and began to throw their killing stories out to me. One boy's family, apparently, had gotten their pig so fat this year that it would have taken too long to bleed out, so they shot him. (All the boys then started holding their arms like they had shotguns and went POW POW while laughing.) Another kid informed us that once his family had killed a pregnant pig, and the baby meat was the best he'd eaten ever. (The kids all nodded knowingly with this one.)

After I had had my fill of these killing stories, I forced them back on task for a while. But I can't help remarking that even though it wasn't an entirely productive class, it was an amusing one.

Good Christian Friends, Rejoice

2006-12-15T07:47:00.000-08:00

Good Christian friends, rejoice
With heart and soul and voice;
Give ye heed to what we say: News! News!
Jesus Christ is born today!
Ox and ass before him bow,
And he is in the manger now.
Christ is born today, Christ is born today.

Good Christian friends, rejoice
With heart and soul and voice;
Now ye hear of endless bliss: News! News!
Jesus Christ was born for this!
He hath opened heaven's door,
And ye are blest forever more.
Christ was born for this! Christ was born for this!

Good Christian friends, rejoice
With heart and soul and voice;
Now ye need not fear the grave: News! News!
Jesus Christ was born to save!
Calls you one and calls you all
To gain his everlasting hall.
Christ was born to save! Christ was born to save!

Hark! the Herald Angles Sing

2006-12-11T02:42:00.000-08:00

(Song 2....All three verses rock.)

Hark! the herald angles sing,
"Glory to the newborn king;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild;
God and sinners reconciled!"
Joyful, all ya nations rise!
Join the triumph of the skies!
With the angelic host proclaim,
"Christ is born in Bethlehem!"
Hark! the herald angles sing, "Glory to the newborn king!"

Christ, by highest heaven adored,
Christ, the everlasting lord;
Late in time, behold him come,
Offspring of the virgin's womb.
Velied in flesh, the Godhead see.
Hail the incarnate deity,
Pleased with us in flesh to dwell, Jesus our Emmanuel.
Hark! the herald angels sing, "Glory to the newborn king!"

Hail, the heaven-born Princ eof Peace!
Hail the son of righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Risen with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give us second birth.
Hark! the herald angles sing, "Glory to the newborn king!"

The start of something gooooood

2006-12-07T08:41:00.000-08:00

Being raised in both a musical and Methodist home (and one in which my father firmly believed in singing all verses of songs), hymns are as integral a part of my make-up as my blood type. It is no surpise, then, that I find the most inspiring texts for a Christian soul are the lyrics of old time Christmas hymns and carols.

Unfortunately, I believe that the tunes are so familiar to us they begin to loose their meaning. WHen was the last time you really truly listened to yourself singing a Christmas carol? When was the last time you thought about the meaning of the words, instead of just belting out the long-remembered melody?

In the interest of resurrecting these great works of Christian art in this, one of the great Christian seasons, I will daily (okay, maybe not daily, but frequently) update this blog with the text of one of my favorite carols. Read them and think about them. I hope they make Christmas more meaningful for you.

So, carol 1: It Came Upon the Midnight Clear
(text written by poet Edmund Sears in 1849, based on text from Luke 2:8-14) I like to pay special heed to the third and fourth verses.

It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold:
"Peace on the Earth! Goodwill toward men, from Heaven's all-gracious King!"
The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come with peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world.
Above its sad and lonely plains, they bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing.

And ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,
Look now! For glad a golden hours come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing!

For lo! the days are hastening on, by prophet seen of old,
When with the ever circling years shall come the time foretold
When peace shall o'er all the earth its ancient splendors fling
And the whole world send back the song which now the angels sing.

Let this be a lesson...

2006-11-30T06:22:00.000-08:00

In Russia, if you disagree with the people in charge you are either shot in your elevator or poisioned with radiation.

Therefore, it is not entirely my fault that in my Russian blood runs a strong sense of authority and even stronger vengence when that authority is crossed.

Thankfully, my Anglo-genetics have tempered this vengance and made it slower...My lines are not easy to cross. It has not, however, mullified the effect of the vegance when my inner Rusnak rears his ugly head.

My seventh graders have crossed the line. They BARRELLED across it actually...with their GSMs in class and MP3 players and incessant talking and asnine question-asking before I can finish explaining something, then asking me forty more times to explain what they missed while asking me the asnine questions. I can't explain things for the volume of "MISS! MISS!"es I get yelled at me. Kids get up and wander around the classroom, peruse the books, steal other kids' backpacks which starts another chorus of "MISS! MISS!," they cheat constantly and without shame or discretion. I feel like I walk into a snake pit every time I let them come in the room.

So today they were doing an extra credit assignment for the test we are taking tomorrow. I told them no cheating. They started wandering around the room looking at eachother's notebooks. I told them the next person who stood would get a 2 (an F), so they started to shout across the classroom. I told them the next person who shouted would get a 2. They started to throw bits of paper with the answers on them. They asked me how to do the exercises (even though the instructions are in Bulgarian and there is always an example) 40 times, and kept hollering "MISS! MISS" and mobbing me at my desk as I wrote the 2s for standing up and shouting.

And I flipped. The Rusnak turned himself on.

I screamed at them to get away from me, to sit down, to shut up and to read the instructions. I told them they had done it, and I was going to give each and every kid a different test tomorrow so they couldn't cheat even if they tried. I told them I would take their tests if I saw then looking at another test. They said I couldn't do that, and I said, "Watch me." A few of the most b*&%$# girls rolled their eyes and said they'd skip tomorrow (and in Bulgarian that means you can't give them a grade), so I told them that I would grade the Extra Credit like a test and put THAT on their grade report (I had already seen theirs and there was not one correct answer.) They just sat, stunned.

But I tell you, this Rusnak vengence is a very productive emotion. I will sit here and make separate tests of each of the 19 monsters if it takes me until classtime tomorrow to do it. The Rusnak will only be assuaged when I can see each of their faces when they realize that for the first time in their little lives, they will not be able to cheat their way through.

Of all the cultural differences I have overcome in my time here, the blatant cheating is something I will never, ever be able to condone. Maybe it is my innate Americaness that tells me you must succeed on your own merit (or at LEAST be called out and publicly humiliated when you cheat and therefore feel a great sense of shame and ruin, which is totally not true in Bulgaria), but it is what has made our country good. It is why we work.

As much as I would like to think I am embarking on this test to serve as a valuable tool to these uneducated Bulgarian kiddos, I fear I am mostly doing it to see the look on their faces when they realize they will be judged on their own merit, and will be found wanting.

Savior, like a shepherd lead us

2006-11-20T07:20:00.000-08:00

On the first day of school this year, a fellow teacher and I met on the path and walked the rest of the way together. We ended up having to cut a huge herd of sheep on their way out to pasture, and as we did it a huge smile lit up her face. When I asked her why she seemed so happy, she told me that it was good luck to cut through a herd of sheep, and since it was the first day of school, she believed it symbolized a good year for both of us.

For a while, I was inclined to succumb to this superstition. Compared to last year, this year has sailed by on gold-tinted wings. Apart from the loss of my best Bulgarian friend, this year I feel more competent in the classroom and can see some results.

But now I am loosing faith in the idea…I have cut a herd of sheep twice a day for the past week, and have not discerned any marked improvement in my luck. Perhaps it is all being packed away and saved in my kharma bank for something really amazingly wonderful, who knows. All’s I know is that I want it to happen soon…It’s tough tromping through the stink and fecal matter that is a Bulgarian herd of sheep without seeing results.

However, the sheep-watching has inspired some reflections on modern Christianity. Bear with me through this awkward transition.

As most westerners know, the symbol of the shepherd has often been used in Christianity to illustrate Jesus Christ. The parallels are quite beautiful…Both protect gentle creatures from danger. Both lead lesser beings to places of sustenance and goodness. Both are solitary and diligent. Both love their creatures, and both depend on them to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, maintain the health and balance of God’s kingdom, and provide company.

But the shepherds I have seen in Bulgaria are not this type of shepherd. Perhaps they do protect their sheep from danger, but they also smack them with sticks and curse at them in a language the sheep do not understand and cannot respond to. Perhaps they do lead the sheep out to pasture, but the pastures are very often polluted with garbage that other shepherds have left behind. Perhaps they do care for the sheep, but it is only because the sheep are their source of money and power.

I cannot picture Jesus using sticks to keep his people in line. I cannot seem him yelling and cursing at us when we’ve strayed from the path. And I certainly do not think Jesus saw mankind as a source to gain power.

But it seems to me that Christian fundamentalists in recent years have taken to this second image of the shepherd. The only differences are their sticks are laws to ban things they see as vices and sins, their curses are abuses and intolerances thrown at non-Christians, and the power they seek is in the halls of congress. Theirs is the “force them into the right path” shepherding rather than the “lead them to the right path” shepherding.

As far as I am aware, Jesus never lost patience with someone who questioned him in a logical manner. Jesus never told anyone they were less Christian because they questioned their faith. And Jesus certainly never used laws and force to keep his followers from straying. He lead by example.

But look at the example in the fundamentalist church. How many scandals are there—sexual, financial and social? How many acts of violence have been committed against those considered “sinners?” How many “religious” men have sought political, secular power (something Jesus neither wanted nor advocated) so that they can create laws (a secular, forceful kind of guidance) to push their own ideas and belief structures? It’s plain to see why average parishioners are confused…If in fact their leaders are leading by example, they are leading people to a very un-Christian place.

I hope against hope that one day they will return to the truly Christian, Jesus-inspired philosophy of shepherding.

Nothin' like a feast of boiled lamb

2006-11-12T04:27:00.000-08:00

On Friday morning, I got a phone call from the deputy mayor. He wanted to know if I'd like to accompany the municipality employees to the smallest of Straldja's villages for the community's holiday. Since I never turn down an invite to "the celo," I agreed and woke up early Saturday to meet them.

The day was perfect...One of those beautiful November days with a slightly warm sun, a low crisp breeze and not a cloud in the sky. We drove past all the dying fields and the mounds of overturned earth until we reached the far edges of our obshtina (municipality) and turned right. In the groove between two rolling hills lay a community of about 40 homes, a church and a shop.

The median age of people in Bulgarian villages is 60, and this one had a population of about 100 people. Most were kerchiefed old women or their husbands, whose skin had turned to leather after years of working in the fields. There were about two younger families, with kids who most likely use the village as a playgroud (I know I would have).

So the holiday went off as expected...There was a folk singer, old people dancing hours of horo, and the boiling of a freshly-slaughtered lamb. There was a dedication in the church where I got soaked by a bunch of holy water-drenched branches the priest was flinging around. And all the while, my camera was snapping away. (If I can manage to upload my video clips to YouTube, I'll link them here...This might be too high tech for me).

Around 2 in the afternoon I was tired of trying to discern country Bulgarian dialects and opted to return to town with the deputy mayor. There I hibernated until, well, tonight.

The changing face of America? Tell me, what is the face of America?!

2006-10-17T12:33:00.000-07:00

So, according to the census folks, we hit the 300 million American mark. Good for us...In a world where developed countries aren't having babies and semi-developed countries are loosing hoards of people to more-developed countries and undeveloped countries are just barely hanging on, we are growing. We are changing. We are ensuring our future, building our workforce.

But I know that many of us are worried. We're worried that the "face of America" is changing. We're worried that most of these births are in the minority groups. Huge chunks of that 300 million are foreigners, many of whom do not speak much English and "steal" American jobs because they'll work hard for less money than "real" Americans. Unknown amounts of those immagrants are in the US illegally. Amazingly, within our lifetimes, white European Americans will only amount to about 50% of the population. To many of us, that is a scary statistic.

But to those of us who feel this way, I say get over it. Every single one of the white European Americans living in the US are there because someone in their bloodline came to America in a group that the people already in America thought would bring down the country (how much did people fear and despise the Irish, the Italians, the Poles?) Each of these groups changed the "face of America," took jobs from existing Americans, and had a hard time learning English (yes, I am including the Irish in this.) With all these years of change, I would like to pose the question:

What exactly is the face of America?

If it can change, there must be one. But as far as I can tell, America is always changing faces. Once upon a time those faces were tan and wise and living in harmony with nature. Then some paler faces from Anglo-Germanic Europe came by and began to build a replica of the homes they left behind. They brought over darker faces to help them build their great society. Later Slavic faces and Hispanic faces and Asian faces and Latino faces and Green faces and Purple faces and (oh wait, this isn't a Dr. Suess book) came and all put themselves into the flow of the people already in America. They brought their food, their holidays, their languages, and all of it mushed together and made, apparently, a big pluralistic face. The Face.

But can't you see?...The Face is change. The Face expands and contracts and changes colors to accomodate the change. It always has, and it always will. To fear the change, to fear the pluralism, is to be unAmerican. It's who we are. It's who we've ALWAYS been. Without it, we are not America. Stagnicity would be the ultimate "change of face."

I am not saying it will be easy. It never has been. We will have to watch our resources (human, educational, environmental and financial) but to be honest, we should be doing that anyway.

I say that we celebrate this. We are now 300 million people...THREE HUNDRED MILLION PEOPLE! and that shows we will continue to be the same, interesting country we always have been.

Take THAT Yambol Post Office

2006-09-28T04:37:00.001-07:00

So my rage and frustration at the Yambol Post office has reached a head.

I recieved notice of a package last Wednesday at around 3 p.m. As you may already know, I have to go to Yambol between 10:30 and 11:30 a.m. Mon, Wed or Fri to pick up boxes. Like most normal people, I work Mon and Fri during those hours, and since I teach, I can't take the at-least-3-hours out of my day to catch a bus to town, wait in line, and wait for a bus back. Luckily, my director gives me Wednesdays free, so I usually go then. But this doesn't do me a whole lot of good when I get the notice Wednesday afternoon.

So the next possible day is Friday, a national holiday...A POSTAL holiday. The next possible day is Monday, when , oh yes, Becca has to work. The next possible day is Wednesday, but this won't do as Becca has to be in Sofia for a big presentation at the Peace Corps anniversary event.

Today, this afternoon, I'm sick and tired. I've made it through school, but have no real energy for anything else. I am sitting, sipping tea and watching some DVDs when my phone rings. The ladies in the place where I go to get my small mail are calling and say I received a slip saying tomorrow is the last day I can pick up my box. They are frantic. I go and get the slip...Which is marked in bright red letters the hours of operation, as if the problem I have is that I can't read dates and times. As if I don't care about my package and had no intention to go and pick it up.

I bid you to also remember that these people have opened my boxes without me present, have made me open them in front of them, have harrased me about children's books, have threatened to confiscate my things, and (someone) stole a box of Girl Scout cookies from me.

The good news in all of this is my super counterpart has agreed to take the classes I'll miss tomorrow getting this box.

AND, I have another good friend in Sliven, who has agreed to let me borrow her name and address so I never have to deal with these people again.

So, if you wish to send me a package over 2 kilograms (so, anything bigger than a padded envelope), send it to:

Christin McConnell
ATTN: Rebecca Grudzina
P.O. Box 347
Central Post Office
Sliven 8800
Bulgaria

Just let me know when you send it so we can be on the lookout. With this new plan, I won't have to go back to that hell on earth.

The Becca's Back!

2006-08-10T13:04:00.000-07:00

I returned to Bulgarland yesterday...It was a sweet reunion. I loved America, but it was nice to get back.

Being back home was more like being on the set of the movie of my life than my actual hometown...Things are how you remember them, but just not entirely normal. You see people you know, but they aren't in your current storyline. Unless you have been in the Balkans for a year and some change and then gone back to the states, you can't really picture it.

But anyway, we did have some good times in Dover. I ate every meal I like (I almost had to double up dinners) INCLUDING Thanksgiving with the extended family. (We now know why it is not a summer holiday...That turkey is rough when it's 100 degrees outside.) I helped my bestest friend find the dress I'll wear as Maid-of-Honor in her wedding next summer. I even got to DRIVE to Washington DC. Mmmm, driving.

But now I'm back, getting into a routine again. I cleaned everything but my kitchen today...That will be a task when I come to it. Tomorrow I plan to go swimming, so word. AND my Darien Book Aid books arrived while I was gone, so I spent all evening opening them up and getting excited about all the BOOKS. I LOVE books!

Okay, that's it.

Thank God for the Motherland

2006-07-20T08:41:00.000-07:00

I had the month of July planned to the day...literally. I was to go from my Fourth of July celebration at the beach to a week and a half at Roma camp (also at the beach) to an Anti-Trafficking in Persons conference in Sliven, to Sofia to pick up my parents, to a two-week schelp all over Bulgaria.

I made it as far as the Fourth of July celebration.

I had been having these stomach pins sporadically since March. As July hit, I was having one every single day. Finally, on July 3rd, I decided I'd had enough and emailed the office in the middle of the night. I figured I'd get an appointment right after camp, before my folks were due to come.

The next morning I traveled to Tsarevo to be with Americans on the Fourth, and the greater part of the day was spent having fun with Rachel. But sure enough, come evening, the stomach pain returned. I decided not to wait until the end of camp...I emailed Dr. Robert to tell him to put me in at his earliest convienence.

The next day he called and said I could get an appointment in Sofia on the 7th, so I decided to head home. I traveled back the way I had come only the day before, and watched my week at the beach slip away.

Thursday afternoon, the 6th, I traveled towards Sofia. The pain was back, making a pretty miserable 5-hour bus ride. I stayed at Hostel Mostel, which was not pleasant in my current condition. The next morning I went to the office for my exam, and they took me to some clinic for an ultrasound. Yup, it was gallstones. I'd have to be sent to the States for surgery.

That night I spent in Sofia with Monica, a fellow Doverite, and had the worst attack yet...After that, my stomach was toast.

Dear Dr. Robert sent me back to Straldja to wait for my marching orders from Washington. Rosie was very very helpful, as were all my older friends in town. But suddenly all food made me ill to contemplate, and I slowly got weaker and weaker laying in my apartment waiting, just waiting for that blessed call from Sofia.

Finally on Thursday it came. Dr. Robert told me to make my way to the office so I could go over all the paperwork and such on Friday. I took the 6:30 bus the next morning and halfway there, Dr. Robert called my cell phone. They had found a flight for me the next morning. The end of my agony was in sight.

I got to the office around noon and went through all the paperwork (man do they love paperwork). Since my flight was at 7:45 the next morning, they wanted me to sleep in the compound's Sick Bay so the driver could take me bright and early. As soon as it was dark enough to sleep, I got in bed and tried to sleep.

I think I worte about it before, but I must reiterate what a hoot it is to sleep in that compound, complete with two guards, a huge electric fence, bomb-proof doors and cameras in every nook and cranny.

The next morning one of my favorite PC drivers (the silver fox) drove me to the airport and wished me well. I got on a plane and nearly 4 hours later I was in Gatwick airport in London.

Coming out of the check-in area in Gatwick was like Rip Van Winkle waking up in the middle of Times Square. Everything was in English...no Cyrillic anywhere...The were huge stores everywhere, including ones with nothing but English books and eateries with a million kinds of soft drinks. For the first time in a week, I was hungry.

I didn't have any pounds (though I had fistfulls of leva and dollars), so I initially despaired. I was so hungry, and the sandwiches looked amazing. And they had GINGER ALE. And NESTEA. I wanted FOOD.

On a whim, I timidly walked up to a guy refilling the sandwich cases. 'Excuse me,' I asked.

'Yes?' he asked.

'Do you accept...credit cards here?' I said in the careful English I am used to speaking to my students (I never speak English to strangers anymore).

Well, he looked at me like I had asked him if they sold sandwiches there. 'Yes, of course,' he said.

I was in heaven. I could EAT! And use PLASTIC! I stood in line and waited for my turn. When I got to the front, I saw an apparatus like a card scanner in front of me. I asked how to use it.

The woman behind the counter grabbed my card and said, 'Oh, yoouuu don't have a chip.' She then scanned it in the register.

A chip? What in god's name is this 'chip' she spoke of?...I still don't know, but it made me wonder how long it had been since I was in a real Western country (the answer was over 15 months.)

After my little adventures in food, I caught my longer flight to Philadelphia. I arrived at 4-something p.m. local time, and met my folks. I wish I could say it was weird, but it wasn't. Sure the cars were nicer, there was no Bulgarian, the roads were huge and busy, but I think I pictured America so much in my mind's eye that seeing it for real wasn't a real shock. We'll see how it goes after a few days.

A Ploy for Comments

2006-07-01T10:35:00.000-07:00

This was started by Melody. Answer it or else...

Leave a comment with your name and:
1. I’ll respond with something random about you.
2. I’ll challenge you to try something.
3. I’ll pick a color that I associate with you.
4. I’ll tell you something I like about you.
5. I’ll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
6. I’ll tell you what animal of which you remind me.
7. I’ll ask you something I’ve always wanted to ask you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on yours.

The Long-Expected Beast

2006-06-29T12:29:00.000-07:00

This here entry is a huge entry about a trip which took place at the beginning of this month.

This is the story of one Peace Corps volunteer’s journey to the far reaches of her host country with a gaggle of her crazy students and colleagues. Some parts of the following epic might be inappropriate for readers with weaker stomachs or overly-sensitive sensibilities. Be forewarned.

The Departure
We left at 6:30 a.m. from Hotel Hemus in the town center. The bus was clean, the students showered and alert even at that time in the morning, and the course mapped before us.

We followed the main road through town towards the Balkan foothills that lie directly to the north. As we began our summit, I learned a new verb: povrushtam. Translation: to vomit.

The plain-raised, rarely-traveled kids took to the mountains like horses to water. It started with Yoli, one of the girls in my fifth grade class. Her classmate, Mische, tugged on my arm. “Gospozho, Yoli povurne!”

At the time I didn’t know the verb. “What?” I asked.

“Yoli povurne!” she repeated.

Rosie, who was sitting next to me, jumped up. “She’s throwing up,” she told me.

Sure enough, Yoli was bringing up her breakfast juice in a little plastic bag two seats behind me. No one was really paying attention or hooting or hollering (as they would certainly be doing in America). She just did her business and tied up the bag.

A few moments later, one of the older boys made his way to the front of the bus. He had turned an unnatural color of whitish-gray, the color of someone who hasn’t seen sunlight…ever. “I don’t feel good,” he told my colleague Toschko, who was in the frontmost seat. Toschko made him sit down next to the window, and the kid laid his head on the window and visibly tried to keep his stomach contents internal.

There was a brief respite from the illness during our first roadside break an hour into the trip. Almost as soon as we started again, the swaying of the bus hit again.

Another of the older boys came to the front, not quite as pale as the first boy, but obviously not okay. He sat down in the aisle, and I dug around my bag for my Peace Corps supply of chewable Pepto Bismol tablets. I gave each of the boys one, and one to Yoli, and decided to keep them near at hand.

Three minutes later a second fifth-grader, Zarko, reached for a bag. His seatmate Stefan alerted us, “Gospozho, Zarko povrushta!” He too did his business without fuss and tied up his bag. I administered some Pepto, and we continued on.

When in Bulgaria
Our first stop was about 3 hours into the trip in the ancient capital of Bulgaria, Veliko Preslav. We immediately disembarked and asked a local where we could find toilets. She pointed to a hill, around which there was the remains of a fortress wall. We headed to the ruins, and set up a system of outdoor peeing…Boys went first, then the girls. There we were, lined up in a row, popping a squat.

As soon as we had finished, we turned around and say actual bathrooms on the top of the hill. Woops.

From that little grove we wandered to some more ruins which were currently being unearthed by a team of folks. Nearby there was what I assume is the only remaining true tourist attraction of the town…the Zlatna Chirkva (Golden Church).

To be honest, I can no better describe the church than its name can. It was yellow, and a church. End of story.

After schlepping around in that set of ruins, we re-boarded the bus and headed to Shumen, one of the bigger Bulgarian cities.

Becca being Grudzina
We arrived in Shumen just at noon, and immediately headed for the main event in town…the huge-ass monument to Bulgarian liberation at the top of a mountain. It’s a thousand-and-some stairs up, and worth every huff and puff.

As usual, I got stuck in a middle gap between the kids who rushed ahead and the kids who lagged behind. I was alone, but it didn’t disturb me because hell, it’s a big staircase. How could I get lost?

I made it up about a billion of the stairs and came to a road. There was an abandoned café in front of me, and a road that went off to my left. Thinking I had made it to the top and needed to just find the monument, I followed the road.

I followed and followed. It went through a little forest, then crossed the plateau on the top of the mountain. For three or four kilometers I walked, all the time thinking I was close, that I HAD to be closing in on it.

Eventually, I did. I saw the huge stone walls across a meadow, and walked towards it.

When I got there, I was alone. It was dead silent except for the wind howling over the mountain and echoing in the stone chamber. I was alone in a world of gray stone statues, twenty-times as big as myself, holding swords and scowls, on the top of a hill with no town or people in sight. And friends, it was creepy.

Just as I was starting to freak out (I had held it off for a good long time), I found the slowpokes from my group. “Wow, where were you?” they asked. I told them I had taken the road, and they all laughed, silly American. They took my camera, snapped a photo of me next to one of the stone beasts, and showed me where the staircase was.

Where I had turned left and followed the road, I SHOULD have taken a hidden stairwell to the right of the abandoned café. Again, woops.

The Mysterious Toschko
Once I made it down the kajillion stairs, I wandered to the town center to meet the bus. We boarded and headed out to Madara, a small town near Shumen known only for it’s ancient carving of a horse, dog and lion on a cliff.

Most of the kids didn’t care about the carving, so they stayed at the bus and Toschko and I took the good…I mean interested…kids up the stairs.

At the top, some of my fifth and sixth graders stared pointing things out to me. After a few minutes, I looked up and saw Toschko “talking” with this group of two women and a man.

I couldn’t understand what was happening. He was speaking broken Bulgarian and using his hands with random English words. At first I thought the people were Bulgarian, and I couldn’t understand why he was talking that way to them. This went on for a good minute or two until he saw me looking at him.

“Becca, Deutsch!” he called to me, pointing at the people. In Toschko language, I knew this meant they were Germans.

In English, one of the women said, “We aren’t German. We’re Swiss.”

The English, as it always does now, caught me off guard and I stared at them for a moment. Then I said, “Oh, you speak English?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Toschko was trying to explain to you what is carved into the cliff.”

At the mention of his name, Toschko perked up and yelled to the kids, “Kazhete na Angliski ‘kohn!’” (Say ‘horse’ in English!)

All of my little fifth and sixth graders hollered, “Horse! Horse! Horse!” and began flailing their arms pointing to the horse on the cliff.

“A sega, ‘kuche’!” (And now, ‘dog!’) Toschko yelled.

“Dog! Dog! Dog!” the kids replied, this time franticly pointing to the dog.

The poor Swiss tourists had no clue what was happening. Finally the other woman said, “Oh, we read about this in the book.” Then she added, “Are you a school group?”

I explained that we were on a school trip, and that these were my students who were eager to try out their English.

“So, you are Bulgarian?” she asked.

“No, no. I’m American. I am just teaching here,” I said.

“Oh, I THOUGHT you spoke English awfully well,” she said with a chuckle.

By that time Toschko and the kids had become bored with all the English and started to leave me behind to go to the caves. Not wanting a repeat of the Shumen mishap, I trotted off after them. Unfortunately, the caves were closed (a rock fell on a kid last fall and they decided it was unsafe…) so we headed to the bus and rolled on to Varna.

Introduction to Zarko’s Whistle
Zarko (one of my fifth grade boys) bought a whistle in Shumen, one of those recorder-type whistles sold the world over. It became a full-blown character of the story, in my opinion.

As soon as he got it, it was evident that he and Naska, one of my colleagues, would exist at opposite ends of the whistle-spectrum – Zarko on the side that the whistle was always appropriate, and Naska on the side that it was better used as a weapon.

Zarko played and played. On the bus he played. He played in the toilet and when wandering outside. He tooted it along with the songs on the radio, tunelessly but rhythmically. He did it without malice, but without regard to those around him and just how annoying it was.

Finally, as we neared Varna, Naska had had enough. She had told him to put it away, stop playing it, but he had continued, and she wasn’t in a good mood anymore. She grabbed the whistle from the boy, and smacked his hand with it.

He huffed and reached for it. She snapped his hand again.

An older boy came up to ask if he could smoke. Naska was fed up with him to, and smacked him with the whistle.

Zarko began to cry. “Not the whistle! Not my whistle!” The older boy cowered beneath the light smacks, but didn’t relent. Naska kept smacking him, and Zarko kept wailing “Not my whistle!”

After a while the boy returned to his seat, Zarko calmed down, and Naska kept the whistle caught in her tight fist. But it was not the end of the story of the whistle…

White White People
On our way to Varna we stopped at the second capital of Bulgaria, the name of which escapes me, to climb around the old basilica ruins.

We arrived in Varna around 4 p.m., the sea capital of Bulgaria, and were dropped off by the Archeological Museum in the town center.

It was a special day at the museum. It was one of the rare occasions when the collection of the world’s oldest worked gold (which is almost entirely made up of gold found in Bulgaria) had found its way home to Varna. Most of the time it travels the world, only returning to Bulgaria once every several years.

Some of this stuff was amazing. No, scratch that, all of it was. I am not generally terribly impressed with Bulgarian museums (it happens when you’ve lived in London…), but THIS impressed me. The younger kids really appreciated it. The older kids tolerated it while waiting for their next cigarette.

Once we were done there we set the kids free in the city (a common feature of Bulgarian fieldtrips) and we teachers headed for some grub. After two hours, we boarded the bus and went to our hotel – a “Rest Center” north of the town.

Since Bulgarians don’t have much money, and their resorts’ prices are catered to foreign wallets, they rarely have a choice but to stay in such Rest Centers rather than hotels. Rooms are generally clean, but Spartan. This center we were sharing with a group of Russians who were on their 23-day vacation.

These Russians were…white. They were literally the whitest white people I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been to Sweden in November. It was as if their skin had never seen sun, EVER. While we were all putting on sweatshirts and jean jackets to ward off the evening chill, they were in bathing suits and flip-flops.

Most of my kids have studied a little Russian, and the languages are close enough that with hand gestures, they could understand one another. The Russians, however, did not understand MY Bulgarian, but had studied English.

The center was not in any town, so the kids’ antics were confined to the pool and the immediate area, another bonus to the out-of-the-way rest center. I slept in a room with the other three female teachers (Rosie, Tanya and Naska), and actually got a decent night’s sleep.

A Changing Bulgaria
Day two started with the same monastery built into a cliff I saw the first time I went to Varna. Cost of admittance had increased from 50 stotinki (like 30 cents) to 2 leva (like $1.50) due to the new rules that Bulgarians and foreigners must pay the same price for things. While this may not seem like much, when you have budgeted a trip to last stotinka, it’s a hit.

Once we had our look around we headed to Balchik, a town further north up the coast. The main sight there is this amazing botanical garden overlooking the sea, which tops any garden I have ever seen.

I ended up wandering around with my little group of fifth graders. While precious, they were also annoying as hell.

Each one of them wanted their picture taken in exactly the same place, but by themselves. This basically meant that every ten minutes I had to take four separate pictures of the same exact thing, only switching up the kid. When I suggested group shots, they all scowled and huffed. Then I called them Japanese tourists, and though I doubt they got the joke, it became our little catch phrase. I’d say, “Where are the Japanese tourists?” and they’d all come running.

After the gardens we drove to Cape Kaliakra. It is a cape with these crazy high and jagged cliffs and a tragic legend…Apparently when the Turks were invading, some of the Christian girls who lived on the cape decided they’d rather die than be raped by the Muslim Turks, so they tied their braids to the rocks, wrapped them around their necks, and jumped off of the cliff to hang themselves. There is a creepy monument depicting this at the entrance to the cape.

Besides being a beautiful, very wild-looking spot, there wasn’t much to do. We took our photos and headed out towards Silistra on the Danube.

Not So Blue
I hadn’t yet seen the Danube, so I was very excited. You hear so much about it…It’s more famous than even the Mississippi! But, like the Mississippi, it is just a river, a fact that hits you when you visit it and see, yup…it’s water with land on the other side. (Granted, in this case the land was Romania, but still).

After touring the city’s fort, we were set loose in the center for a while to find food and find the river. Some of the boys immediately found beers to drink, which infuriated Tanya, who until that point had been overly lax with the kids. “Most of them have never SEEN the Danube,” she said. “They aren’t people!”

Once we had taken a sufficient amount of photos, we herded up the kids and found our second “hotel,” – an old communist campsite outside of the town. (During communism they used to send kids to these camps where they lived in dorms and such. Now they are run down, but still operate for such trips).

It was in the boondocks, if ever I’ve seen boondocks. Flat river-plain all around. Grass up to your ass. A brick building that had once been an attractive dorm now dilapidated to a roof and some walls.

I was in a room with Rosie, which shared a bathroom with the room where my fifth grade girls slept. Rosie and I and the other teachers lingered outside chatting while the kids caused a raucous inside. At around 10 p.m. I went inside to find my cell phone and found my girls hiding in their room.

“Gospozho! There was a MOUSE!” they cried.

Not sure I had understood them, I asked, “A mouse?”

“Yes!” they yelled. “We called one of the older boys and he chased it out, but it went into your room!”

Great, I thought.

As I was getting ready for bed, Mitko, one of the sixth grade boys who is a bit of a pansy and had been with the fifth grade girls for most of the trip, asked me if he could sleep in their room because he was scared to sleep downstairs with the older (and drunk) kids. I couldn’t make him do it, so I told him it was fine.

A few minutes later Galka, one of the fifth grade girls, came and said they didn’t want him busting in on their slumber party. In an effort to salvage the kids’ feelings, I told him he had to come sleep in the room with Rosie and I to protect her from the mouse. He took the bait, and took his responsibility seriously by sleeping with a shoe in his hand.

Payback’s a B****
The kids partied and partied. They drank beer they had bought in town. They played loud music and danced and danced. Naska was on duty that night, and the kids never let her go to sleep. With Naska, apparently, this was a mistake.

Naska is a matronly lady, and as such she is accustomed to disciplining children with smacks and hollers. When she was denied sleep, her usual ways were heightened by acute sleep deprivation and a thirst for revenge.

When we boarded the bus, the older kids looked rough. Haggard. Utterly hung over and tired.

Naska grabbed the bus microphone and announced, “No one will sleep. You didn’t sleep last night, so you will not sleep on this bus.” She then brandished a stick she had found outside. “If you fall asleep, I’ll hit you with this stick.”

A few minutes into the drive, the kids in the back of the bus started to nod off.

Zarko began to toot his whistle again. But instead of Naska yelling at him, she grinned at him and said, “Go play that in the back.”

Happily, he hopped out of his seat and ran to the back of the bus, playing nonsensical notes into his whistle and squeaking and bouncing around.

A few minutes later there was a loud screech and Zarko came barreling up the aisle with an eight grader at his heels. The older kid grabbed the whistle and started smacking Zarko with it, pushing him into his seat. Naska stood up and started beating the older kid with her stick. The eight grader hightailed it back to his seat, and Zarko grinned at Naska.

We stopped briefly in Ruse, the most European city in Bulgaria, and then began the long trek home. From that time on, there are no stories really worth recounting…It was hot, and everyone was exhausted.

We arrived back in Straldja around 6 p.m., just as dusk reached its prettiest. And we all headed home to rest.

Becca vs The Wasp

2006-06-29T02:56:00.000-07:00

What follows is a graphic account of my killing a wasp recently...And by recently, I mean ten minutes ago.

I walked into my kitchen and heard a loud buzzzzzzing. Lo and behold, next to the hole between my balcony-door frame and the out-of-doors, there buzzed one of the biggest wasps I've seen in a long time.

The cat began batting at it, and it grew madder and madder. To prevent the oncoming battle, I grabbed my nearest weapon, a broom, and smacked the damn thing. I smacked and smacked, until it was stunned enough to fall to the floor.

I then grabbed a more substantial weapon to finish the job -- my metal dustpan. I slammed the edge of the pan down on it's body, but missed and ended up chopping off the monster's stinger.

The damn thing kept buzzing, kept spinning on its side. I next aimed for the head. I held the edge of the pan on the neck part connecting the head to the body. I don't know if it was increased terror on the wasp's part, or the fact that the vibrations of his buzzing were reviberating off the metal, but the sound was of murder. The monster's buzzing became louder, more frantic, more stricken.

After a few moments, but what seemed and eternity, the head was cut free of the body. I felt certain my battle was over. But when I lifted the pan, the body continued to buzz and spin around and around. I aimed as best I could and jabbed the edge of the pan dead center on the tiny body. After three strikes, the body lay still.

I swept up the whole mess and disposed of it in the garbage can. Then i came to write this post.

Keep your eyes open for my post about my excursion to the Danube Plain with the kiddos...I swear, it's coming..........

My First Escape from Bulgarland

2006-06-04T04:48:00.000-07:00

It began with a 13-hour journey on what can only be called "The Chalga/Gangster Rap/Techno Bus from Hell."

The tour bus picked up we Straldja folk from outside of the school at 5:45 a.m. We immediately headed over to Nova Zagora to pick up the other group on our tour...A group that became the bane of our existance.

These kids were crazy. They, too, we seniors, but the hoarde of teachers with them seemed to have no control. As soon as they boarded at 6:45 a.m., all hell broke loose. They had brought several CDs of "music." I use quote marks because teenagers in Bulgaria (I'd say 99% of them) listen to 5 rap songs, souless techno and chalga. They had also come armed with whistles (a common feature in discotechs) and I'm pretty sure some of them were drunk. The driver, who had the professionalism of a 17-year-old hooligan, proceeded to play their CDs as loud as the little bus speakers could take, and then some.

The kids from Nova Zagora were up dancing, shaking their hips, hanging out of the skylight, blowing the whistles, and counting to twelve (other Bulgarian PCVs will understand the annoyance of this...) I could handle this, maybe, for an hour. But this was for 13. And I'm not joking.

We had one hour-long stop at the border and then a few other 10-minute breaks. But except for those, this was the state of affairs on our bus for the long tredge around the northern Greek coast of the Agean Sea.

Apart from the throbbing in my head, there was some beautiful coastline. The craggy, forested mountains dipped into the sea. The rain clouds we were running away from gathered in foggy clusters around little bays and ebbs in the landscape. When we escaped the clouds and found the sun, the water turned a crystal blue that sort of melted into the sky at the horizon. It was exactly how I pictured Greece in my dreams (and I am told the islands are even better.) When we finally arrived, it was late evening.

Our hotel was in a beach town called Paralia, in the northern part of the penninsula. No one lives there -- it is strictly hotels and tourist beachiness. All of the buildings were cotton candy pink and yellow and blue...When I caught a glimpse of the pink water at sunset, I realized why the buildings were painted so. The Greeks paint their buildings to match the sea, which matches the sky, and it all swirls together until you feel as though you've fallen into a big heap of cotton candy.

The first night I spent in a fruitless search for money...The town's only ATM was out of order, and by the time I got to the exchange place it was closed. I decided to call it an early day at 10:30 p.m. and went to bed. The next day the Nova Zagora hoodlums hit the beach and our more mature students decided to take a bus trip to Meotora.

I had been told it was a bunch of monasteries on some rocks, but that did not prepare me... Deep in Thessaly, there exist these huge stone columns on which monks have built a complex of monestaries (check out THAT sentence! word.) The buildings themselves, made of stone, seem to just grow out of the tops of these cliffs. (Well, they aren't cliffs. They are like cliffs without an actual mountain. Just columns of stone.) They look like a natural part of the landscape, along with the trees and stone and sun and sky.

We wandered around two of the monasteries, taking literally bazillions of pictures, and wearing monastery-supplied skirts so as not to scandalize the resident monks. The rose gardens were some of the best I've ever seen, and the weather was perfect -- hot, sunny, clear.

In the late afternoon we headed back to our town to relax on the beach for a few hours. Once the sun went down, we wandered the streets of Paralia shopping and eating and "loving the vibe." (See, the Greeks go home and rest from 1 to 5 p.m., and all stores close. Therefore, they are open from, say, 5 to 11 p.m. It's kinda cool.)

The next day we got up early to board the bus...again. We spent several hours in Thessaloniki, one of the oldest and most important cities in the world. I liked the town, pretty much a ritzy and clean Plovdiv on the sea. We didn't get much time for it, however, seeing as we had to get back to Bulgaria.

I suppose we left the city at 3 p.m. We made a few stops, were subjected to a concert by the Nova Zagora hoodlums on the bus microphone followed by several hours of techno party, and baked in the late afternoon Greek sun until we made it to the border at 11 p.m.

It took us an hour to clear Greek customs. Then it took us another hour to clear Bulgarian customs. My "leaving Greece" stamp is for May 28, and my "Entering Bulgaria" stamp is for May 29.

By that time of night, the kids were more or less asleep and the techno stopped. At 3 a.m. we rolled into Nova Zagora again, and I disembarked with the tour guide and the tour guide from another bus (they are tourism students in Sofia). The three of us waited at a gas station on the highway for a bus they said would go through at 4:30 a.m. to Sofia. We got some beeps and propositions while standing on the highway, but I never felt unsafe.

We flagged the bus down (literally) as it drove through and took seats on the top deck. I dozed for about and hour, and four hours later we made it to the central bus station in Sofia. The father of one of the tourguides offered me a ride to the OTHER bus station, where I caught bus number 3 to Dupnitsa. There I caught bus number 4 to Bobov Dol, where I finally could lay my hat.

I stayed there for three days as a resource volunteer for the new trainees. Andy, my trainingmate who calls Bobov Dol home, and I played 1950s couple for my visit, and I got to see his school. It felt good to impart wisdom in newbies...And it's ALWAYS nice to speak English. Yeah, I've lost steam. I'm distracted. Bye.

2006-05-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-17T08:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-03T06:33:00.000-07:00

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.

three days late and a billion dollars short

2006-04-28T07:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader, the first anniversary of my arrival in Bulgaria came and went on Tuesday. I wasn't around to commemorate it, and since I commemorated the year in a New Year's blog, I won't repeat myself. But it's been a year within these borders, and that friends is a long time.

So, on Wednesday I had to go to Sofia AGAIN to have an old filling refilled. I was able to take the second bus from Straldja at 6.30 a.m. instead of the 3.45 a.m. one...Travelling in daylight was fun! There are all sorts of cool monuments to Bulgarian national heros and communism along the way. Anyway, let me relate the day's events under smaller sub-headings:

Just Easing You In
I arrived in Sofia slightly behind schedule, so rather than risk it taking public transport to a far-off and strange place and getting lost, I decided to take a cab. I found one at the train station, and we began on our way towards the hotel.

Over the course of conversation, the fact that I was going to see a dentist came up. It also came up that I live in Straldja, and the cab driver looked at me confusedly.

"You came all the way to Sofia to see a dentist?" he asked me.
"Well, this is the dentist my organization uses," I told him.
"Open your mouth," he told me.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Let me see your teeth," he said.

I gave him a big, toothy smile.

"AH!" he said. "You're teeth are fine. What do you need a dentist for?"
Not knowing the words for 'cavity' and 'filling,' I just said, "One of them hurts."

He just sort of clicked his tounge and kept driving.

When we arrived at the hotel, we found all of the roads in blocked and police men swarming the place. Apparently some of the NATO folk were going to be guests at the hotel and they were setting up security a day early.

Inside the hotel was a security point complete with a metal detector and an X-ray machine. The guard asked for verification I needed to be at the hotel, and I simply said, "Um, I have a meeting with the dentist..." Amazingly, he waved me through.

Mr. Crazy Swedish Dentist
I have already introduced you to Mrs. Norwegian Hygenist...This time, I met her boss. The man himself. The Swedish Dentist.

I had heard stories of this guy. I had heard that he had a diamond on one of his front teeth. I had heard he was wild. I had heard other things not appropriate to retell here.

I found all of these things are true. He has the same too-fast, slightly-stuttery English that Mrs. Norwegian Hygenist does, and crazy light-brown hair.

He had me sit down in the chair, and started to prep me for the procedure.

"I-I-I-I-I vill num-b the er-r-r-r-ria around da toot," he said. "I-i-i-i-it vill b-b-b-be too painful if I-I-I-I dun't."

He proceded to tell me that if I felt pain, I was to make some sort of sound with my throat. He demonstrated one, which I can only liken to how I imagine a dying elk would sound. He, being Swedish, would probably know this sound pretty well.

Then it was time to start. He gave me my shot, and we waited for a few moments for it to take effect. Once my lip felt swollen, he began his grinding and pressing and digging and scratching. Because it makes me woozy to think about it, I won't describe it in detail...But you know.

How to Speak Bulgarian with a Numb Mouth
The best advice I can offer in this regard is JUST DON'T. Once the filling was fixed, I left the office and made my way to the taxi queue to head up to the office.

When I got into the first cab in line, I proceeded to give the cab driver instructions. In giving them, I managed to spray half a gallon of spit all over the poor guy (who, by the way, was one of the most attractive young men I've seen in a long, long time.) To make matters worse, he seemed to want to hold a conversation, and I, who could still not feel my mouth, found it almost impossible to form Bulgarian words without giving a weather report. After what seemed an eternity, he dropped me off at the office and I made my way through the gate.

Now, I live far away from Sofia. In theory, I should be one of those complete strangers to the folks at the Sofia office. However, when the guard on duty saw me walk through the gate digging in my wallet for my ID card, he waved me through.

"I remember you!" he said to me. "How are you?"

Suprised he had remembered me, I told him I was fine. Immediately he noticed something was up and asked me, "What's wrong with your mouth?"

I told him I had just been to the dentist, and he chuckled.

In the office I stuck to English, which was hard enough to form. After a few short minutes I headed back to the bus station to catch the bus home.

Attractive Man, Unattractive Bling
So on the bus home they were training this new guy to work as the "steward." He had been on my bus in the morning, but I had been too sleepy to notice him.

He was a cute dude. And I don't mean "cute for Bulgaria." He was a good medium height, a solid medium build. Chocolate brown eyes. Almost-blond hair. Attired in a nice J. Crew-style sweater and not-too-tight jeans. And wearing the ugliest gold watch I have ever seen.

I have never seen a peice of jewlery that looked more like it had come out of a plastic egg from a vending machine in a supermarket parking lot than this thing. It was huge and shiny and really discouraging. As much as I just wanted to appreciate looking at this very Western-style guy sitting opposite me, my eye kept being drawn to that monstrosity on his wrist. It was tragic, it really was.

After 5 1/2 hours, I made it home. All tolled it had been 11 hours on a bus, and I was exhausted. With any luck, I will not have to make that trip again in a while.....

Великден

2006-04-23T10:12:00.000-07:00

So it is Velikden (literally "Great Day") which is Orthodox Easter.

In the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, the most traditional of Easter services is actually at midnight on Saturday (well, the start of Sunday). It is a candelight service that put me in mind very much of my Christmas Eve services, only with the added benefit of Bulgarian Chaos.

I met my counterpart, Rosie, outside of my bloc at 11:15 p.m. We walked to the church, which was being protected by two police cars (apparently crowd control). There were swarms of people all over the place, most of them carrying the orange candles always available at these churches. Rosie and I went inside, bought some candles, and managed to shove our way to the alter to light them. (I lit one small one for each member of my immediate family and carried one slightly larger one.)

Then we stood and waited....And waited....And no one seemed to know when anything would happen. Or even WHAT would happen next. After about 15 minutes of everyone standing in a mob inside the church, dripping wax all over, the priest came out and pressed his way through the crowd to the outside. We all followed, pushing and shoving one another, and pushing and shoving the people trying to get inside the church. We were all going to exactly the same place, and we all had candles in our hands, but apparently the pushing and shoving is just a cultural thing that needs to happen. Even when it can result in burns.

Anyway, the priest led us on a walk around the church 3 times. I have still to find someone who can explain why they do this, but I will. Once we made it around, the priest set up camp right outside the door and began to chant. No one was really listening, and people were pushing past him to go in and out of the church. After a few minutes of this, Rosie said it was over and we tried to walk all the way home with our candles lit. I made it to the benches outside of my bloc, which was impressive. I think she made it all the way.

Anyway, I came home and went to bed. The next day, Velikden, was a lovely spring Sunday. The highlight of the day was watching the beginnings of a wedding from my balcony. One of the girls from the business center got married, and the beginning part of Bulgarian weddings looks like so much fun!

First, the whole of the groom's family parades from the groom's house to the bride's house (in this case, she lived in the apartment building next to mine.) They play the guida (Bulgarian bagpipes) and drums and the women horo all the way...Along the way the maid of honor and best man, who will later become the couple's children's godparents, join the parade.

When they arrive at the bride's house, the groom and his immediate family go up to her door and a ritual is performed...I have heard various accounts of this part though I know it includes the groom offering the bride's father money, the father refusing, the groom offering more, and so on until they reach an agreement. Then the bride is brought out, and the dancing starts again for a bit (this time I think it is just to show the bride off to her neighbors.) Then they all parade and dance to the center of town where they go to the municipality building and sign the papers, then to the reception hall where they party to all hours of the night.

And that's a Bulgarian wedding. It is less formal and regimented than American weddings, but I don't know, it's more soulful. It's a true celebration of the community, and the bride and groom are not just the ones on display amongst the guests...It is their special day all over town. It's just...FUN.

Thank God for lesser favors...

2006-04-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

Today, dear reader, I was not the only freak in town. I was not even the most conspicuous freak! And it was wonderful.

An acting troop from our fair capital came to town to perform at our "Chitalishte" (cultural center). And friends, they stuck out more than I do.

First of all, there were like 20 of them. You just can't hide a pack of 20 strangers in this town, even if they are Bulgarian. Second of all, I was asked directions like 3 times. I have NEVER, EVERRRR given directions in this town. I mean, EVVVERRRRR. And third of all, they were theater folk. Theater folk don't fit in anywhere outside of a theater, trust me. I used to be one until I realized that even I was too normal and too emotionally balanced to truly fit in. Just imagine, dear reader.

Anyway, I went to see the show. Everyone in town was there, and they were all amused by my attendance. One of the older male teachers for whom I have mentally written this tragic history was there, wearing a tweed suit obviously made during communism and about two sizes too small. It was sweet, really. Here is this suit, the only one he has probably ever been able to afford in his life, saved for special occasions over the last four decades, and brought out for a night at the community theater. It made me smile.

As far as the play went, I didn't understand enough to know if it was good or not. I understood most of the dialog and the plotline, but some of the characterization was lost on me. The leading woman, this 60-something Miss Piggy of a thing, seemed to make quite a lot of mistakes in dialog (such as calling others by the wrong name, forgetting lines and waiting forever to speak), but I don't know if the reasoning for this was worked into the bits of dialogs I didn't quite catch. So bascially, I have no basis on which to judge the production.

I left the theater with a headache from my intense paying attention, and came home to write this very blog. I feel my literary juices flowing again, and I hope they will continue throughout the Easter holiday. Time at home, alone, and potentially bored...There is no better catalyst for my prose.

Look ma! Leafy greens!!

2006-04-20T10:58:00.000-07:00

After a long winter of cabbage and various pickled vegetables, lettuce has returned to Bulgaria. And edible tomatoes. And spinach.

On a sidenote...this is what a kilogram of spinach looks like. If you live alone and are not a rabbit, perhaps consider buying half-a-kilo....

Seven Signs of Spring Not Found in Suburbia

2006-04-17T05:41:00.000-07:00

1. ROOSTERS. Crowing early. I mean, eeearly. We've hit 4 a.m. folks!

2. STORKS. Not just a ficticious bringer of babies. Their graceful circles and swoops scream SPRING to me now.

3. INFANT LAMBS. Nothing makes a walk home from school better than watching some of these little guys tumbling around a garden. I try to forget that they will evenually be slaughtered for Easter dinner...

4. CLOTHES OUTSIDE drying in less than 4 days. No more sopping carpets for me. There was a time in Suburbia when this would have been a sign of spring, but now not so much.

5. CLEANer AIR that is not filled with the smoke of burning garbage cans and woodstoves.

6. HOMELESS ANIMAL SEX. Loud, often violent-sounding, at all times of the day and night. Females dogs and cats sure don't like it...

7. THE EXODUS of school kids after classes to work in their parents' garden. Gardens are not for show here. They are for basic food needs.

The Norwegian Dental Hygenist and other tales

2006-04-17T03:30:00.000-07:00

*to the tune of I'm So Pretty* I'm so sleepy. Oh so sleepy. I feel sleepy, and dirty, and poor.

That's because Becca has moved to Sofia for the week -- the pocket-emptying, dirt-ifying, sleepless, soul-sucking grad to the east. But, they have Pizza Hut, so it's not ALL bad.

I arrived Monday on the famous 3:45 a.m. bus from Straldja. As always, I felt only half-alive by the time I arrived, but the sight of some of my fellow B17s lifted my spirits. The mood in the rest of the office, however, was quite somber as a particular set of volunteers took care of their final business before going home. That's all I'll say about that.

Those of us in town for the Resource Volunteer meeting crowded into the small Primary TEFL office, and had our small training on our responsibilities. (We will be visiting the new kids arriving Monday at their training sites to offer deep insight and set a noble example.) They've picked a good group of us to do it, I think. Then again, we 17s really rock the whole of PC Bulgaria.

Once the meeting was finished I went downtown to check into Hostel Mostel, my home for the week. As soon as I had laid down my load, I managed to find my way to a Subway in this food-courty thing. A SUBWAY. I could hardly believe it. Mmmm, meatballs... I passed the evening with Sarah, who has decided to go home (she made her mind up Monday afternoon). We managed to find our way to the National Palace of Culture to see Brokeback Mountain. (A two-second review: Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams have never been better. I still hate Anne Hathaway. The photography was stunning.)

In an effort to pace my spending, I called it an early night and went "home" to sleep.

So Tuesday. Tuesday was a bonus Day of Nothing. I had no real business, but Dora and Chavdawg agreed it was stoopid to make me go home Monday night, teach Tuesday, then come BACK Wednesday morning at 3:45. Since I had no business, I didn't go near the office. In fact, I didn't go much of anywhere. Sarah came to the hostel and we went out to eat, and then we took a walk through some random park with random communist art. I loves me some communist art. We took photos, chatted with some kiddos, and generally passed the time until she had to take a night train to her town to pack up.

Then it was Wednesday. Ahhh, Wednesday. I had my mid-service physical in the morning, so I got up and headed to the office. Andrea poked and prodded me and told me I wasn't dying so far as she could tell. She also told me that Elena, another 17, would be moving from the hospital (where she had had her appendix removed) to the sick bay in the office.

Since it is odd to sleep alone in the locked office, it was arranged that I would sleep with her on the extra mattress. I went back to the hostel, packed a small bag, and headed down to my dentist appointment.

The Peace Corps has no dentist here in Bulgaria so they send us to this Swedish dude. His office, interestingly enough, is located in a converted guest room in a 5-star hotel. Mr. Swedish Dentist happened to be on vacation this week, so I was handled my Mrs. Norwegian Hygenist.

Mrs. Norwegian Hygenist was typical Norwegian...Blonde. Blue eyed. Fair skinned. And she pronounced it "tar-TAR." I have never had a Scandanavian dental exam before, and I assume you never have either. So let me walk you through it. I was given little plastic booties to put over my shoes when I entered. I was put in the chair and the fast-talking hygenist took my X-rays. Then she took a lazer gun and blasted each of my teeth to remove the tar-TAR. I had extra tar-TAR on the teeth under my tounge, which was extra uncomfortable to remove. Once the lazer gun had done its business, she took the siver hooky thing and scraped each of my teeth to remove even more tar-TAR. My sensitive canines were a'wailing, which exist because I brush too hard (or so says Mrs. Norwegian Hygenist). The next step, however, took the cake. Mrs. Norwegian Hygenist whipped out a goggles/mask jobby and told me that she would, and I quote, "Blaaast [my] teet wit a so-LU-tion of sALT, LEmon, and WWWAter." She told me to keep my eyes closed, and smathered my lips with, I swear to god, body lotion. She proceed to blaaast my teet with this machine that almost drove me mad right there in the chair. Between the air, the coldness, the wetness, and the sheer power, my gums got crazy angry.

When it was all over I rinsed like I've never rinsed before, and realized my face felt like it had been at the beach, unwashed, for upwards of a week. My teeth, on the other hand, felt baby smooth. Once I had wiped a sufficient amount of salt from my face, I caught a cab and went back to the office to hunker down with Elena. And when I say hunker down, I mean it. It was the most secure night of sleep I have ever had, complete with two guards, an electric iron fense and a giant bomb-proof door.

It is a surreal sensation to wake up in an office where people are arriving for work. It seems so...backwards. In any event, I washed up and bit and bummed in the basement lounge until we began our Volunteer Support Network training.

For the afternoon we got to act out volunteers with problems and practice being good listeners. It was really easy to act out volunteers with problems seeing as we'd been in most of the situations ourselves.

Once our training was finished we went en masse to Hostel Mostel which by this time was packed to the gills. I escaped the crowd by meeting my Bulgarian friend, Ivcho, for dinner.

Friday was more of the same. Back to training...and I caught the 5:30 p.m. bus home.

Write more later...

(this blog was written bit by bit from Tuesday until today, the following Monday.)

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned....

2006-04-08T08:02:00.000-07:00

My friend Lucia (author of Identity Amnesia), tagged me to play her little confessions game. I will keep this PG-rated for the kiddies, but here'goes.

Name Seven Guilty Pleasures. I'm not talking necessarily about you eating ice cream once a month because it's "so good" but I'm talking about things that create the feeling of regret, creeping into your brain, or secret things that you may not tell anyone else about after or when you do them.

*I like chalga. There, I said it. I don't like all the stars, or all the songs, but the fact that I like any makes me feel like I have no soul. No taste. No brain or individual identity. But come on, "Az bih bila shtasliva do kraya...(I would be happy with you till the end)" has some poetry to it...

*I am secretly extremely lazy. I only ever do enough to look hardworking and diligent to the outside world. Otherwise, it is painfully easy for me to just do nothing.

*I have locked my cat in my closet on purpose...several times. But she was just being so darn annoying!

*I have literally wanted to slap certain students of mine. The important thing here is that I never have.

*I sometimes wear a pair of underwear for 2 days. Or more...It's turned inside out, of course.

*I didn't shave my legs from November until March. And when I finally did, it took three tanks of hot water over three days to complete it.

*I gave up 2 of my 3 Lenten "fasts." They were no watching of Friends, no eating pizza and no chatting online on Fridays. All but the Friends thing were lost...Inadvertantly, but nonetheless lost.

So, I'm not altogether sure who to tag now who hasn't been tagged already. So, if you like, make this little confession.

woa! where'd the sun go?!

2006-03-29T07:38:00.000-08:00

We had a 75% solar eclipse today. I know I must have seen an eclipse before, I can not recall it. This one I watched laying down on my balcony, looking at the reflection of the sun in the window of my balcony door. Some of my students were below me with those glasses things and for sure thought I was nuts for laying on my balcony like that, but I don't care because I saw it! I watched the black semi-circle move across the sun...The world got a little dimmer...And then it was over. And I was covered in dust.

This morning, a beautiful morning by the way, I went to the school for two orders of little business: 1. get my director's signature on a form and 2. to pay for my ticket to Greece with the 12th grade in May. Since I was going to be fast, I wore my 2-sizes-too-big jeans, LVC sweatshirt and no makeup (did I mention I haven't showered since Monday?) What could possibly happen?

A photo shoot. THAT's what could possibly happen.

I walked up to my school to find my director outside with a woman with a camera. She pulled me up to stand next to her without even so much as a greeting, then told me to go upstairs and unlock the super-nice English room a previous volunteer built. They followed me up the four flights and grabbed a bunch of my eighth graders from the hallway to pretend to be my class. I pretended to teach them, and they pretended to learn, for a few minutes while the lady walked around snapping photos. The director took the cloth that was resting on the broken television away, showing the prosperity of the school.

After the shoot, I asked them what the pictures were for. They, apparently, will be used in a presentation on the school's holiday at the end of April. Super. Here is our Peace Corps Volunteer, in all her scrubby glory.

Anyway, I'm sick of writing. Haven't been in the mood for a while. Hopefully this will pass soon, and I will find joy in storytelling again.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my roomie

2006-03-21T10:43:00.000-08:00

What you see before you: My heater (there are bricks inside that I heat with electicity all night and then they radiate all day through the metal and the holes at the top), my gjuveche I put water in to humidify the air, and my cat cooking herself.

a collection of minor oddities

2006-03-17T10:33:00.000-08:00

Oddity 1: The Creepy Kids Who Speak Neither English Nor Bulgarian
The first time it happened was a few weeks ago...A young girl saw me walking home from school and as is normal with the local kids who I do not teach, she crossed the street to grill me. Her opening line -- "Hello. My name is."

I waited for the follow-up. There was none. So I asked, "What?"

"My name is."

What is this girl talking about? I asked her, in Bulgarian, "What's your name?"

She goes, "Yes."

Again I ask, "What's your name?"

"Yes."

WHAT IS GOING ON?! In Bulgarian I explain that what she has in fact said is, "My name is yes."

She just mildly smiles and says, "Yes."

Is she serious? Is she mocking me? She doesn't have the look of a mocker.

*skip to two days ago*

I am walking through the center and this boy, about the same age as the girl, comes up to me. "Hello," he says. I respond with a hello.

"My name is," he says.

Are you KIDDING me? I ask him, in Bulgarian, to repeat.

"My name is."

I ask him, in Bulgarian, what his name is.

"Yes," he says.

I am sick of this linguistic confusion. I ask him, one more time, in Bulgarian, what his name is.

"Stoyan," he tells me. FINALLY, we are getting somewhere.

In very deliberate English I ask, "How are you?"

"Yes yes, Stoyan," he says.

I slowly walk away....

Oddity 2: A Bundle of My Pending Doom
My cat is trying to kill me. And I'm not even joking.

The other night I was hanging in the nice middle-consciousness of the last few moments before a deep sleep. My legs were slightly bent into two knobby mounds under my blanket.

Suddenly, without any sound or other warning, I feel more than see a black ball flying through the darkness, over the mounds of my knees directly towards my face. Before I have a chance to move, a furry belly has landed square on my nose, claws peircing my scalp and the skin below my earlobes, and immediately a motor-like purring commences.

Curious to see what she intends to do now, and trying to make my heart start beating again, I leave her to sit on my face. She sits there a full three minutes before I simply can not stand any more and throw her off of the bed.

Since this incident, she has taken to sleeping on the top of the heater, where it is warm. Last night she layed there for a full three hours, never turning over to warm the other side of her belly. So long as she doesn't cook herself (which, I fear, she is dumb enough to actually do), I'm okay with it.

Oddity 3: My Percieved Superpowers
I have been asked to take on a number of very strange and, frankly, miraculous tasks by the Bulgarians of this town. Apparently, I am an American, which also means I'm MAGIC.

Among these random tasks are finding medicine that isn't available in Europe for my assistant director's daughter, helping the Business Center in town convert their online payment system (me work with computers? you crazy!), finding buyers for my counterpart's husband's partially-finished house in town, and helping another teacher find a job in Rochester.

I understand that as an American, I have more opportunites to do some of these things. And I will try my hardest to fulfill, or at least aid in, most of these situations. But really, I have never had anyone put as much faith in me as these people do. It's pretty intense.

Oddity 4: The Car-Cart
It has finally happened. I have finally seen a donkey-drawn cart towing a car behind it. It was everything I could have hoped it would be.

And I know there were other oddities, but I seem to have forgotten them at the moment. Check back for more.

Tale of a woman scorned

2006-03-15T04:44:00.000-08:00

Stupid Bulgarian mail.

I have been very gentle with the system.

I've dealt with the fact that I have to go to a town 30 minutes away on public transportation to get any package over 2 kilos.

I've dealt with the fact that I have to go between 10:30 and 11:30 a.m. on Monday, Wednesday or Friday (which with my schedule as an actual working adult means I can only come Wednesday) to get the package.

I've even come to grips with the fact that I always seem to receive the notifications that I have a package on THURSDAY, the day AFTER I am able to go, which means waiting another week.

I find humor in all these things. I find adventure. I write funny blogs about how I am considered a terrorist and interrogated about Victoria Secret Bandaids and children's books.

But today, dear Bulgarian Postal System, you have gone too far. TOO FAR. You have taken a sleeve of Girl Scout thin mints from me. And that, friend, crosses a line.

I will elaborate. Today I went to pick up two packages from home. One was filled with books from my father's company to give to the school. The other was *meant* to have 2 boxes of Girl Scout thin mint cookies and 2 Neutrogena foundation compacts (valued $10 a piece and priceless to me).

The last several times I have gotten packages I have been forced to open them and go over the conents with the people in the office, which I am used to by now. I showed them the books, made small talk about how I teach in Straldja, blah blah.

Then I attempted to open the second box. There was an abnormal amount of tape on it, and it took the three of us a good long time to get it open. When we finally did, I saw two boxes of cookies wrapped in bubblewrap, one of which was open. One sleeve of cookies was missing.

While this may seem strange, I figured that my dad (who is something of a cookie monster) had eaten half of them then threw the rest in the box at the last minute. I did not, however, see any makeup, which had been the original purpose of the package. This I chocked up to my mother's sometimes forgetfulness.

Since both scenerios kind of made sence, and I didn't see a banner sticker that said it had been opened for inspection, I put the cookies in my bag and tossed the box so I didn't have to lug two boxes all the way home.

Once there, I emailed my mom to see what was up with the makeup. She called and said she had included it, and did I check the bubblewrap. (This I had done very carefully.) As soon as she said that, I recalled the opened box of cookies. Again, she said that they had both been full when mailed. Which left one option.....

Some theif in Sofia or somewhere between Sofia and here is EATING MY GIRL SCOUT COOKIES! That's right, a THEIF!

So to all my friends in Bulgaria, heed my warning. When your parents and friends send you things, have them put BIG LABELS over both the upside and bottomside creases. This way, if the box is opened on either side, you will be able to tell, and if there is not an inspection sticker on it you know it was not looked at legally.

May those cookies turn to rancid Augmentin in that theif's mouth. (You guys remember Augmentin? That stuff was gross.)

Back to Good

2006-03-14T05:51:00.000-08:00

I could not leave the faithful readers of Becca's blog stressed about her welfare, could I?

As expected, the clouds from yesterday have passed. The rain has turned to a light snow (which is better because at least you don't get as wet.) The headache appears to have worn itself out after a night of good solid sleep WITHOUT drugs. Yar, today was better.

I don't know if the kids were markedly better today or if my outlook was, but I actually found myself laughing and smiling in two of my classes (and this time not AT the kids.)

In my 8th grade class all the boys skipped with the exception of the two who are not jerks, which made for a very pleasant hour. Kaloyan, one of the boys, would simply not sit and I asked him what the beef was and he said he was antsy, so I decided to have them all do stretches. As soon as all the girls stood to do them, Kaloyan and Atanas (the boys) sat down in the back row and, in Bulgarian, willed the girls' pants to fall down. It was a funny moment, and I appreciate Kaloyan's sense of humor when it is not being plain disruptive. He speaks decent English too, but he is just so darn distracted and lazy and defiant (a typical boy his age) that he frustrates me. Usually if I tell him I am dissapointed in his behavior during a lesson he shapes up for a while.

I don't know if this is just me becoming a better teacher or the loosening my standards to prevent the onslaught of madness, but I am learning to kind of follow what the kids want to do in a lesson so long as it is mildy productive. The 4 girls in that class who speak pretty well wanted to take this Boy Quiz someone had made up rather than do the lesson in the book, so I told them that if they asked the questions in English they could do it. They tried to cheat and slip Bulgarian questions in, but I pounced on that. I also taught them "Knock Knock" jokes and they made one in Bulgarish:

Knock Knock
Who's there?
Tih. (Bulgarian adjective for "quiet")
Tih who? (sounds like "Tiho!" the Bulgarian command for "Be quiet!")
Geez, I wasn't even being loud!

I think on Thursday I will teach them MASH if they get through the lesson.

Then I had my 5a class...the huge, slowly-getting-out-of-hand class. There is a massive dichotomy in that class between the kids who know a good bit of English and will probably track out of this place after 7th grade to go to Yambol and those who still can't read the alphabet, despite my offerings of extra help and classes. I was in a good mood today, so the chaos was not as wearing on me.

We were going over new words from the chapter and I was writing the English and Bulgarian on the board. One of the boys yelled, "Hey missus! Your handwriting is better than mine!" to which I quipped, "I know!" and we all laughed. Sometimes I messed up a word, and the kids all chuckled and rushed up to the board to help me. I hate getting bumrushed even in the best of moods, so I had them call out the letters to me if I didn't know the word. With 30 kids yelling at you in a foreign language, it's hard to understand anyone and we had some laughs trying to get me to figure out the correct spelling.

In the middle of the class, one of the other boys yelled, "Missus, this is the first time you've laughed in our class!" This might be true, and I told them that it would happen more often if they made me happy. They contemplated this, so perhaps I will have my happiness to use a weapon (I think they won't like to see me upset now that they know I have a nice smile. Teehee.) I am not blindly optimistic though. It's all very day-by-day here, if you couldn't tell.

After them I had my sixth graders, and they were okay until the three toxic boys came in late. Like most of my classes, they'd be fine if I could just get rid of those three boys...Well, one in particular who drives the other two astray. This is where In School Suspension would come in handy. That class is almost entirely male, and I have found that boys are much easier led into loud, disruptive behavior than girls. While in play situations I prefer the rough-and-tumble boy life, I definately like teaching girls en masse more.

And that was that for my Day Proper. I had a SIP that no one showed for (no doubt it's too cold for them) and a lesson they also didn't show for (again, it's cold). Now I am home, chilling with the cat who is pissed because I cut her fingernails this afternoon. Tomorrow the Peace Corps doctor is coming to town to do a Medical Site Visit, so I suppose I ought to clean a bit for him lest he report, "PCV Rebecca Grudzina lives in absolute squalor which will no doubt result in her contraction of avian flu and cockroach infestations." (No, I am really not that gross. It was only a rhetorical device. However, Dr. Robert does not need to see my drying underwear all over and a pile of dirty dishes in my sink.)

Oh, and by the by, check out the link under the my Go Here! section for my Flickr page....In the future I will put my awe-inspiring photos there because it is way easier and more asthetically pleasing than having them strewn about on this blog.

Shades of Blue

2006-03-13T03:05:00.000-08:00

I don't know what it was about today -- the drizzly rain we are going to have from now to infinity, the headache I haven't been able to kick for 3 days, or the fact that I haven't seen a person who was not Bulgarian in 8 days.

But whatever the reason, today I suffered from a profound desire to speak English.

I am a Bulgarian champion. I'm not saying I'm great at it, I just use it a lot, and usually with a joyful heart. I love learning Bulgarian (though I don't study like I ought to) and I love using it. I teach about 70% of my classes in it. The only person I can use English with as a real communication tool is Rosie, and most of the time I like my dependence on my second language.

But today, oh today, I was suddenly overcome with this overWHELMING desire to speak English and be understood by everyone. I wanted to be understood, without having to work it out in my head beforehand and then pray for the patience of the listener. I did NOT was to speak Bulgarian at all. I just wanted to be understood.

As I was walking home from school I realized that today I became sick of being a foreigner. I was overpowered by a desire to be one of the masses...To be just another person here. I got sick of being picked out of the group that was walking home for the kids to yell, "Hello!" to, regardless if it was meant kindly or mockingly. I got sick of the little girl who kept turning around, looking at me and saying random English words. I got sick of being SideShow Becca, the American Wonder. Look how she hardly understands you, folks! Look how she puts one foot in front of the other as she walks!

I think I will take an aspirin and go to bed early. Tomorrow this will have passed, or at least be lessened. When I get back to America I will undoubtedly go through the painful process of becoming unspecial. But today, today, I just hated being foreign.

The Mystery of Martin Kelly

2006-03-09T12:16:00.000-08:00

The following story is true but if you need verification, contact Matt Kelly, Scott McCartney or Ned Hawkins. None of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

In the beginning of September, several of my Peace Corps friends and I met in Plovdiv to enjoy the fall weather and pass a mini vacation.

Ned and I arrived first and found a hostel for us to stay in. Then we met Matt and ate dinner. Upon returning to our room we discovered we were sharing it with a Northern Irish lad named Martin Kelly.

Martin Kelly was a young guy, about our age, who looked like a bit of a punk who could enjoy a rave. Nonetheless, he was a friendly dude and we invited him to spend the evening with us. We ended up staying out until 4 a.m. listening to Bulgarian professors rant about the history of the Balkans in this off-the-wall, western-style pub.

The next day we ate breakfast together, and we all gave him our contact information in the event that he happened to come to our various regions in Bulgaria (he was looking for property.) By noon we went our separate ways.

About a week ago, Matt wrote me a message on AIM.

"Hey," it said, "Have the Northern Irish police contacted you?"
"No," I said. "Why?"
"Well, you remember that Martin kid we met in Plovdiv? Apparently he's missing."
"What?"
"Yeah. He went missing on New Years Day and they went into his apartment and found the piece of paper with our info on it. I told them all I knew about him..."

We both thought it was odd, but then it sort of slipped our minds.

Tonight I was at Rosie's having my Bulgarian lesson when my GSM rings. I answer it with my best Bulgarian, "Alo?" because it is not a recognized number and I assume it is some Bulgo calling.

"Hello?" asks a confused voice with a bit of a lilt. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes," I say.
"Is this Rebecca Grudzina?" the voice asks.
"Yes, it is," I reply.
"This is Nicola from the Belfast Police Department. [I then recognized the accent.] Do you know a lad named Martin Kelly?"

Had Matt not alerted me to this a week ago, I would have had no recollection of the name.

"Why yes. I met him once in Plovdiv," I say.
"Well, he's gone missing," she says, in a tone that would imply he had won the lottery and they were trying to find him. "Do you happen to know where he might be?"
"No ma'am. I only met him the one time in September."
"Well, do you happen to know any of these people?..." She proceeded to sound out names like Bug-Gus and Slaiven...For a moment, I am lost.
"Oh!" I say, "Those aren't people. Those are names of cities near my village. I wrote them down in case he came to my area. Yeah, those are Bourgas and Sliven."
"Oh," she says, over a line that is rapidly deteriorating. "Well, if you hear from him, could you please call us?"
"Of course," I say. I take the number and hang up.

Rosie has heard all of this and is bewildered. I tell her the story, and she immediately starts thinking up the missing parts...Parts that include heists and get-aways and identity changes (she is the one to whom I give all of my Agatha Christie and Mary Higgins Clark novels when I have read them.) The obvious links are to the recent bank robberies in the UK, and we assume he has gone into hiding in the area of Smolyan (ironically, the same area I was in this past weekend.) Or he has been killed. But in the event he is hiding, Rosie is putting a friend of hers on the case who sells properties to folks from Ireland and the UK...Maybe they know someone who knows someone.

If this kid is in Bulgaria, he will be found. Mark my words.

The result of sloth, but a good story nonetheless

2006-03-07T08:17:00.000-08:00

This entry is just cut and pasted from the mass email I wrote about the weekend. I am too lazy to rewrite something here. Have fun.

On March 3 the Bulgarians celebrated their independence from the Ottoman Empire and we had the day off. To celebrate I agreed to meet my friend Sarah on her night train from Varna to Plovdiv (she lives in the middle-of-nowehere northeastern Bulgaria and always has harrowing journeys when she wants to go somewhere.) The train from Varna on the coast to Plovdiv stops in Straldja at 2 a.m., so I made my way through town at 1:30 to get on it. I managed to find her, and we spent the three-and-a-half-hour train ride chatting and looking at the stars.

It was still very dark when we reached the city. It was creepy actually...Plovdiv is usually very bustling and sunny and happy. But in the wee hours of dawn it is absoluetly silent and dead. We hiked up the hill in Old Town to watch the sun rise over the Rhodope Mountains and eat our sandwiches we had packed. It was one of the clearest days I have ever seen from that spot above the ancient Roman ampitheater...Every crest of every mountain in sight was clear and defined. We enjoyed our breakfast and view until a storm started to blow in and it got cold. We headed back into town, found a bakery that was open and ate cake. Once we had exhausted ourselves there, we went to our favorite duner stand (a Middle Eastern wrap sandwich with chicken and french fries brought to this country by the Turks) and kept warm for quite a while. (One of the great things about Bulgaria is that the purchase of 2 duners at the cost of 80 cents buys you a table for as long as you want it.) By the time we were done the rest of the world had woken up and we played.

Since it was the Bulgarian national holiday we bought two little flags and ran around the city taking photos of ourselves in front of old communist monuments and statues. It was insanely windy but the said storm never arrived and the sun was bright. FInally at 1 p.m. we decided it was time to catch a train to Devin, a town about an hour-and-a-half south of Plovdiv in the Rhodopes. We happened to meet two other volunteers going to our party, Kellen (the volunteer on the coast near me) and Matt (from Long Island). Our host, Rachel, met us in Devin and we ate. Once the rest of the friends arrived (Gokhan, Scott and Scott's girlfriend Dobromira who all live in the eastern Rhodopes) we bought some food and caught a bus to Rachel's secondary site of Beden...She has a house there because she teaches three times a week and can't commute. It is a typical Bulgarian mountain village...Very very beautiful.

We played Risk all night and half of us slept at her house...The other half (including myself) stayed in a villa recently refinished by the mayor's brother. It was small but very very nice...new. (Though we aren't sure who else he is expecting to stay there...)

The next day we met the others at the house and worked on breakfast. They had run the space heater during the night which blew her fuses so we decided to make pancakes on the wood stove she uses for heat. But first we had to hunt down someone in the town who owns a cow and barter for milk (we agreed to do some woman's son's English homework in exchange. You see, smallllll town.) They turned out great, especially once we put on some maple syrup that Rachel's mom had sent her.

Once that was done we hired some neighbor with a minibus to drive us to Trigrad Gorge, a spot just north of the Greek border where there is a cave called Devil's Throat. This cave is said to be the spot where Orpheus came in search of the door to Hades to retrieve his girlfriend...When she was lost he spent the rest of his life wandering in the forests surrounding the cave.

The area was beautiful...One of the top 5 places I have ever seen in termsof raw natural beauty. The cliffs are massive, covered in pines and snow, and the water that formed the cave and gorge is clear mineral water drunk throughout Bulgaria. The cave itself was dark and dank and huge and it lead one to see why the ancient inhabitants of Greece and the Rhodopes thought this place was a gateway to Hades.

Once we had exhausted our views we had the driver drop us off in Devin for dinner and then went back to Beden for more Risk. (My group, the B-17s, are known throughout Bulgaria as being the "mellow" "geeky group.")

The next day was just as beautiful weather-wise as Friday and Saturday. We hired the same driver and went to another mountain town named Shiroka Luka. Shiroka Luka is actually a preserved village in which any new constuction has to follow the old traditional building codes...It's beautiful. They were having their annual Kukeri festival (where the men dress up in scary costumes and dance around to ward off evil spirits for the coming year.) I had seen kukeri in Razlog over new years, but every region has different kinds. These guys had the goat-skin outfits with huge scary masks and tall hats with bright colors and mirrors on them. The only kukeri constants I am seeing are the goat-hair and bells...Lots of bells. As always it was fascinating, and I can not accurately describe it.

Around 3 p.m. Sarah and I decided it was time to make our way back home. We had to get to Smolyan, a city near Shiroka Luka, and make our way to Plovdiv from there, finally catching the 10:55 p.m. train east. No one in town seemed to know when there would be a train, and there were no taxi drivers to be found. Finally, as we were walking out of town, we ran down a filled bus and convinced the driver to take us on. The going was slow because there was still lots of snow on the road and it had been all but dessimated by the weather. Eventually we made it and caught a bus to Plovdiv. It made several stops in the mountains and took a long time, but the scenery was just breathtaking. The Rhodopes are very rugged but in a very ancient-looking way...lots of pine, lots of rocky cliffs. Several other volunteers who had been in the area for the weekend got on the bus, which is always amusing.

We made it to Plovdiv at 7 p.m. and ate dinner, took a nighttime walk and ate some ice cream before going back to the train station for our night train. The people who ended up in our compartment with us had actually been on our Friday train but were too shy to speak to us in English then. (Yeah, Bulgaria is a small country where you run into people all the time...)

We made it to Straldja at 3 a.m. and Sarah decided to stay with me for a night and finish her trip the next day. I had to teach at 8 the next day, so that was not fun. But my tiredness was worth the fun I had over the weekend.

Today it snowed, so I suppose the nice spring weather has abandoned us again. It'll be back though.

A Baba Marta MIRACLE

2006-03-01T08:09:00.000-08:00

March 1 is my favorite Bulgarian holiday...Baba Marta. She is a slightly mean grandmother who chases away winter, but who can also make some pretty horrible weather through the month of March. To ward off the bad luck she might send, Bulgarians give eachother "Martenitsas" (shown above) made of white and red thread (white means luck and red means health). They wear them until they see a stork, at which point they tie them to a blooming tree and make a wish...

Today I didn't teach but I went into school anyway because on holidays there is always banitsa, wine and fun times. First, however, I had to go to Yambol to get a package.

The package was the miracle. Back in October my dear friend Katie sent me a package. Said package never came, never came, and I was beginning to think it had been lost at sea. Last week, on Thursday (the day AFTER I am able to pick up packages), I got a notice saying I had a box. I didn't know who it was from, but I was NOT expecting the one from Katie.

The weather was beautiful today. It was a nice ride to Yambol, then it was nice to wander around looking at the martenitsa stands lining the road. I went to the post office and stood on the usual line. When it came time for me to sign the book and take my box away, I looked at the address and saw it was, indeed, Katie's box.

Where has this box been? I have a feeling that it went ground...which means it crossed the Atlantic and then the whole of southern Europe. This box is better traveled than I am! What has it seen? The wonder of it!

Anyway, this is my favorite holiday because it is so bright...it is so visual. None of the other Bulgarian holidays thus-far have been very visual. But with all these cool red and white bracelets, it somehow feels like winter is on the way out. It might also have been the weather...

Now for the other random photo. The top one is the view from the window in my hallway. I have taken this same picture in every season and every time of day...This one comes from last week. The moutains in the distance are the eastern-most peaks of the Balkan Mountains.

So I'm not feeling very poetic at the moment. And I'm hungry.

the cleaning of the water filter

2006-02-25T11:04:00.000-08:00

So I own a Peace Corps-distributed water filter...It's the one they give even to volunteers in the heart of Africa who have to turn mud into potable water, so it's a good one. You basically fill up the tank of it, plug it in, and then all night it evaporates the water, sends the mist through a charcoal other-substance-removing-filter, and then re-condenses in a pitcher. After four-or-so hours, you have a gallon of super good water.

Today it was time for Becca to clean said filter. The sides of the tank were white with calcium deposits, and the bottom had crusted over with other non-water minerals. Yeah, it was gross.

Becca probably should have done this a month ago...But she didn't, so let's move on.

I heated up some water to mix with this yellow cleaner powder given to me by the PC. As soon as I poured the hot water over the powder, this steam rose that made me cough when I got too near it. I could just about feel it burning my nose and throat and lungs. (Tomorrow I will send an email to the office to see if that is normal...)

As soon as I put the toxic solution in the tank I opened the window and ran out onto my balcony for a breather. When I felt healthy again, I went back in and went about my business.

After several hours, I poured out the solution and wiped off the sides of the tank. The calcium came off beautifully, but the incredibly caustic formula had not so much as loosened the crust on the bottom. I had had no idea what I was up against there...I managed to chip a few pieces off and let me tell you, it is the same strength and consistancy as slate. I mean to say they could repave the roads in town with this stuff. And this, I would have you know, would end up in my system if I didn't filter my water!

Anyway, I am still working on ridding myself of this mineral deposit. I'll keep you posted.

Oh, and by the by, they have confirmed bird flu in the area of Burgas...All over town there are signs up to keep your poultry in enclosed places. Becca will be very careful about her contact with the crazy crows who like to flutter around her balcony.

the day that would just not END

2006-02-23T09:14:00.000-08:00

Today was the longest day of teaching I have had in Bulgaria, and consequently in the whole of my life.

This semester I have 4 classes right in a row, from first period to fourth. I start with 5b, which is okay because if I have to teach them, I like it being in the morning when they are still tired.

Then I have my 8b class, which has gotten better this week since I segregated the bulk of the boys to the back of the room where they do not disturb the girls and 2 boys who want to study. For the record, I hate to teach 8th grade boys.

After them is 6b, which I am thankful for because it means I am not teaching 6a, which is the class that makes me want to scream and throw them out of the windows. I think my counterpart and director have finally understood this, and I have not taught them yet this semester. I guess breaking down in tears in the teacher's room after a class with them gets the message across...

Finally, in my usual schedule, I teach my 9th graders. They are kind of the stars of my week...They might not know a lot of English, but they generally don't listen to music on their GSMs or run out of the classroom or throw things at one another or pretend like I am not in the room. Today I had them working in their Activity Books so it was a pretty relaxed lesson.

After that class I got ready to leave. I was just about packed up when Rosie walked by looking terrible. She had been sick in the morning, but she looked really really miserable by the end of fourth period. Being the nice person I am (and the karma-superstitious person I am) I offered to take her last two lessons...8a and 12th grade. She was very thankful, and I moved my work to her classroom (which is way nicer than mine thanks to a previous volunteer).

As usual, 8a didn't want to do anything. I got out the "American Cultural Readers" and had them do a unit on Superman. Three of the kids actually worked, the rest stared into space getting dumber (but they were relatively quiet, which is all I ask. By the way, all but one kid in that class are boys, and the sole girl was doing work.)

After them, as I entered my sixth hour of straight teaching, the 12 graders came. They have no textbook and I had no plan, so I whipped out some Newsweeks I have stashed there and had them peruse the contents. I spoke to them, asked them personal questions about what they plan to do next year...Some of the girls speak really well, but most of those kids have just passed through the system. Therefore, most of their replies were in Bulgarian, which I promptly explained in English.

Finally, they were done and I thought I would be able to run home for a quick bite to eat before my teacher's course at 2. As I was writing in the Materialna Kniga, the only loyal members of the class came up and said they wanted an earlier lesson, so I agreed. We went back upstairs, and I taught for my seventh straight hour. They are fun to teach though...And we got through a lot of new verbs.

I decided to wait until 2 in case someone came at the designated time...I was SURE no one would (the only loyal members had already been there). But sure enough, I heard the thud of footsteps coming down the hall. They were slow, so I knew they were the footsteps of my assistant director, a woman feared by almost everyone but who likes me because I tutor her privately (she is too advanced for the regular teacher course). So, I slowly talked to her and listened to her for an hour. It's not hard to work one-on-one, but it is still tiring to be essentially "teaching English" for 8 hours straight.

Once her hour was up I rushed out of the building and hightailed it home to hide...I have decided not to answer the door or the phone (though generally no one comes or calls). I need to detox from this never-ending day.

Ripped from real life...

2006-02-19T08:18:00.000-08:00

Things to keep in mind:
1. Evenings in my town are reserved for the returning of farm animals to their homes.
2. Many of these returning herds are not lead by a herder...They are lead to pasture in a big group with one herder, and then are released in town to find their own way home.
3. There are no perfect, clean 4-way intersections in my town...They are all just "paved" cowpaths that tend to meet and cross sometimes.

I took a walk yesterday. Weather was beautiful. Warm. Sunny. It was good to be out in nature after this horrible cold we've had.

On my walk, I came to an "intersection." It is a five-point jobby about a 10-minute walk outside of the center.

A herd of sheep was just reaching the end of the intersection across from me. A herd of cows came up next to me. A heard of goats came up on the road to my left.

There were stood...Me, a herd of goats, a herd of sheep and a herd of cows, facing eachother, waiting to see who would cross the street first.

One of the front-most goats neighed. A few sheep bahhed in response. Then and even bigger group of cows mooed. I suppose the cows won because they began to cross the intersection. Once they were across a bunch of goats neighed and walked into the street. They turned and went the way the cows had come, and I jumped onto a "yard" to keep out of their way. Finally the sheep crossed the street and added themselves to the back of the herd of goats. Then, at last, it was my turn.

Surely, I must be making this up...This type of thing only happens in clean jokes. But no, I assure you. This is just how we roll in Straldja.

From the Pennsylvania Files

2006-02-15T10:46:00.000-08:00

I spent four very wonderful and strange years in college in the heart of central Pennsylvania, land of Amish commercialism and Hershey's chocolate. For my own amusement, but also for the sake of posterity, I will post the following account of a junior-year adventure which originally appeared on a group blog, "Group Therapy," maintained by my fellow Buttresses and myself.

The Great Whitewater Rafting Adventure
So there we were, at the butt-crack of dawn, me driving up to bumble-f*** northern PA in the Ghetto Cruiser [editor's note: this was the name of the maroon 1994 Buick Skylark I drove my final two years of college]. Lauren was to my right, Pete was to my rear, and Angie and Jude were beside him respectively. We were following cars that were going 90 mph and instulting old women on the walkie-talkies we had to keep coordinated, which made the ride imminently ammusing. However, there was one retarded female who somehow managed to kill EVERY SINGLE joke that anyone said. Jesus Mary and Joseph I wanted to rearend the car she was in and make her fall into the ravine by Wilkes-Barre (sorry to unleash that kind of stupidity by you, Alison.)

Anyway, homicidal feelings aside, the ride up was fun. We found it [the river], bought wet suits, and we got into our rafts. Actually we drove on a bus for 15 minutes to get to the river. Then we got into the rafts. Our raft consisted of Slappy [previously-mentioned Lauren], Jude, Angie, myself, and Matt, this kid from two of my classes.

So then we set for the open Lehigh River. Our raft immediatley hit shore and stopped, but then we didn't have another debacle for the longest time.

We floated down. We floated and floated and floated. The scenery was amazing. The water was manageable (slightly too manageble if you ask me) and we had fun. We ate lunch in some nice little grove, then continued back.

The second leg of the trip was the most adventerous for us. About 20 minutes after lunch, the biggest debacle our raft faced occured. There was an entire spance of open river with two rocks about 3 feet apart from eachother. The two groups before us went through the rocks, got stuck, and set themselves free. We therefore assumed that that was the path we were supposed to take. So we edirected our raft to float towards the rocks and plowed into them, only to get horribly and intrinsically stuck. These were tall ass rocks too--Sarah size, and that's pretty big for rocks!

So I stuck my foot out of the raft to kick the rock to shake us free, and I got my foot stuck. We aren't talking wedged slightly between rock and raft, we're talking up to my ankle, unmoveable. This made the raft get even MORE stuck, and my foot started to go numb. Somehow, by the grace of our father in heaven, we were set free and my foot returned to my body. Halleluijah.

We continued to float. When the sun came out we stripped a bit and splashed cold water on our heads (well, I did anyway. I think the others just sort of pointed at laughed at my truly hideous hair situation.) Then we hit debacle #2. I only call this the second worse debacle because the first one wreaked physical pain on my person, and this one did not.

We got bigtime stuck again, only this time on TOP of a rock. While Slappy and I argued who would get out to set us free, Matt, evidently knowing that 2 women fighting over something neither wants to do is a neverending process, hopped out and dislodged us from or stoney prison. FREEDOM.

Then it was over and we went home. Sorry I ended so abruptly. Maybe I'll finish it sometime...maybe I'll pull a Coleridge and leave you to fill in the blanks.

I am, apparently, a Muslim terrorist...

2006-02-15T05:15:00.000-08:00

In a follow-up to yesterday's non-story, I will relate todays events, which left me rather amused.

The faster 10:20 a.m. bus came today (my weekly day off) so I was able to make it in time to get my package, which has been waiting for me in Yambol since the middle of January.

I gave my little slip to the woman in the post office, then headed to the dock in the back where the packages come out on a conveyor belt. I was slightly unnerved by the fact that there was no one else waiting (there is usually a depression-era breadline of old folks waiting for gifts from their kids who have escaped to Chicago). My package finally came on the belt, I went into the office to sign for it, and met Mr. Grumpy Bulgarian.

First, he asked me when the package had arrived (even though HE had the slip with the date in his hand...) I said several weeks ago.

"Why didn't you come earlier for it?" he snapped. He looked mad.

I explained that I don't live in town and it takes a few days for the notification slip to reach me, I work on two of the three mornings when the office is open (Monday and Friday...big shocker!), and that I had been in Stara Zagora for a week-long seminar and that made me miss my chance last week.

So he just grumbled. Then he did something no one else has done thus-far...He opened my package. (I was the only customer...he was probably bored.)

Inside there were 2 bottles of contact solution, a tin of Victoria Secret band aids, some foot scrub and a copy of Book Twelve of A Series of Unfortunate Events.

Mr. Gumpy Bulgarian grabbed the VS tin and opened it, dumping the band aids all over. "What are these?" he demanded. I don't know the word for band aid, so I just explained it's what you put on cuts. He left the tin on his desk.

Then he found the contact solution. "What's this?" he snapped again. I pointed to my contacts and told him it was cleaning solution. He looked at me very suspiciously, and put the bottles back in the box.

Then he found the book. This really irritated him. "What's this? Some kind of Koran?!" he ordered.

It was not something I was expecting to hear, so it took me a minute to process the question. Then I said, "No sir. It's just a book."

"What book? Is it some kind of Koran?!"
"No sir, it's a child's book."

He took it out of the box and flipped through it. (For those who have not seen the book, it is a small hardback with a bright orange spine and a cartoon on the front with three kids dressed like hotel consierges with sunglasses. But you know, I could see where he'd think it was the Koran.) After he had seen all the pages, he put it on the desk and dug out the little tube of foot scrub.

This was clearly too much. Between the tin (which was for sure going to be the casing of the bomb), the contact solution (obviously some kind of flammable, explosive liquid), the tube of foot scrub (some sort of cohesion material?) and a children's copy of the Koran, this Mr. Grumpy Bulgarian decided I was a threat to national security. However, since all of the objects were described as innocent, legal materials, he had no grounds on which to hold me, and let me sign for the package.

Once I had initialled his book and put all of my things back in the box, he rudely gestured for me to leave the room, and I did so gladly.

So in the end, I and all of my American treasures have made it home safely. I am going back to reading and enjoying my mid-week breather. Next week I hope to start my English Club, but we'll see if the Bulgarians dig the idea...It's still cold, after all. And Bulgaria's favorite pastime in the cold is sitting around heaters watching game shows.

One Wild Ride

2006-02-14T11:01:00.000-08:00

This story takes place over a week ago, but I was unispired to write, then away, then plum lazy. So here it is:

I had a package in Yambol. I have to go to Yambol to get all packages over 2 kilograms, and the office is only open Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 10:30 to 11:30 a.m.

I work Monday and Friday, so usually my only option is Wednesday.

There is a bus from Straldja to Yambol at 10:20, which normally gets me in town by 10:40. There is a second bus that leaves at the same time but stops in a number of small villages on the way and doesn't usually arrive in town until 11:15.

The second bus is about 200 years old, but that only adds to the adventure.

This, of course, is all exposition.

On Monday of last week we had a mini-break to commemorate the end of the first semester, and on Tuesday I was scheduled to leave Straldja for a week-long seminar in a nearby city. Monday, therefore, was my only option.

I awoke to find a solid six inches of snow on the ground, which came as a HUGE suprise to me (maybe I ought to watch more news...) No problem, I say. This is a major road...The only major road in the area. Of course it will be cleaned and I will be able to get to Yambol.

The plan started to go awry when the fast bus never showed. I suppose the driver decided not to drive that day, which happens from time to time, and that was cool...The slow bus was there. I figured I'd be cutting it close, but it'd be okay.

After paying my two leva and taking my usual seat in the back by the window, I turned on my MP3 player and prepared for a fun, scenic ride.

As soon as we reached town limits it became apparent that Bulgarians DON'T shovel...Or plow...Or in any way remove snow. The wind was whipping the powder all over, covering the road, and the bus traveled at a crawl (for this I was thankful as I do not want my life to end in a Bulgarian bus...) We bounced and swerved and stopped when we hit big bumps. It was like off roading, only it was on a "road" in a red, communist-built minibus with a bunch of elderly women on their way back to the village with huge jugs of fresh milk.

We arrived in Yambol a little before noon, thus missing my window of opportunity for this week, but it was a fun ride. I only wish I had had a video camera.

Eh, I am suddenly overcome with a desire to do something not at my computer. I will write again when I am in story-teller mode...

You know, it's sad...

2006-02-05T12:58:00.000-08:00

when it starts to snow lightly and you just can't figure out if it is snow, or ash falling from the sky that has been carried on the breeze from some huge trash fire somewhere...

Just an observation on the environment of my current home. Have a good evening all...

Kalcho understands...

2006-02-02T10:40:00.000-08:00

The Bulgarian "children" I teach are getting more and more inventive with their schemes for lying, cheating, stealing and general rabble-rousing.

Yesterday I gave a fifth grade class a test. Vladislav cheated, so I ordered him to give me his paper (I had told them that if I caught them cheating, I would take their paper and mark it with a dvoika -- a 2, like an F). He brought the sheet up to me, and I happened to glance at the name. He had written Georgi, the name of one of his classmates, on his test. Clever, very very clever. I simply took out my pen and wrote HIS name on the paper, and he scoffed away.

Then, later in the day yesterday, I decided to give out some pencils from my huge supply to those who actually DID the work I asked them to do in my sixth grade class. All they had to do was answer 3 questions...Three simple, 4-word-maximum answers. But this is the class that I routinely leave feeling like I want to smack them...What do these kids do? Two of them (the two who can actually put together a noun, a verb and maybe an adjective to form a mildy-coherent English sentence) wrote their answers down, showed them to me to check, then HANDED OFF THE ENTIRE NOTEBOOK TO ANOTHER KID. It's not even like the other copied the answers into their own notebooks...They simply bought me the SAME NOTEBOOK to grade.

I laughed at them, literally. They kept insisting, "Miiiiss, Miiiiss, this is my notebook!" And I just kept laughing, and lead them back to their chairs. (It makes me wonder what they get away with in their other classes...) As I lead them back to their chairs, however, children towards the front of the room began pilfering pencils from the bag on my desk...Stuffing them in their pockets and trying to dash away before I caught them. But I caught them, and when I asked them about the pencils they had sticking out of their pockets, I got a lot of, "Oh no, miiiiiss. I brought this from home."

Jerks.

Then today, in the same horrendous fifth grade class, I was at my wits end. They were complaining that it was hot (when last week you could see your breath inside and the school's windows were covered with ice from WITHIN) and the little boy who is obsessed with me and writes my name over and over again on his desk tried to jump out of a window. They were playing music on their crappy GSMs and dancing kuchek and when I tried to comfascate them they ran around the room screaming. THEN, to add to the chaos, the random hallway kids who always seem to be there during the last few periods of the day found some sticks to beat the doors and floors and walls and windows with, creating a near-unbearable racket. What is a Peace Corps Volunteer to do?

I gave up, is what. I took Gosho and Kalcho, the two kids who I can tell want to learn, and talked with them in a corner, hoping the others wouldn't take money out of my purse or draw various private parts on my chalkboard (the true problem there is that yesterday someone stole my eraser, so the drawings would be sticking around...) Finally the class was over, the demons were set free, and I began my trudge home.

Kalcho and Gosho and some of the crazier kids somehow ended up walking with me. Kalcho, who is maybe 3'6 and has the high-pitched, delicate voice of a little angel, said, "Sorry we are so bad Miss. You came all this way, so far, and we are just so bad. You just want to help us, right? Poor Miss."

I almost wanted to cry. This kid, this one solitary kid in this class of complete jerks, who has probably been hindered somewhat in his education by having to deal with them, understands why I am here, and understands my frustration. I love that kid. He, and Gosho (who has a severe speech impediment and can't write his way out of paper bag in English or in Bulgarian, but who can pick up English phrases from movies and always answer my questions when it seems like he has spaced out) and a handful of the other kids I come in daily contact with, are making my time here worth it.

I never set out to save the world. I know I alone can not do that. I didn't set out to change any foreign policy or work out the kinks in any culture. I came to help who I could, and if that means 5 kids go though life knowing one teacher cared enough about them to take them aside in class to teach, then I will have succeeded here. If one single life is benefited from my work, then I will have succeeded. Because you know what, one person will be benefited by life I helped...And one person from that life. I don't mean to get all sentimental and wishy-washy, but I think it is time for all of us in Bulgar-land, and in Peace Corps in general, to revaluate the work we are doing, as well as the reasons why we are doing it. I know my objectives are keeping me much saner and more satisfied than I have been in a long, long time.

A blog of spokoistvie

2006-01-30T09:54:00.000-08:00

(A blog of relaxation)
Things are back to normal in Bulgaria...Well, as normal as they get here. The intense cold has loosened its grip, school is back in session, and I have again lost motivation to cook much beyond a boiled egg and PBJ sandwich. Oh wait, tonight I am making some noodles which I plan to shred some kashkaval over...Yummmm.

Anyway, eating aside, I spent my mini-vacation thusly (can that be an adverb?...): HIBERNATING. That's right, I stayed in my apartment from Monday afternoon to Thursday morning leaving only for a few hours Tuesday for my Bulgarian lesson. It was everything I thought it could be. I watched DVDs, glanced through Bulgarian work (which is not something I end up doing usually), played with the kitten, and generally enjoyed a more spokoino existance.

On Thursday, when the wind decided to stop gusting at 80 mph, I decided to end my hibernation with a trip to Yambol (which basically means eating pizza and existing in a more commercially-driven place.) My big purchase: a huge bag of kitty litter. Now that's exciting.

Friday morning I took the 3:45 a.m. bus to Sofia (yes, I am that crazy) and tried to keep warm all day by buying books (well, the bookSTORES were warm...) and stopping every hour or so for coffee or food. In the afternoon I headed up to the Peace Corps office to make sure it was still there and had a fun chat with my volunteer "sister" Vassi (the second volunteer to live with my host family). Ah, English. How I love thee.

Once the evening came around I took a cab to a residential part of Sofia to visit Monica Farling, a girl from Dover who is now working as a missionary in Sofia. Her apartment, in all honesty, is like a little America, complete with things like a CLOTHES DRYER, a DISHWASHER, the miracles of CENTRAL HOT WATER and CENTRAL HEATING, a BATHTUB with a SHOWER CURTAIN and even a guest bed that includes a MATTRESS and BOXSRPINGS and a HEADBOARD and DOWN PILLOWS. Ahhh.

We went out with Ivcho, a friend of my Aunt Kay's who spends his summers in the states. He took us to get some pizza then to see "Munich" in the biggest movie complex EVER. It put anything I've ever seen in the states to shame. We got home at 1:30 a.m., so you can imagine how exhausted I was (remember, I caught the 3:45 a.m. bus!)

Saturday I got to spend an hour and some change in a car! Ivcho drove me to Etropole, a town near Sofia which is the home to Lucia Chan -- a volunteer friend. We celebrated Chinese New Years with a few other volunteers, which basically included lots of food, lots of comedy DVDs, and the formation of a new kind of joke -- the "Dr. Robert Joke." (For those not-in-the-know, he is a Bulgarian doctor on the PC staff who is kind but somewhat straightlaced and we enjoy trying to confuse him with jokes or make him blush...)

Anywhoo...On Sunday I make the cross-country trek home way exhausted and way poorer...I feel a month on the poverty plan coming on. By now the weather has warmed up to close to 0 C, so life is back on track. I have this week in school, then next week I have yet ANOTHER week away at a PC conference/training thing in Stara Zagora. Sweeeet.

Britney and Hitler?...Really?!

2006-01-25T09:10:00.000-08:00

Your Inner Blood Type is Type A

You seem cool and collected, though a bit shy.You are highly driven and a perfectionist, but that's a side you keep to yourself.Creative and artistic, you are a very unique person who doesn't quite fit in.People accept you more than you realize, seeing you as trustworthy and loyal.
You are most compatible with: A and AB
Famous Type A's: Britney Spears and Hilter

What's" Your Inner Blood Type?

A Big "Thank You" to Russia

2006-01-24T01:00:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the giant to the north, I have a week off from school...

How, you might ask? Well, a hideously cold weather system developed in Siberia and made it's way south to good 'ole Bulgaria. It's -18 C in the sunshine....There is tornadic-like wind....I can see my breath in my kitchen and bathroom. All around cool.

So apparently it's considered unacceptable for Bulgarian students to study when there is a few centimeters of ice on the insides of windows in the school...Go figure. Yesterday we taught, and the school was basically just a block for the wind as there was no major temperature difference between the outside and the inside. After school the mayor told our director to cancel classes for the rest of the week.

This is, in fact, the second week I have gotten off due to cold. The week of Thanksgiving it got really cold and we were still waiting for new parts for the furnace (which, ironically, were coming from Russia too!) so they canceled classes from Tuesday on. In a country where they don't even celebrate Thanksgiving, I got a weeklong vacation! It was pretty sweet.

Anyway, apart from the cold, there is no news from the Balkans. Later today I will have my Bulgarian lesson so I will bring some laundry with me to do at Rosie's. This weekend I plan to head west to the Sofia area to celebrate Chinese New Years with some other volunteers. Should be amusing...With lots of food and English speaking. I get to ride from Sofia to a town about an hour-and-a-half west of it in a car, so that will be super-exciting. Aww, it's all about the small pleasures here.

Haide...Time to buy supplies for brownies and sugar cookies. Let's hope I don't blow away. Later.

hair color, my brilliance, and other disjointed musings

2006-01-21T11:44:00.000-08:00

So yesterday in Sliven I was looking for some shampoo to keep my new haircolor (almost black) bright and healthy, and some salesgirl came up to me and began talking me into this German stuff. She asked if my hair was in fact dyed, and when I said yes she cooed (literally) and said, "You're so fashionable! Dark hair, blue eyes."

For those of you who know me, it is very clear why I could not suppress a chuckle. I don't think ever in my entire life anyone has ever considered me stylish. Smart, yes. Blunt and sarcastic, yes. Weird, of course. But stylish? Really?!

Never, that is, until Bulgaria. Since coming here, I have often been complemented on my "style" (which is based solely on the comfort-factor). Several people have commented on my hair, including students and the elderly male teachers I work with. The senior girls I tutor said my green jacket was "cutting edge" (my green jacket that my mom bought for me last year and looks like something out of JCrew which has been worn to the point needing a patch on the elbow). Two of my fifth grade girls tell me I'm pretty whenever I wear green. Little boys notice when I am carrying a new backpack or purse and compliment me on them. It's just so....wierd.

So, that's all I have to offer on that subject. Next up: my brilliance.

I had to give my eigth graders a test on Thursday, and I was, quite frankly, too lazy to make multiple versions of the test. Cheating is a time-honored tradition in Bulgaria, so I figured that this test would be a kind-of handout.

But as I was passing out the exams, a brilliant idea hit me. I have four girls and one boy in that class who know anything, and the rest kind of just suck up air. So what did I do? I made all 5 of the better students sit in a cluster at the front of the class, and had everyone else sit in the back, far from anyone who knew any answers.

The result was an effortless, honest test. The five better kids cheated, but it was with eachother so the test became an equal, joint effort. The worse kids cheated amongst themselves, but since none of them know anything their efforts were wasted. I graded the tests today, and sure enough, the kids who know nothing have no answers written down, and the kids who know something got decent grades. The best part? There was no extra effort on my part! Brilliance? or laziness?....It's a fine line, no?

On to topic three, which will probably be the last for tonight as I have run out of steam...It is called "Oddities of Becca's Life." The first is that one of my fifth grade boys seems to be harboring some sort of morbid fascination with me. He lives in the other entrance of my building, and he continually threatens to come visit me to see my cat. He spends most of the class period trying to get me to answer random questions about myself. Personal stuff. Last week I caught him writing my name over and over again on my desk with some chalk (he was at my desk because it was the only place I could put him where he would SHUT UP). One time I walked into a sixth grade class and he was sitting there. It took me a moment to realize he was in the wrong class, and I asked him what he was doing. He said he wanted to stay in the class, so I told him he could if he was quiet. And sure enough, he didn't make a peep the whole period...He just sat there, listening intently. Weird.

Now, don't be scared for me about this kid. He's harmless. He's also just a little bit creepy, in an amusing way.....

Oddity number two: I have befriended an elderly widow. She lives below me, and a few weeks ago she came up to my apartment and told me to come visit her. Since that first visit she has come to kidnap me once more, and she took me to her brother and sister-in-law's house for her name day. I can tell she is a bit of a gossip and a busy-body and she is kinda old, but she talks to me, feeds me, and listens to me butcher Bulgarian. At this point in my life, that is all I ask of a friend. Maybe tomorrow I will teach her how to make brownies!

And I'm spent. More later.

an assignment they LIKED!

2006-01-10T11:19:00.000-08:00

So there was this assignment in my 8th grade textbook where they had to translate a joke from Bulgarian to English. Here is one some of my top girls managed (though I have refined it and added some Becca-flavor). Did you know they have dumb blonde jokes in Bulgarian? (Only the Bulgarian strain usually includes farm animals).

A blonde decides she is sick of being called dumb and dyes her hair brown. Soon after she is walking down the road when she encounters a shepherd taking his flock to pasture. She asks the shepherd, "Oooh, I love sheep! If I can guess the number of sheep in your flock, may I keep a sheep?" The shepherd replies, "Yes. If you guess the number of sheep in my flock, I will give you a sheep."

The former blonde looks at the flock and says, "You have 23 sheep in your flock." The shepherd says, "Correct! Choose your sheep!" The former blonde picks up an animal and starts to walk away.

The shepherd hollars back to her, "Hey, if I correctly guess the actual color of your hair, will you give me my dog back?!"

A Hilariously Bulgarian Photo

2006-01-09T08:30:00.000-08:00

So this photo was taken by my host cousin Vildane shortly before departing for New Years in Razlog. Pictured are my volunteer friend Maegen, our Bulgarian-Turkish friend Suktu, and myself.

I only include this photo because it is so typically-Bulgarian: a group of people slightly off center, facing the camera, posed on a couch, barely smiling, cigarette smoke swirling around everything...Ahhh, Bulgaria.

the new year's becca survived

2006-01-07T08:40:00.000-08:00

So there I was...in Razlog (Meggi's town) with her and my two host cousins, Villi and Gulchie.

We had heard Razlog has, um, *unique* New Year's celebrations, so we were excited to witness them. We knew there'd be Kukeri, which are men dressed in the hair of goats who dance and scare away evil spirits. Sounds cool, no?

Shortly after I wrote the Dec. 31 entry on this very blog, one of Meggi's Bulgarian friends, Katya, came to have some dinner. That roast beef was the last thing I experienced that bore any resemblance to the rest of my life...

About fifteen minutes before midnight we headed towards the town center with a bottle of cheap Bulgarian champagne and a few plastic cups. When we arrived the center was more or less dead, but soon floods of people started arriving.

The floods of people brought with them firecrackers...Some were like Roman Candles, some were just torches of fire, and others did nothing but scurry around, explode, and burn your ankles. They burned your ankles because people were throwing them INTO the crowd...The police stood by with beers in their hands.

As midnight neared, the popping and exploding and burning increased. Villi and Gulchie began fighting over the bottle of champagne while trying to open it, thus spilling it all over the ground. As soon as midnight struck a firecracker of some sort whizzed between Meggi and I, and we both kinda flipped out (dude, I felt the heat and pinch of it on my ear!) So we promptly abandoned the arguing teenagers and Katya, who was dancing around and singing in the midst of the explosions, and hightailed it into a nearby cafe. There we stood, behind glass, until the girls found us and drew us out to toast the New Year.

The champagne I toasted 2006 with had a piece of firecracker in it and smelled of sulfur. I toasted it under a tree, fearing for the safety of my limbs, watching drunken Bulgarians horo around little white explosions and discarded champagne bottles.

Shortly after that we returned home to recover from what will go down in Becca's Book of Life as the most terrifying stroke-of-midnight in my 23 years.

The next day, however, was amazing in a non-scary way. At around 10 we all wandered into the town center again, and it should be noted a thin layer of sulfur still hung in the air mixed with woodsmoke and typical Razlog fog.

For the next several hours, each neighborhood (or Mahala) in the town showed off men and boys in Kukeri outfits, other folks in traditional Bulgarian and Macedonian dress (Razlog is close to the border), and still others in outfits we Americans associate with Halloween. Young men dressed like old Babas (grandmothers), and some did a startling good job of it. The center walkway was blocked off, so long lines of people horo-ed behind those dressed up. (May it be noted that I joined two different lines to dance...) There were drums, guidas (like Bulgarian bagpipes), tractors made-up like floats, and all kinds of partying.

In all of the madness, I enjoyed the Kukeri the most. They wear these huge bells in their costumes and throw their arms and legs around to make them ring. It looks like these huge men (and small boys) in these goat-hair bodysuits are having seizures while walking down the street. One group had at least 20 Kukeri dancing down the street in unison, and the sound of the bells was deafening. Totally cool, man.

The party moved to the individual neighborhoods around 3 p.m. and we went to Katya's for some homemade sausage and rice. After that we went home to contemplate what we had just witnessed...

So, I am out of steam. Just know that it was really cool, and I wish I could post some of my video clips as they encapsulate the scene much better than photos...

a new year's teaser

2006-01-05T13:35:00.000-08:00

Wanna find out what the heck this is? Check back here in the next few days for the complete "New Years in Razlog" story....It's a hoot!

2005

2005-12-31T02:16:00.000-08:00

I woke up on the first morning of 2005 in Alison's bedroom in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. We had spent the day before at a hockey game, eating out, eating in, destroying baked goods, banging pots in the street with crazy neighbors, and generally causing a rukus.

Through the months of January and February I was living with my parents and working as a staff writer at the Dover Post. Every week I went to the city offices to copy down all of the deed transfers and the only redeeming factor in this was there was a really hot guy who worked there. That's motivation.

There was tons of snow and tons of cold all winter. Usually I had to pour water on my car door to unfreeze it in the morning, esp. Monday and Tuesday morning when I had to go in extra early. Kelli and I ate at Quiznos or Mama's every other day. Yum.

In March I lost my last grandmother. My grandfather lost his wife of over 60 years.

In April I had a goodbye party. It was weird as three phases of life met at once -- youth, college, and Dover Post era. The last time I drove was April 21. On April 22 my parents dropped me off at the Philadelphia Airport, which was the last time I saw my dad. In Chicago I met the only people I see now who speak English natively. On April 24 we left Chicago for Sofia.

The following week I learned a new alphabet and some Bulgarian food words. On April 31 I met my Bulgarian family and moved to Krichim.

I learned a new way of life. I lived in a household where I could not understand them, nor they understand me. I got really awesome at charades. I made a new family out of 4 other Americans and our teacher. Little by little, I learned a new language.

On May 16 I found out I'd be living in Straldja. On May 17 I met my counterpart Rosie, who has become my guardian. On May 18 she and her husband and friend drove me to Straldja, and I spent the night in my very first "own apartment." On May 19 I met some of my future students. On May 20 I went home to Krichim and for two days we celebrated my birthday with family and other volunteer friends from all over. Kuchek. Wine. A professionally-handmade cake by Atidje's brother.

Through June, the "six of us" spent long sunny days at the pool, meeting for coffee in the center, practicing our Bulgarian and planning our lessons over beers after language class. We went na gosti to eachothers families. We had adventures in Plovdiv.

By the time July came, I could understand my family and they could understand me.

On July 7 we said overly-teary goodbyes to our hostfamiles in the exact same spot where we had met them. That night the Krichim folks went on an odessy through Pazardjik looking for dooners.

On July 8 we went to Sofia to swear-in as Peace Corps volunteers and my director drove there to pick me up. She brought me to my apartment, and I was alone.

For two months I was alone. I saw other volunteers, went home to Krichim, but I was alone. Very much alone.

In September I became a teacher. I'm not a teacher...not educated as a teacher...But I became one. I learned lots of discipline Bulgarian. I learned discipline Bulgarian doesn't work.

I did traveling around Bulgaria. I learned how to keep house. I learned how to cook for myself, how to shop in small and limited shops, and how to find motivation to clean up a mess after a long day of work.

My mom and aunt came. I showed them My Bulgaria...and both got an education. I got a cat that is solely my responsibility.

I had one of the most thankful Thanksgivings of my life because I was with friends and was able to speak in my native tounge. And the best thing is we made it ourselves.

I had a really rough Christmas season...my first away from Delaware. My students became crazier. The weather became much colder. I had none of my Christmas traditions (except for the stocking my mother sent), but eventually came to love Bulgarian traditions. I spent the actual holiday in a Muslim home, but with Muslims that care so much they approximated as closely as possible a Bulgarian Christmas just for me.

I heard The Good News in Bulgarian, and understood it.

I am now a different girl from the one who woke up in Alison's bedroom twelve months ago.

creative discipline and laughing at students

2005-12-20T10:38:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I will tell the more troubling story first because chronogically it happened first AND I feel like being chronological, PLUS it's just nice to leave a happy taste in a reader's mouth.

So, as you can see from my recent photos, it snowed for the first time in Straldja a few days ago. Sunday, to be exact. On Monday, the Monday before the big Christmas vacation, the kids were NUTSO. They usually are nuts, but the snow and pending vacation heightened the maddness to fever pitch. By fifth period the thin gloss that is discipline in Bulgarian schools had completely eroded, and it was all I could do to keep my ninth-graders (my most consistantly favorite class) inside of the classroom.

Anyway, some of the jerkoff boys in my eigth grade class escaped from music, went into the empty room next to mine, climbed out of the window onto the roof, and proceeded to make snowballs. They came running into my classroom and pelted my kids, my desk, my floor, and myself with snow. And I...was...hot... Oh no no no no no...I had had enough interruptions and problems and stupidity and I was not going to take this crap. So I followed them as they ran out of my room, realized where they had gone to get snow, and once they climbed back out to get more I closed the window, locked it, then locked the door to the classroom so none of their croanies could bust them out. The said croanies were in the hallway speechless, murmuring that "Miss Rebecca has locked them out of the building! She has locked them on the roof!" (Note: this window is the only window that opens on this part of the roof).

I returned to my class and they looked at me with wonder and disbelief. After a few minutes we heard the boys on the roof throwing a fit when they realized what I had done. At the end of the period I went and opened the door to the classroom to let their croanies bring them in again. They were shivering, wide-eyed and stunned into silence. By the looks on their faces, I shouldn't have problems with them for the rest of the week, if not forever.

So I must say that I would never have even THOUGHT of doing this in America, where there are things like liability. But in America there are also things like detention, ISS and suspension. Here, they lack anything. Literally, locking my students on the roof was the only way to prevent them from decorating my room with snow! They don't listen, and why should they really? They don't give a crap about grades, and that is the only leverage we teachers have. It's a crazy, crazy system.

But now for the funny story...Not to say that wasn't a funny one. Today I was in my decent fifth grade class (they are loud, but they generally learn) teaching them nationalities: people from Bulgarian and people from America are Americans, etc...I taught them "-an" and "-ish" and "-ese," and the oddball ones like French and Swiss...Then I asked them to guess some. They did well -- "Italian miss!" "Russian miss!" "Chinese miss!" Then I asked, "Kak ce kazvat horata ot Germania? (What are people from Germany called?) One girl, one darling little girl, announced loud and proud, "Germish!" (pronounced "jermish").

I could not hold back a jerk of laughter, and they all looked at me inquizzically. I could not explain to them what "germ" is in English as I do not know the word in Bulgarian, and I could not explain the concept of "ish" as being something to make the word an adjective, so the joke was lost. But it remained with me, and I will now rename a number of English nationalities:

Italish; Turkese; Englanese; Chinish; Mexicese; Swizterish; Canadian (that one's not funny, but the people sure are!); and my favorite -- Amerikese!

And I'm spent.

oooh, purty

2005-12-19T03:29:00.000-08:00

This is the view from my little teacher cabinet on the fourth floor. Oh, the snow makes it so pretty. The mountains in the distance are the eastern-most peaks of the Balkan Mountains.

Too bad all this pretty snow gives my kids weapons to use INSIDE my classroom.

'twas the week before christmas...

2005-12-18T03:20:00.000-08:00

One week from today is Christmas all around the world (well, except Russia...)

I figured going into the Peace Corps that Christmas would be the hardest time of the year for me away from home. I have never in my life spent the time from December 23 to 26 outside of Dover, and this year I am on the other side of the world...

To combat homesickness, I have made it a point to throw myself into the Christmas traditions of Bulgarians, the first thing being a concert put on yesterday by groups from several towns in the area. People got dressed up in Bulgarian national dress, sang national Christmas chants and danced high-energy holiday horos. This photo is of several of my fifth and sixth-grade girls who belong to a dance class in our town. Their horo, though I may be partial, was by far the best.

Anyway, today delightful suprise No. 2 occured...I woke up to a solid 6 inches of white on the ground and a steady downfall of more snow. I took a walk around town, nearly froze to death, took a photo of one of my students and his friend making a snow man and bought some milk for cookie-making.

Now I am holed up in my apartment baking and listening to Christmas music. Ahhh, this is the life.

two cents about bird flu

2005-12-16T08:04:00.000-08:00

So, Bulgaria HAS to have avian flu within its borders...Every neighboring country has confirmed having the disease, and I can't imagine birds going, "Oh, there's the Bulgarian border...Let's steer clear of there."

We have been joking about it since September, but now the jokes have hit a new pitch. It used to be jokes among PCVs...Now it is a joke among my students. My unwordly, uninterested-in-world-events-besides-bad-music students.

Today a number of people were absent from my 6th grade class (side note: it made for an AWESOME 40 minutes) and when I asked where everyone was, one of the funnier boys made the twisted face that indicates death and said two little words: "Petitsa Grip!" (Literally translated: Bird Flu!) The rest of the kids laughed and started making coughing sounds and death faces of their own.

I had to laugh. And I did, a bit. It's fun to joke about potentially horrible things...It's all fun and games until it morphs into a human-to-human transmitted plauge and we PCVs are evacuated from the country, denied entry into the US (cause you know they ain't letting us in when we've spent the last 8 months in an infected land) and are sent for a season of "quarentine" in Guantanamo.

Some volunteers have interesing stories about the mass slaughter of birds in their towns (this weekend in Omurtag Tia's landlady told us they had just killed 50 turkeys and she ran out of room in her freezer so she's having to boil it in jars) and even in my little town of Straldja I have seen 4 dead birds over the past two months laying on the ground with no obvious cause of death. Needless to say, I will be careful in my consumption and usage of eggs here. And I'll watch myself around the bird, uh, droppings in the street....

But as I say, it makes a heck of a joke at the moment, one even my kids get. Let's just hope this thing stays with the birds......

My Bulgarian Essay: For PCVS

2005-12-15T10:26:00.000-08:00

So I was at the "question asking" lesson in my Bulgarian book and I had to write an essay about questions I ask myself when I am in a bad mood. The last few weeks have been very taxing emotionally, so I was pretty prepared for the exercize. Fellow PCVs, I send this out into the world to find out if you are in my boat....I think some of you are......Oh, and I wrote it in English below. The Bulgarian is just for fun!

Какво стана? Защо плачаш? Защо не можеш да го забравиш?

Те не слушат никой. Различна ли си? Ако не искат да учат как можеш да научаш? Обаче искам да учат.

Дали са отегчени? Щяха ли да слушат ако правим нещо по-забавно? Но как можеш да правиш забавни неща ако не знаят нищо? Как? Нали това е въпроса?

Добре ли си? Свикваш ли със Стралджа? Харесва ли ти животът тук? Какво ли щеше да правиш ано беше в САЩ? Щеше ли да имаш по-добър живот? Не. Щях да бъда по-тъжена. Нима не исках да пъртувам и да опитвам друг живот? Нима не исках да стана по-силна? Да. Хайде!

Now in English:
What happened? Why are you crying? Why can't you forget about it?

They don't listen to anyone. Are you different? If they don't want to learn, how can you teach them? But, I want them to learn.

I wonder, are they bored? Would they listen if we did funner things? But how can you do fun things if they don't know anything? How? That's the question, right?

Are you okay? Are you used to Straldja? Do you like the life here? What would you be doing if you were in the States now? Would you have a better life? No. I'd be sadder. Didn't you want to travel and try another life? Didn't you want to become stronger? Yes. Well then, come on!

a blog of confusion

2005-12-15T05:29:00.000-08:00

So I don't understand my 5b class...Take today for instance.

They came in the room screaming and cursing and carrying on in true 5b fashion. I wrangled them into their seats and told them in Bulgarian what we were going to do: I was going to spell out words for them to write in their notebooks. This was a practice in understanding the names of our letters because earlier in the day I realized my 8th graders could not do this...

For some inexplicable reason they all got out notebooks and looked more prepared than any group of students I have encountered since arriving in Bulgaria. I gave them the first letter and they looked at me silently and intensly, wrote the letter, and then looked up for the next letter and so on...All of the students did this. And I was shocked by the accuracy of some of the kids' work. Some of them who I thought had never retained anything actually seemed to know something! And they were just so INTENSLY listening...It was like I was spelling out a code that would save their lives. I almost got distracted by the efficiency of it.

But then halfway through the period some asshole kid threw a stotinki coin at the damn bell outside of my classroom (the one that NEVER rings when it ought to) and the demons took it as their cue to go nuts. "The bell rang," they told me. "We must go!" They packed up their things and began shouting to one another.

Meanwhile I was trying to communicate to them that the bell had not rung, it was just some kid throwing a coin AT the bell. But they were so loud I was inaudible (and for those that know me, I am ALWAYS audible). I had to hold the door closed with all my might to prevent them from leaving. They started fighting as usual, and since they had already packed up there wasn't NO WAY I was going to get them to unpack their books...For the second half of the period I was relegated to discipline duty, which in this class is like being a prison warden.

So I don't understand. What was it about THAT exercise that made them listen? It doesn't seem fun and different to me...We do listening stuff all the TIME and they just talk so loudly the kids who want to hear can't...I would love to know what would have happened had that outside disruption never taken place. See, that's another thing. Not only do we have to deal with crap inside the class, I am constantly having to deal with crap being imposed on me from the hallway! In America if a kid is in the hall without a pass he gets detention. Here, there is literally no set-up punishment...What an ass-backwards system.

In my opinion, which is not worth much and is strictly MY OPINION, this education system is very much in need of teeth for the teachers. The teachers need to be given proverbial whips and sticks to get the job done here...I think the lack of these things has made the educational system what it is today. They need to have class participation grades that count as test grades (when I suggested this, my director said students should only be graded on the quality of work they produce, not their behavior) god-awful detentions, suspensions, Saturday school, in-school-suspension, and any other possible punishment that might deter these little darlings from acting like assholes. The American system is not perfect by any means, but I do not remember any of my classes being like classes here...even when the teacher was a weakling and a moron. Sure people tried to cheat, but they were failed. Sure people talked out in class, but it was in whispers so as to avoid getting a detention (my students have full blown conversations like I am not even standing there and no amount of scolding from me helps this). Sure, there was even the occasional fight in school, but you better damn believe those kids were outta there as soon as they were pulled off of one another and later became the school gossip for eons to follow. Here kids can beat eachother until they are bleeding and they still roam the halls, and no one even thinks anything of it afterwards.

I do not understand how Bulgarian teachers stay in their jobs for so long. And for what it's worth, as much as I love Bulgaria and the people I know here, I would not send my child to a Bulgarian school for all the tea in freakin' China!

This is how we do...

2005-12-12T09:01:00.000-08:00

SaturdayI got on an 8:30 a.m. bus to Omurtag, a city in the Balkan Mountains a two-hour bus ride directly north of Straldja. I was off to visit Tia, whom I had texted the day before to tell her I'd arrive around 10:50 -- information given to me by the lady I bought the tickets from.

I arrived at 10:15, much to my suprise, and decided to tell her I was early. I tried to call her. It said that "the subscriber could not be reached." I tried again and got the same message. I tried again and again until I figured something was wrong.

There was an internet club across the street, so I decided to go try and email her. But as it was Saturday morning, the club was closed and I was left to ponder my next move in the snow. I decided to text my friend Brian whom I was sure had Tia's real number.

He must have been asleep, cause he didn't reply until 11:15. Sure enough, I had a bum number. Which means she never got my message the day before...Hrm. So I called her and she came to get me.

We went back to her apartment, dropped off my stuff and then went over to her landlady's apartment to tell her Tia's boiler was broken, again. In true Bulgarian form, we were invited in, given a waffle candy bar and coffee, plus a jar of boiled turkey and a pair of knitted booties to keep our footsies warm that had been made by the family's baba (grandmother).

We stayed an hour and a half, then decided it was time to get lunch. We wandered from shop to shop gathering supplies for brownies, Christmas cookies and a spaghetti dinner.

When we returned to her apartment, the true staple of Peace Corps visiting began -- making something good to eat. I have had several inter-Peace Corps vists by now, and they all have involved lots of cooking and baking. I think this is because there is not much else to do, so we are all becoming Betty Crockers. Each volunteer has a speciality to pass on to guests or hosts, and we swap recipes like old women at Bingo halls.

Anyway, Tia and I had obtained some cookie cutters and sprinkles from an older volunteer in her town, so we found a vanilla cookie recipe online and went to it. We cooked enough for her landlady as a thank-you for the booties and her neighbor, who lent us a cooking pan. Once we were finished her landlady came by, took one puzzled look at the cookies, and asked us what they were. The sprinkles had thrown her off...What were they? She, apparently, had never seen a sprinkle before in her life. We chuckled because they must look inedible if you have never seen one, and she probably thought we were trying to poison her!

After that bit of amusement we watched a movie and fell asleep in her heated room. The next day we went to a cafe for some coffee and then I caught my bus home. I got here by 1 p.m. and FROZE in my apartment (a cold wind had set in, and I had not been home to run my heater through the night.) I turned it on to warm up the bricks even though I am not supposed to run it during the day...What could I do? My kitten was literally shivering! By the evening some heat was beginning to pump out, but it did not really warm up until today.

Hope all's well. And I hope my motivation to write comes back sometime soon...I am feeling a bit blocked or something.

The War of Apartment 31

2005-12-05T09:51:00.000-08:00

My kitten and I are at war.

Little does she know, I will win.

We have disagreements about many things. I think my little Christmas tree looks great sitting on top of my television. She thinks it looks better in a heap on the floor next to the television. She had something against my elephant clock that was a gift from some friends in Krichim, so I will have to take that to Toschko tomorrow for some gluing. She thinks my food is her food, and I think her food is her food. My body has become a scratching post, an object to hunt, a jungle-gym and a bed (though I like the last part). My drying clothes have become pawns in our struggle -- she stares at me defiantly as she yanks a sock down with her claw. "That's right," she says to me, "I'm pulling this sock DOWN unless you get off your school-worn ass and make me stop."

But as I mentioned before, I will win. She hates punishment (i.e. flicking her with water or carrying her by the neck like her mama would), so hopefully it will eventually sink in...If it doesn't, I will be living with a being that has a teenage mentality and real claws...Interesno.

A Blog of Thanks

2005-11-23T23:07:00.000-08:00

I am thankful I was selected to join the Peace Corps.

I am thankful I was sent to Bulgaria.

I am thankful I have a family that lets me do crazy things like move to Bulgaria.

I am thankful I was placed in Krichim for my training.

I am thankful that my time there introduced me to a family I would never have known otherwise, but now consider very much my own.

I am thankful I was placed with four other volunteers who have become an extension of that non-biological family.

I am thankful that I had a summer that really and profoundly showed me what I am made of.

I am thankful the summer is over.

I am thankful I have a counterpart who considers me a friend.

I am thankful I am able to learn Bulgarian.

I am thankful to have a lot of work. Useful work. Even if it isn't always my *real* job...

I am thankful that I know how to work my oven now.

I am thankful my mom brought me really warm socks from the states. (Man, is it COLD.)

I am thankful that I have internet in my apartment so I can communicate with my families in the states (the Grudzinas, the Buttresses, old old friends...)

But most of all, this Thanksgiving I am thankful that I get to be thankful with other Americans in this far off land...Other Americans who I would be lost here without.

God bless, and Happy Thanksgiving!

My First Bulgarian Snowfall!

2005-11-20T09:57:00.000-08:00

Ah, the first snowfall. It's not in town, but it sure made the hills to the north purty! I took a walk bright and early this morning to grab some photos lest it all melt, but it didn't. Actually, that walk was the only time outside of my apartment I had today...The rest of the day included Bulgarian homework, letter-writing and tons of baking. Tomorrow I will introduce my colleagues to The American Brownie made from scratch with genuine Hershey's Cocoa! They won't know what hit them....

Desert Places

2005-11-19T11:48:00.000-08:00

For some reason, the first weeks of winter (true, pure winter) always bring to my mind the works of Robert Frost. Most of the year I think him trite, but for the first few weeks of winter I find he is the poet who best verbalizes what I see in the world.

Winters in my homestate of Delaware were never very Robert Frost-like. Sure it was cold and we sometimes got snow, but there was never the really opressive blankness and loneliness that is part of Frost. The glory of a Delaware winter is a good early-morning frost on the reeds in the swamp or the town Christmas lights being lit on your way home from a late day at the office.

I was first introduced to Frost winters when I was in college in central Pennsylvania. We were in the rolling hills just south of the Allegheney Mountains, surrounded by patches of woods and fields that generally had snow in them all winter. Late at night, driving to and from the small town where school was, I was always struck by the emptiness of it all, by the tiredness of it all. There were no street lights, so the moon just bounced off the patches of snow and gave a sad brightness to everything. I always found myself going over Frost poetry on those rides.

Today I was reminded of my old winter friend once again, although this time the woods were on the Balkan Mountains and the empty fields were on the Thracian Plain. This afternoon I went shopping in Sliven and met the new volunteer there (who, by the by, is from DELAWARE!). The whole day had been rainy and gray, but when I got off the bus the rain had turned to wet snow and a terrible, bitter wind was raging down from the mountains. It was almost hard to walk for the wind, and it was incredibly cold. As the sun went down the snow and wind were replaced by the same kind of chill-to-the-bone dampness I had grown so accustomed to in Pennsylvania. And as the bus headed across the plain to Straldja, I watched the rocky, now-snow-covered mountains give way to smaller, wooded hills, and again thought to myself:

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it -- it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less --
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars -- on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

Of course this winter for me, more than any before it, will truly live up to the lines of this poem. I was profoundly alone this summer, and slowly I am coming to love the loneliness. This winter cannot scare me...I have seen my own desert places, and now I know they are beautiful.

The state of relationships

2005-11-16T10:12:00.000-08:00

I had not been in the house for an hour yet when Atidje aked me, with all sincerity from across the kitchen table, "Imash li gadje?" (Do you have a boyfriend?)

This is a question I get every time I come "home" to Krichim, but it is never usually brought up so soon.

Ati and Oktai pretty much know the state of romantic relationships in my life. They know there is a severe lack of young and single males in my town. They know I still have issues with the language and am pretty much the opposite of a flirtatious and outgoing individual anyway, even if I could communicate easily.

But this has not stopped the questioning, and therefore the jokes.

On one of my first trips home they asked me if I had any friends in Straldja. I mentioned that I had befriended one baba (grandmother) named Baba Radka and she gave me cucumbers from her garden.

I am, perhaps, too naive at times. After only a few minutes Baba Radka had turned into Hot-Young-Man Radko and he had given me cucumbers of an entirely different sort...

So that was the first joke. And it's stuck. Since then others have come up, including the fact that I they say I am dating Sudku (a Krichim friend of mine who is a reminant of my early days there when Ozhgun rounded up as many people who spoke English as possible to come meet us). I suppose of all the scenerios this is the most probable, as they know him and know we hang out, but they also know he has a girlfriend in Plovdiv...Apparently in Bulgaria, however, that doesn't REALLY matter.

But this trip home, the subject of my love life was even more scrutinized than usual. Every hour some joke was cracked or some remark was made. When I left with Maegen, they told us not to come back until we have boyfriends. Sheesh...It's a joke, but man, that's harsh.

I am not the only one, however. Vtora Andy (Second Andy...not the Andy from my group but the Andy from the more recent group) was there and took the same heat. Maegen took it, I know other volunteers take it.

I find this a very fascinating feature of Bulgarian culture, this obsession with joking about relationships, and I usually find it amusing too. In the states we do the same thing, but it is only amongst people you are close with...Mothers are always trying to fix up their daughters and encouraging their sons to settle down and supply them with grandchildren. But it is not something generally brought up amongst strangers in public places...Though here, every train trip I take I inevitably wind up in a compartment with some baba who inevitably has a grandson just my age who doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, is very nice, has a good job and is very attractive. They all find it very strange I am 23, single, living alone in a far-off land, and seem to be okay with this.

So, that is the state of relationships in my life...Now I look forward to meeting the baba on the train who really DOES have a grandson my age, who is nice and smart and handsome and will keep me warm on these cold Bulgarian nights...The more I meet, the better the probability gets, right? Hehehehe.

**I hearby open my comments section to my fellow BG volunteers...Please share amusing stories about potential forced relationships in your lives, if you have any. (And I mean, you are in Bulgaria...how could you LACK stories?...)

Snimki...

2005-11-15T10:47:00.000-08:00

The new roomie...The kitten, I mean. The boy is Eric, who is a fellow volunteer an hour or so south of me. The kitten is Заека (Zaeka), which is Bulgarian for "female rabbit." Got her a few weeks ago from a friend of a friend, and she has made life much more, uh, interesting in my apartment.

Бавно По Бавно

2005-11-08T12:09:00.000-08:00

(Bavno Po Bavno)

This is a Bulgarian phrase meaning "Slowly by slowly...", bascially the English "little by little."

This, I have come to find, is a very IMPORTANT Bulgarian phrase.

It's a phrase that I find myself turning in my mind every day now...Because truly, everything I busy myself with these days is a bit of struggle that seems pretty much never ending.

I am learning Bulgarian. I can get by, converse, even sometimes understand strangers talking to one another. But for every word I know, there are 7 million I don't. For every 30 words I understand, there are three I can produce on my own. Every week I learn a new tense, but then there is always another tense waiting for me next week. I try to construct really good sentences for my students, then they stare at me blankly and one of the "sympathetic listeners" translates it into REAL Bulgarian. Zing.

I am also trying to teach. My students, for the most part, are apathetic, ignorant and disrespectful. The students I consider "good" I only consider "good" because they try to answer questions, they don't throw things and they don't ask me to go to the bathroom 50 times throughout a 40-minute class period...Even they have a lack of consistancy and spend more time tattling on other kids and giving answers out-of-turn than actually studying and listening to me teach. I have completely resigned myself to the fact that they will not do independent work during class...I HAVE to teach constantly throughout the entire period just to manage the crowd. If I assign them an exercise to do on their own for a minute, they just start talking to one another and nothing gets done. It's EXHAUSTING. They all cheat on tests--literally all of them. Even the best of the students do nothing to discourage a neighbor from copying...I am told this is a cultural thing (you help your friends), but my American, do-your-own-work ethic will simply not reconcile itself to it.

I am also on the hunt for friends, which is something I've never been good at, and now I am trying to make them IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE. I feel like when I meet people, I must be such a drain on them and their social gathering. When I am in a group of several English speakers and one Bulgarian, I am so distracted in trying to keep that one Bulgarian in the loop of the conversation that I can't enjoy myself, so I feel like it is the same thing to all the Bulgarians who try to interact with me. I feel like they are laboring, and thus we aren't making any progress towards being actual friends. The Bulgarians are incredibly supportive with my learning, but I don't think they really think of me as a friend...They are just being their hospitible selves.

And finally, I am trying to live on my own. I am becoming a homemaker a responsible adult. I don't think any of my aquaintences would ever have labled me as irresponsible, but now I have a kitchen to keep stocked and meals to cook for myself, water and electricity and telephone bills to pay, floors to keep clean and a kitten to care for. Until now I have been expected to concentrate on one aspect of life--getting my education. I have had side jobs and activities all along, but I have also had family or roommates to help out on the homefront. There have been other people to cook for me when I was too tired, people to wash my dishes when I didn't have time and people to generally pick up the slack when I was not inclined to do something (and vice versa). But now, I am alone. I am the only person in my home, and therefore there is no one to pick up my slack. Too tired to wash dishes? Fine Becca, go to bed. But tomorrow, you'll be sorry.

But, as I try to compensate for that whine-fest, things are looking up. This summer I was at loose ends and terribly, terribly unadjusted. I was just profoundly lost...But the whole time I knew what I know now -- slowly by slowly, I would find myself. And to an extent, that is true. I am better now than I was last month. Last month I was better than the month before...The difference may be minute and fleeting, but it is there. There are good days and bad days, but the good days are getting better and the bad ones are not quite as bad.

I am sure that by the time I leave this place, I will have completed a very important journey.

**Sorry for the abrupt conclusion. I am sick of writing, and I am sure you are sick of reading...

2005-11-02T11:58:00.000-08:00

Here are Rosie and I standing in the middle of Bulgaria's answer to "Stonehenge."

The 22-Hour Field Trip

2005-11-02T01:26:00.000-08:00

...was actually a 24-hour day for me.

I woke up at 2:30 a.m., brewed some coffee, found my yogurt had frozen in my fridge and settled for some Bake Rolls for breakfast instead. I got dressed in an outfit I had laid out the night before (I knew putting together a matching, weather-appropriate outfit would be too complicated for me at 2:30 a.m.) and even managed to brush my teeth and hair.

At 3 a.m. I called Rosie to make sure she was out of bed. Fifteen minutes later we met oustide of my block and made our very dark way to the train station.

The students were waiting for us...All 44 of them. The 4 other teachers took roll (I think they thought of me more as a guest than an actual chaperone) and we waited in the light rain for the train.

Before 4 a.m. the train had arrived, we got on, woke up some sleepers in the compartments to make room for all of us, and settled in for the 3-hour ride to Varna.

We arrived shortly after the sky began to lighten. Though we had left the slow drizzle of Straldja behind, the sky was gloomy and the temperature had dropped about 5 degrees making a bone-chilling cold, damp day not too unlike our previous excursion to northern Bulgaria.

Our first order of business was to eat. The kids were set to their own devices and told to gather at the planitarium at 9:30. Most of them flocked to the McDonalds (as did I) and got Big Macs for breakfast. Once 9:30 came around we retraced our steps towards the planitarium for our first activity of the day.

Most of the presentation consisted of a powerpoint presentation and a film (the presentation being in Bulgarian and the film being in English with subtitles). In the last few minutes the woman running the show did the typical (and really cool) star presentation. After using the toilets, we headed out into the cold again and crossed the huge waterfront park towards the "Dolphinarium."

Talk about random activities...We saw a dolphin show. Not only did we see it, one of my sixth grade students got to participate. They put her in a raft and sent her across the pool and the dolphins had to push her back. She was delighted, and everyone was snapping photos on their mobile phones.

Once the show was over, we boarded a bus and headed to the Aladja Monastery. I didn't even knew it existed...It is a monastery that is carved into the face of this stone hill where monks lived in the 12 to 13th centuries. It was a truly bizzare spot, but very attractive. Some gardener found us and told us all about the monks' cells (which were little more than round indents in the rocks) and the bigger indent that had served as the chapel.

Once we had exhausted all of the views from the monastery, we got back on the bus and I finally asked Rosie where we were going next (up until that point I had simply been following and arriving.) She told me the name, but I didn't understand what it was. "It's like Stonehenge," she said.

Okay, so there is a Stonehenge in Bulgaria too. Go figure.

We arrived at the next site and I found out what she was talking about. It was an entire field filled with huge, naturally-made, weather-worn rock formations and sand. The kids took to climping the rocks, and the adults just tried to stay warm in the bitter wind.

After some time, the kids began complaining of hunger, so we again boarded the bus and headed back to the city of Varna. Again we split up, and the 5 teachers found a pizzaria. Let me just say it wasn't the best pizza I've had here, and it was by far the worst price.

With full bellies we met again and went to see The Legend of Zoro in this discount movie theater. I must say there was a certain amount of internal gloating on my part when some of my worst students watched me enviously as I watched the movie, not reading the subtitles. In my head I said, "Wish you had actually studied now?..."

The film was over shortly after 8, so we headed back to the train station and hung around the train sucking down coffee and hot chocolate for warmth and energy. The train left at 10:20, we got back home at 2 a.m., and I absolutely and profoundly crashed.

A Very Bulgarian Halloween

2005-10-31T06:59:00.000-08:00

(In Bulgarian) "Miss! Are we going to have Halloween today?!"

Child after child yelled this to me as I entered school today. "Miss! Miss!"

They have no Halloween in this country, but this town has had several Americans in their midst over the years, and THEY have Halloween.

I was prepared. Rosie had shown me where she kept the masks she collected from previous volunteers, and mom and Aunt Kay had brought candy corn and candy pumpkins from the states when they visited. But, as usual, "prepared" is only a misguided concept in this country.

The Halloween celebrations began in my sixth grade class. I brought the masks and the candy, and promptly handed them out. I didn't know how slim the mask selection was until I saw an entire class of Zoros and Batmans looking back at me. One by one they came to the front of the class where I was holding the bag of candy and hollared 'Trick or Treat!,' rolling their "r"s and overpronouncing their vowels in their thick Eastern European accents. One by one they ran back to their seats and tried to eat the treat without having to remove their mouthless masks.

Though it was not organized, it was managble. The next period was fifth grade, and it is safe to say all hell broke loose.

I combined both classes (almost 40 kids all tolled) and gave the limited number of masks to the best-behaved students first. They put them on, I took a photo, they "trick or treated" and I took back the masks. I then called the mediocre-behaved students to the back to go through the same process. Meanwhile, the worst of the students got fed up with waiting and leaked out of the room into the hallway, yelling at me that I was unfair. (I promptly reminded them that in the contract they signed, it clearly stated that those who did not follow the rules would not participate in holiday celebrations.)

By the time I was through with the second group, the students were restless to the point of destruction. In my ideal vision of the day, I had talked about taking the kids "Halloween Carolling" around the halls, but my 40-kid mob scene was not my ideal. The students, however, called me on it and I could not find a decent way to fink out on my promise that would not have resulted in a riot, so I gathered the herd and headed downstairs to the classes of some collegues.

They didn't know what hit them. These 40 kids dressed in masks (and some in homemade costumes) barged into the classrooms and began singing "One little, two little, three little pumpkins..." at the tops of their voices. Once the initial shock and confusion wore off, all of the teachers and students were smiling and enjoying the diversion.

When I could no longer take the noise and mob-i-ness of it all, I herded the kids back up the stairs and penned them in the room, praying for the class to just be over. Finally the bell rang, and I ended the period with a reasonably in-tact classroom and shreds of sanity.

Thus passed my first Bulgarian Halloween...Next year, I will *truly* be prepared.

When Worlds Collide

2005-10-24T08:55:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of postage, but I have had a very busy week. My mom and her sister were here! And now, as the title of this post might indicate, my two lives (for lack of better lables "My American Life" and "My Bulgarian Life") have met one another.

They arrived on Friday, Oct. 14. I got permission to skip school and go to Sofia on the 3:45 a.m. bus because I had to get my flu shot -- thanks, Uncle Sam, for trying to protect me from Bird Flu. Once that business at the office was done, I met a friend of my Aunt Kay and he took me to lunch. We then headed over to the airport with my "Welcome to Bulgaria" signs in Bulgarian and English to meet my guests. They arrived and we literally *packed* ourselves into his hatchback (the bad news: there were 9 suitcases that weighed roughly 300 lbs. for us to lug across the country. the good news: I now have winter clothing and will not freeze to death. Plus, I can make rockin' sugar cookies.)

They got their first taste of my Bulgarian skills when I had to fight with the folks on the bus to let us board and go to Plovidv. Ivcho (the aformentioned friend of my Aunt Kay) was there to help, but I don't mind saying I was suprisingly forceful in demeanor and speech. Needless to say, we made it to Plovidv, I organized our *two* taxis to the hotel, and there we all crashed.

The next morning we set out for the center of the city and killed some time waiting for former language trainer/current friend Ivan. He took us to a very nice, very traditional Bulgarian eating hole and after close to 3 hours of meal, he suggested going for a cup of coffee. As mom and Aunt Kay found, "going for coffee" actually meant taking a tour of Old Town Plovdiv, hiking to the top of the hill, wandering back down, and THEN drinking some coffee. But, it was good for them.

By the evening we crashed again in the hotel and prepared for an early day. Sunday was Krichim Day, probably the most important day of their visit for everyone involved.

At 6:30 a.m. we lugged our stuff to the bus station, left it in the luggage room (man, THAT woman did not like me much...though I TOLD her the day before that I had, "Nine really big bags.") We grabbed a bus to K-Town, and they met my "Family Phase 2."

Though I have always known the great hospitality of my "family" in Krichim, I could not have imagined the depths of it which they showed towards my biological family. I know life has been trying since I left, but on that day there were no shadows of problems. Oktai was back to being the Oktai I had known before his illness -- wild, loving, absolutely hyperactive and adorable. With him in high spirits, it seemed all the wear on Atidje and Berin had been alleviated, and life was just as it had been. Ati slipped into the role of dear friend, and Berin the role of beloved kid sister. Only Ozhgun seemed altered, pained. (Later that day she had a tooth pulled, which I am sure played some role in that.) From what I hear, she is working far too much at the moment.

Anyway, the whole day involved food, going na gosti, more food, and lots and lots of talking (which I was left to translate, except when Oktai told me to shut up and he acted it out for himself. I now realize how I survived in that house before I could utter a single word.)

Unfortunately, we had a bus to catch. Ati and Oktai dropped us at the bus station, and proceeded to follow the bus to the edge of town, waving. I really need to get back there soon.

By 10 we were in Yambol, dear Rosie and lifesaving Nikolai got us from the bus station in a station wagon, and we ended the day at home in Straldja.

The following days included me teaching, mom and Aunt Kay teaching, and na gostis at Rosie's, Nikolai's restaraunt, and Binka's restaraunt. Actually, the most consistant theme in the week was food.

I took them exploring in the town, and to the Black Sea. I took them to my apartment to play on the internet, and I took them to Sliven for an afternoon. They got me a coffee maker and then used it to make American-style coffee for themselves (Aunt Kay was not in love with the Bulgarian variation of the beverage.)

On Friday, after school, we took a train back to Sofia and Ivcho again met us and took us to yet another very traditional Bulgarian meal. Our hotel was nice, if not slightly sterile (though with down comforters, I don't think I can complain much.) Sunday was a trip to the Rila Monastery, my first time, and we really dug the fresh mountain air. In the evening I took them to sites in the center of the city, and they packed for their trip home.

When 5:15 a.m. came, we loaded into a taxi (yes, we finally fit in one!) and headed to the airport. After a short goodbye, they went through the security checkpoint and I got in another cab to go back to the hotel, where I slept a little more and then checked out.

I passed the day as I usually do in Sofia--sitting at some cafe, emailing in the Peace Corps office, etc. I took the 3:30 p.m. bus home, and here I have been since.

Today was a typical Monday with the added work of an observation by my PC boss and several meetings about his observations. Now I am relaxing and readjusting to my "normal life" here.

Learning by going

2005-10-11T13:07:00.000-07:00

So, I am currently reading Dreamcatcher by Stephen King, and in it he quoted one of my favortie poems by Theodore Roethke, the most pertinent part being the last line "I learn by going where I have to go."

Though I am a literary purist and do not generally appreciate people taking bits of poems to reflect meaning (the whole poem reflects the meaning, I tell you!), I realized how much my current life is reflected in that one, single line.

Never before in my 23 years have I taken my education with such blind progress as I have here. Literally, every day I awake like a child, not really sure what the day will hold or how I will live it. I have no plan, no ultimate event I am preparing for. I get out of bed, get dressed, and experience an entire day of suprises only to go to bed again and awake again, prepared for nothing, and everything.

Up until now, I have generally followed a tried-and-true path toward typical adulthood -- getting things done in primary and secondary school to get to a decent college, doing decently in college to get a good job, and then BOOM! I landed myself smack in the middle of Bulgaria and found myself trying to become a teacher (for which I have no formal education) in a country I'd never been in (hell, I'd never even HEARD of Bulgaria till I got the Peace Corps letter saying I'd be sent here), operating almost entirely in a language I had never heard with an alphabet I had never seen. As the Aussies would say, WTF mate?

But day by day, it dawns on me why I am here...I am here precisly because I wanted to learn by going where I have to go. I wanted to wake up every morning with my only goals being to teach someone some English, learn a little Bulgarian (or Turkish, or Roma), manage to cook a meal for myself, find myself deep in a coversation I don't understand with a total stranger, and generally throw myself in the deep end to see if I can float.

And day by day, I find I can float. Sure, there are moments when it is not a happy thing (this trying-to-survive and learning-by-going), but it is making me the person I will be. I can feel it. Even if I find myself trudging through the mud of a messy day, I am still going. And I feel that so long as I am going, I am learning and, most importanly, I am becoming.

I look forward to seeing the result of these two years, but I also intend to enjoy the ride.

Another Day...

2005-10-07T12:34:00.000-07:00

So it is still dark when I wake up from a comfortable, rakiya-aided sleep (my Bulgarian lessons tend to turn into "na gostis" from which I cannot leave without a glass or two of Bulgaria's national drink.)

The various animals around my bloc have been particularly loud the past few mornings...I vaugely wonder if they are protesting the slow onslaught of winter. This, however, is helpful as it will not let me fall back to sleep in the hour it will take for my hot water boiler to produce enough for a shower.

(I will admit that as the week wears on, it becomes more and more difficult to find my way to the bathroom and click the dial until the heater catches...Maybe I ought to get to bed earlier.)

With task one of the day completed, I find my way to the kitchen to accomplish task two: the procreation of breakfast. But today, WHAT?! No yougurt?! Oh no! No musli! What has happened to the world?

Spoko Becca, I tell myself. (Yes, I speak Bulgarian to myself now.) Take a chill pill. You can buy something to eat at school for like 40 stotinki. Contrary to your initial reaction, a morning without musli is not the end of civilization.

So right, no breakfast yet. Shower first, then go to school early and buy something there. And so I do. Leaving the cafe, some kid I do not know from Adam wanders up to me and, in the most perfect English I have heard out of a child at that school short of my top-level tutorees (who are 18 and this kid is like 15), "Hey Rebecca. Are you going on our trip with us next weekend?"

I no longer notice when strangers call me by name or when they string together random English words by way of greeting. I am, however, still taken aback when someone speaks actual English to me, so I cannot even find it within myself to speak English with this kid. In Bulgarian, I tell him no, I cannot come as my mother and aunt will arrive that weekend.

In English he says, "Oh, okay." In Bulgarian I say, "Maybe next time. I do want to come sometime. Where will you go next?" In English he says, "Oh, probably somewhere around Sofia." And he trots off with friends, thus ending our aquaintence.

And up I climb, up the four flights to my classroom. But, what's this? My classroom is locked. But my classroom is never locked! I didn't know there WAS a lock. Who has the key? I scurry into the supply closet to ask some of the other teachers where the key is. They answer with exaggerated shrugs and pouted bottom lips accompatied by nods (which means "No" here) and tisks of the tounge. It is the Bulgarian equivalent of an entire roomful of highly educated individuals saying, "I dunno..." in the low, sing-songy tones of various stupid cartoon characters.

Okay then. Suppose we'll have classes in the room nextdoor, if no one kicks me out of it.

So the start of today has totally thrown off any perception of reality I have created for myself here (which, though weak, was at least something.) To further confuse my personal cosmos, the "Demons Spat From the Depths of Hell Class" (aka 5b) is silent and attentive, and my "Thank God For These Kids Class" (aka 6a) has learned the phrase, "Eat my shit motherfucker," and is using it generously. (My solution: stare at them and ask them to repeat it as if I have no idea what they are saying, throwing in the occassional "Kazhi na Angliski!" -- Say it in English! -- until they transform the accent so much in trying to get me to understand that they are now saying, "It me shite mudderfooder.")

But, by 11:30 my teaching for the day is over and I take a bus to Yambol, where I meet up with a friend I met in Krichim who is in my neck of the woods performing an organic farm inspection. Together with the farmer, we drive to a random field south of the town, wander around taking pictures, then make our way back to the steel factory where the farmer works during the week. They are currently filling and order for chewing-gum sales racks, and we are given the full tour of the works and a detailed description of the process involved.

Then there is lots of paperwork, and Sudku (my friend) drives me back to my apartment in Straldja on his way to the beach. Sudku, a face I associate with Krichim, is sitting outside of my apartment. Two of my lives -- my current and my most recent former -- have collided for the first time...With this as the preview, I can only imagine what it will be like next week when I see my MOTHER and my aunt sitting in that exact spot...

Phew. Back in the hovel of my apartment, where the oddities of today cannot reach me. Cosmos of Rebecca Grudzina, calm yourselves.

*Though I am sometimes prone to exaggeration, I hereby swear that all stories related on this blog are true, without exaggeration. Yes, my life has truly become this random. Fitting, eh?*

Wacky Wednesday

2005-10-05T04:40:00.000-07:00

So I have no idea what arrangement the stars were in today, but the result was a happily productive and social day for me.

Last night I went for my Bulgarian lesson with Rosie, and instead of a traditional lesson she taught me how to make this really versatile cake she is known for in these parts. It coincided with our chapter on Bulgarian imperatives, so basically she bossed me around in Bulgarian...

We finished the hour-long tutoring session, she brought out some rakiya made by her husband (who, I must say, is a master of the drink) and we chatted for a while waiting for it to finish baking. As we had to let it cool for several hours before removing it from the pan, we decided to turn it into a breakfast party today (our day off).

So at 9 a.m. today I headed over to her apartment. Her husband, Toshko, was there, as was her neighbor who I have met on a number of occassions (the one I really like because she speaks very clearly and I can understand her.) And sure enough, it was a breakfast party! We ate cake and drank coffee, and I gave my language skills a workout.

By 10 a.m., however, I decided it was time to shower (how long had it been? 2 days? Opah!) So I headed home, turned on my water boiler, and suddenly realized my apartment was gross. I hadn't swept in probably a week, and in these blocks you really have a lot of dust (and friendly home-loving pests) to contend with. So, I swept the big room and scrubbed the kitchen up a bit (dishes will have to come in my second wave of motivation) and THEN showered.

While I showered I recieved an SMS from one of my guy friends in Krichim (well, actually he lives during the week in Plovdiv and weekends in Krichim) giving me his ICQ address. I added him to my list (I now have a wapping two friends on it! Sudku and Rosie) and no sooner had I clicked "add" than he imed me. We talked for almost an hour -- I told him about my updates here in Straldja, he gave me gossip from the folks back in Krichim. It was overall a very productive conversation.

But, I eventually had to run to the post office to send my schedule to the Sofia office. That task completed I wandered to the business center in town to check up on an email I sent with some work I had done for them. Dichko, one of the few young people in town, was in his office and invited me to sit and chat for a bit. He asked me about school and how I was adjusting to life here. I asked him about his work, as I didn't fully understand it. It's important work -- he links traditional Bulgarian artisans with consumers all over the world. What I do for them is write up descriptions of products in English that they can put on their website.

I spent almost an hour there, and then wandered home, where people from the states and other friends in Bulgaria continued to IM me...It's just been a strangely social day for me. Good, I need days like this.

Now the evening stretches out in front of me. I have a really interesting book (Stephen King's Dreamcatcher) calling out to me, I have a pile of dishes longing to be washed (and just enough motivation to do them), I have some eggs and kashkaval I intend to make into an omlet for dinner, and fine weather to take a walk in. I think this clearness will lead to a very nice sunset over the mountains if I get my butt to the north end of town.

Overall, this breather in the middle of the week is very satisfying. Though in one way it'd be nice to have 3-day weekends (mostly for travel) I am finding that I enjoy two days of intense work, then a day to myself, then two more days of intense work before the weekend. Indeed, life is growing on me.

The Salon

2005-10-02T06:43:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that there are few rooms in my history that illicit as much contenedness in my memory as the salon of Villdane Djanalieva my 17-year-old host cousin in Krichim.

My introduction to the room, which occupies a converted bedroom on the second story of the family house, took place on the day after my 23rd birthday, May 21. I had been living in Krichim since the first of the month, but I had never had cause to go into that particular room. The afternoon of May 21, however, was an afternoon of preparation. My host family was planning a big birthday party for me that night, and Villi insisted that her gift to me would be a makeover for the occassion.

It was one of those really beautiful spring days, so we kept the outside door to the terrace open and enjoyed the slight breeze. Maegen, the volunteer who lived with their family; Berin, my host sister and Villi's cousin; and Gulchen, Villi's 14-year-old sister, joined us and also took advantage of the mirrors, hair dryers, and other girlie tools.

Villi is a meticulous hairdresser, and took great pains to curl my then-shabby brown hair into a decently-stylish do. She then took out an overflowing bag of makeup supplies and painted away at my face.

Midway through the makeover, two visitng volunteers arrived from their other towns and joined us in the salon (yes, even boys are welcome at Villi's.) Though it is a small space, it never seems crowded when friends gather there.

From that day on, not a week went by when I did not find myself in that salon for whatever reason -- either for personal beautification or simply to visit the hairdresser.

Conversation in that room has always been interesting (but, in its own way, very comforting to me). It takes place in a hybrid of broken English, Bulgarian and Turkish, depending on the demographics of those present and their current level of language ability. Usually all three languages are going on at once, and you just listen to whichever you understand.

Since I have left Krichim, the comfort of the salon (and the people there) have come to mean so much to me when I "go home" to visit. My favorite hours are often spent there, and I can always count on feeling better when I leave than when I entered.

I think that over the next few weeks I will write about different times spent in the salon. It is something pleasant for me to think about, so I want to spread out writing the vignettes...Keep posted.

2005-10-01T08:57:00.000-07:00

Me and the most disgusting model of a hamburger ever to be used as an ad...In Yambol this afternoon.

Picking Grapes

2005-09-30T12:25:00.000-07:00

Last night, as I am leaving the apartment of my counterpart (who is also, incidently, my Bulgarian tutor) after a particularly rousing Bulgarian lesson (Pila li si nyakoga rakiya predi chas?/Have you ever drunk rakiya before a class?) she hollers down the stairs, "Tomorrow classes will be 30 minutes!"

"Why?" I ask, though I have generally come out of the habit of asking that question over the past five months.

"Because tomorrow is the picking of the grapes," she says.

"It's the what?" I ask, again going against my newfound reluctance towards enquiry.

"Tomorrow everyone goes out to pick the grapes for wine and rakiya," she explains. She also explains that due to all the rain, this will be a bad year for both beverages (which, I am beginning to think, are the only two things that get Bulgarians through the winter. Could be interesting...)

Eh, I say to myself as I fumble home in the pitch black (Dark by 8?! No street lights?! Whaat?!!) During my time in Bulgaria, "Eh" has become by most-used utterance.

In the morning, as I sit in the supply closet with the other teachers, one looks at me and says, (in Bulgarian) "Classes will be 20 minutes."

Okay, I think to myself. Even less time!

First period is those pesky 5th-graders...Somehow I get through unscathed (no doubt because the class was only half as long as usual). Then I have my "window" (free period), and then I walk in to set my classroom up for my 3rd period 8th grade class...

That's funny, I think as I enter the room. There's no one here. Usually there is someone around, leaning and/or throwing things out of the window, writing obscenities or my name on the board, or generally causing some sort of mischief. But, nyama.

I check the hall. Surely they must be out there bothering other teachers. Surely they are swarming somewhere in the vicinity. But, no one there either.

Where is everyone?!

A 7th grader walks by. "What hour is this?" I ask, thinking I surely must have mixed up my window period in the confusion of the shortened day.

"Third," she says, looking at me like the little pauper boy at the end of A Christmas Carol when Scrooge asks what day it is.

Hrm, I think. Indeed, this is strange.

Low and behold, two of the calmer 8th graders come by. "Where is everyone," I ask.

"They left," the girl says. "Left where?" I ask. "Home," she says. "Oh," I say. "Can we go home too?" she asks. "Well, I guess so," I reply.

So, I guess that means no class now, huh? Okay, I guess I'll print out the essays on the printer downstairs that wasn't working this morning.

Twenty minutes later I go to wait for my 4th period 6th graders. And dammit, they show.

Nothing of Consequence

2005-09-27T11:49:00.000-07:00

It's not that I have anything pressing to say, I just have a few odd moments and do not know how else to fill them.

The weekend after the excursion was a nice as the excursion itself. On Saturday morning I caught the 8 a.m. train west via Plovdiv (that particular train and I are quite bonded...) and arrived in Pazardjik shortly after noon to meet Ned. He was the only of my tainingmates I had not seen since swearing-in in July. Needless to say, it was a nice reunion.

The two of us took a cab into the Mahala (the Roma ghetto) to attend a fellow volunteer's Multiculture Day, the highlight of which was a concert that included Bulgarian folk songs, Roma and Indian dances, and lots of horo. Ivan was in town doing work, so he met Ned and I to make plans for Sunday. We also saw other new and old volunteers, which is always nice.

After the concert, the two of us took the bus back to Plovdiv and began a search for a hostel. We found an absolutely beautiful place in Old Town (for 20 leva a night...a tad steep for our volunteer pocketbooks) and reserved our group's 5 beds. In the process we throughly confused the woman in reception who had apparently never had to register guests with lichna kartas (Bulgarian IDs) instead of passports. But the papers were worked out, and we headed out to pick up the first of the other arrivals at the bus station. (I'm not sure if any other training group learned Plovdiv as well as we did, so we tended to lead the gang). With Matt in tow, we headed for some "awesome-for-Bulgaria" pizza and registered him at the hostel. That's when we met Martin.

Martin was the Northern Irish lad sharing our room with us, and he quickly became one of the group. When Ned and Matt went to fetch Scott and Rachel from the bus station, Martin and I found a nice jazz beer garden to chill in until we met the other 4 in the center. After more food, the lot of us happened upon a very Western-style, chilled-out bar to talk to some Bulgarians in. They were NUTS! Ranting about Macedonia and the problems in Yugoslavia...It gave our Bulgarian quite a workout. We finally left at 4:30 a.m., officially making it my latest night yet in Bulgaria. It's not something I do often, which allows me to do it at all...

The next morning I woke up early (payback, I suppose) and got as clean as I could without shower supplies...i.e. soap, shampoo or towels. At 11:30 Ned and I met Ivan at the mosque in the center and went for some salad and French fries for lunch. After that we made our way to another cafe for a nostalgic beer together and ran into the others (including Martin) so they joined us, as did one of Ivan's "real" Bulgarian friends. (I must say, it was fun to meet someone he actually chose to be friends with instead of folks he was stuck with, like us.)

However, all good times must come to an end, and by 4 p.m. I was on a train headed east again. By that time my lack of sleep hit me, and I dozed on and off on the ride. I crossed my threshold shortly after 8, and there I stayed until bed an hour later.

Yesterday and today have been more of the same as far as school goes. My counterpart translated my rules list and contract for the students, so with any luck things on the discipline front with improve. Tomorrow I have off (there are no foreign languages at my school on Wednesdays) so I will have a chance to get caught up on my housework...Paying bills, washing dishes, finishing odd projects for the Business Center in town, and planning lessons for the rest of the week. Not terribly exciting, but I enjoy a good day of catch-up once in a while.

And, I'm spent...

2005-09-27T11:44:00.000-07:00

The Happy Krichim Family -- Vassy (new trainee), Oktai, me, Atidje and Berin.

A cold schlep north

2005-09-23T07:15:00.000-07:00

Here is the story of the past two days.

It began with a 7 a.m. departure Wednesday, Sept. 21. The party included my counterpart Rosie, geography teacher Naska, history teacher Tanya, Tanya's twin 12-year-old boys, the driver Ivan and myself.

The weather threatened to be cold and rainy for the whole of the excursion, but at the moment it was just a moody dawn. As soon as we began our climb up the first ridge of the Balkan Mountains at Hain Boaz (the Turkish word for The Pass of the Hans) however, the moodiness began to work against us. We stopped briefly at a river called "Stinky River" vue to the sulfur in the water. It is so sulfuric, in fact, that one can light it on fire...And we did.

That task completed, we headed on towards the Kilifarevski Monastary. It was lovely, old...Once we had exhausted the views there we went to Arabanassi, a small historically-preserved village near Veliko Turnovo. There the rain was heavier in addition to busloads of German tourists, but the Nativty Church in town was one of the most intricately-painted chapels I have ever seen...There were literally thousands of paintings all over the walls. When we'd had our fill (of the German tourists, not the paintings), it was on to Veliko Turnovo itself.

The first order of business there was to pick up an inflatable mattress I was inheriting from a COSd PCV. Her boyfriend had kept the thing, and it was from him I purchased it. Once it was procured (a transaction that took all of 5 minutes and left me 20 leva poorer) Rosie, Tanya and I headed up to Tsarevets, the ancient fortress in town.

I am in no humor to try to describe to you how beautiful and interesting Veliko Turnovo is...Just go see it for yourself. I will be curious to see it in the sunshine, as it was so cool and atmospheric in the gloom.

But we had places to go...After a few hours in town, we boarded the bus and made our way to the Dryanovski Monastary. Again, beautiful, old, and surrounded by massive stone crags.

Back in the bus, off to Pleven. Search for hotel. Sleep...or try to sleep. Беше ми много студено. Wake up next morning. Coffee in the hotel. And out in the cold rain once again.

Pleven is a very important historical town not just for Bulgaria but for the word, though not many know it. It was here that the unraveling of the Ottoman Empire became fatal after a 3-month seige that pitted against the invading Bulgarian/Russian/Romanian army tried to caputre the town from the resident Turks. As such a town, there are many, many, many monuments to the war fallen. The most impressive of them was our last stop in Pleven -- the Panorama. It is, in essence, a painting, but it is so much more...I think they said 60 meters around, 15 meters high, a perfect circle with a real 3D simulation extending out the bottom towards the railing behind which gawkers stand. Again, something you just have to see.

After our look it was on to what I call "30 Minutes in Lovech," (I will have to go visit the PCV there later...) then some time at the Troyan Monastery (the third-largest in the country) and a small amount of time at some folk art exhibit nearby. Back on the bus...This time south towards Etura...an "Open Air Ethnographic Museum."

Oh, the profound cold, damp air there. I was put in mind of Scotland on a cold day in November. Profound gloom. Profound gray. The redeeming factor, however, was the warmth from the artisan shops that make up the replica 19th-century village. The stipulation for artisans to have shops there is that they must make traditional crafts in traditional manners with traditional tools. I bought a mug...My splurge for the trip (a wapping $4!). Once back in the shelter of the bus, it was on to our final destination: the Shipka Pass.

The Shipka Pass' history is linked to (and therefore just as important as) Pleven. While the seige was going on in Pleven, it was the small band of farmers from the town of Shipka who were driving back the 10,000-strong Ottoman reinforcements. It is rumored that when the farmers, who were camped in the pass, ran out of bullets, they began to throw and shoot rocks, clothing and even farm animals at the invaders. They held the pass, and because they did, reinforcements never reached Pleven and the Turks there were forced to surrender.

I was excited to see this pass...Up the mountain we climbed, up and up. It was a winding, narrow road. And as we climbed furthur and furthur, the 30-year-old microbus lurching inch by inch, a profound fog set in. By the time we reached the summit, we could not see the hood of the car. The pass, a sign read, was closed.

(I was not too dissappointed, however, as I was assured I could accompany the first graders when they make their pilgrimage there this spring...)

So, we descended. We drove out of the cloud and soon found ourselves on a ridge facing the Valley of Roses with Sredna Gora in the distance (another, smaller mountain range). Below the storm the sky was blue over the plain, and very windy. We decended into the town of Shipka and found our way to the Russian Memorial Church, another thing of beauty I will not attempt to describe. (see below photo).

And that was that. We went home. I'm sorry for being abrupt, but I have an early train to catch tomorrow and I want some shut-eye. Ciao.

2005-09-23T06:17:00.000-07:00

The Russian Memorial Church in Shipka, Bulgaria. Commemorates the Russians who died in the battle to free Bulgaria from Ottoman opression.

The First Gen-U-Ine Post

2005-09-19T21:24:00.000-07:00

The posts previous to this one have all been cut and pasted from the mass emails I've been sending to interested parties stateside since my arrival in Bulgaria in April. This one, however, is an honest-to-goodness, bona-fide post. Check back as time passes for news (some noteworthy and some less noteworthy). Лека Нощ!

2005-09-19T11:18:00.000-07:00

Dusk over Starra Planina, east of Sliven (northern border of Obshtana Straldja).

2005-09-19T11:15:00.000-07:00

What can I say, our last day at the "Coca-Cola Cafe" in Krichim (with Ethan).

2005-09-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

"The Six of Us" after the July 8 Swearing-In Ceremony, Sofia: Ivan, me, Andy, Maegen, Ned and Ethan.

2005-09-19T11:03:00.000-07:00

One Last Hoo-Ha

2005-09-11T10:18:00.000-07:00

On Thurdsay school starts for real, and thus will end this summer. As most teaching volunteers will not have time to make it to Sofia during the school year, a huge amount of us made the trip this past weekend. While it was fun, I came home much more exhausted, and much poorer.

Last Wednesday we had a regional meeting in Yambol with the four of us in our region (which covers the Thracian Plain from Starra Zagora in the center of the country to the Black Sea coast, and from the Starra Planina -- the mountain range that divides the country into North and South -- to the Greek and Turkish border.) It is a huge region, and as there are only four of us we realized how isolated we really are. Kellen, the volunteer who lives right on the sea a few km. north of Turkey, got stranded and ended up staying the night at my apartment. He was my first volunteer guest, so that was nice.

Then on Thursday my counterpart took me to a meeting in Yambol that all foreign language teachers in this region have to attend. It is put on my the regional ministry of education, and was very very boring. She fell asleep, and we left about halfway through.

Friday I woke up at 3 a.m. to catch a 3:45 a.m. bus to Sofia. Rumor has it there will be an 8 a.m. bus come October, but as of now this is my only option as the train tracks in the west were very badly damaged during the floods this summer. Needless to say, I was exhausted when I arrived at 9 a.m. in the capital. I checked into my hostel, went up to the Peace Corps office, and got all kinds of goodies such as a smoke detector, a bike helmet, some cough medicine for the winter and some type of powdery goop to clean my water filter. It felt like Christmas.

In the afternoon I was met by Eric (my nearest volunteer) and two other volunteers and we ate lunch at this pretty good Indian food place. During lunch someone brought up the notion of eating dinner at Pizza Hut, and that immediately became the drive of our day. After another trip to the PC office, we went to the National Cultural Center to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (6 leva admittance, and admittance in Plovdiv is 3 leva. Sofia is outrageously expensive for people on Bulgarian wages...) Oh, what a good movie it was. One particularly amusing incident happened when Johnny Depp made a pun on the words "heir" and "hair." We were the only people in the theater to laugh, and then we realized that the joke probably did not translate into Bulgarian. Everyone was staring at us after that. After the movie we did indeed eat Pizza Hut for dinner, and it was everything I thought it could be!

On Saturday a huge group of volunteers went to the outskirts of the city to work on the first Habitat For Humanity building project in the Balkans. It is a small apartment complex that is in its final stages. For most of the day I was relegated to leveling the rocky yards, carting away the biggest rocks and helping mix cement for the terraces. My specific task in the cement-making was carrying buckets of water around and pouring it on the ingredients as the guys mixed them up with shovels. Then I had to run a stick down the poured goop to make it smooth on top while drying. I was pretty exhausted when the day was over, but it was really cool to meet the families who will be living in the apartments. One of the little boys was my assistant, and I have never seen a kid work so hard. When we complimented him on his diligence he said, "Imam golyama rabota..." "I have big work..." which in Bulgarian means work that is personally important to someone. He was maybe 10 years old.

That night we were all too tired to do much of anything except eat dinner at the hostel with all the Aussies and Brits, and wander around aimlessly. Sunday eveyone started to head for home, but my bus was late so I took a walk to one of the big parts and happened upon an Avon rally for breast cancer awareness. I also happened upon the changing of the guard at the president's office, which I didn't even know happens...Go figure. My bus was at 3 p.m., so I made it home by 8 and crashed.

Now I am back at school helping the cleaning process. Three days to go...

Bit by bit, real life begins

2005-09-05T10:17:00.000-07:00

On Sept. 1 teachers across Bulgaria headed back to school for service days...As far as I can tell "service days" include a 5-mintue meeting at 8a.m. (or whenever the teachers and administrators decide to arrive) and then about 6 hours of drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and talking with eachother in the teacher's lounge, complete with an hour off for lunch. I don't smoke, but the coffee and the talking are fun (and quite a good workout for my Bulgarian skills.) We were supposed to clean the courtyard free of weeds Friday, but it rained and so there went that idea. Then today and tomorrow are holidays (today just because they want a holiday and tomorrow because it marks their independence from the Turkish Yoke in the 1800's). Shesti Septemvri (The Sixth of September) is one of the most important national holidays they have here, so I am looking forward to see what goes on.

As far as weather goes, I am finding that autmn is a real reward here. The air is clearer and cooler, the sun is oranger and people seem to be getting more active. I am told, however, that come winter life will stop in its tracks as Bulgarians hate the cold. But for now, everyone seems to be in better moods.

Friday night Jay, the old volunteer in Straldja, left for a few weeks in Switzerland and then he heads home from there. We had a "na gosti" (visit) Friday night for him and saw him off on his 11:30 p.m. train to Sofia. Now I am the only American in town, and I will have to answer for his absence for weeks to come I am sure (the babas are very curious...)

Yesterday I decided to take another trip to Burgas for two reasons: first, it was lovely and the train ride would not be such a miserable ordeal and second, I had to buy some books and one bookstore there has a pretty good selection of English-language novels. I bought Ivanhoe and Ethan Frome, which are decidely more classic novels than the ones I have been reading as of late. The sea was fantastic, and I could see clear to Nesebur (it is better from a distance...)

Today I met Eric from Elhovo in Sliven and we found a park with a really amazing (and brand new) swimming pool complex. Why we didn't find it two months ago when we were sweating to death and bored as crap I don't know. But at least we know about it for next summer!

I also got my schedule for this first semester. I will teach 5, 6, 7 and 9 grade. I have Wednesdays off so I can go pick up packages in Yambol (hint hint) and do grocery shopping. I also lucked through by finishing school at 11:30 Fridays so I can catch afternoon trains to weekend getaways. I was happy with that.

Other than that, I am simply looking forward to autmn. Real school starts Sept. 15, and who knows what will happen before then. I'll keep you posted.

"The Month of Solitude" comes to a close

2005-08-30T10:16:00.000-07:00

I will try to get this email about before I fall asleep on my laptop. This weekend was not condusive to sleep, and the 3 1/2 hour-long train ride with stuck-shut windows today didn't help...

Last week I began some work, thus ending my profound boredom. Three students returned from their various summer rambles and we were able to start some essay-writing and test-prep courses for university entrance exams. After our lessons they took me out to the cafe and introduced me to some of their friends, so at least I have an "in" in the community now. When school starts I'll be with the teachers every day too, which will give me even more social interaction.

On Friday I had our writing lesson, my Bulgarian lesson, and then I caught a train back to Krichim. This was a weekend I had been looking forward to all month -- the Krichim Town Festival.

In Bulgaria most towns, no matter how small, have a gradska praznik (a city holiday) once during the year. It is basically a time to get everyone in town outside and talking with music, dancing and fireworks in the town square. When we heard that Krichim's fesitval was the last weekend of August, the 5 of us decided it would be a good time to have a reunion before the school year starts. Only Ned was unable to make it, and he was missed.

Krichim has new trainees, and they are all living with our old families. Vassy, the trainee in my family, was actually born in Bulgaria and speaks Bulgarian, so she is learning Turkish instead. I must say there is an eerie familial resemblance between us -- a number of people in town stopped to ask me if we were sisters.

On Friday evening the families, new trainees and old trainees sat at a cafe in the town center while listening to the music. It was very nice to see everyone again and meet the newbies. They were so impressed with our Bulgarian that it was a good weekend for ego-massage. (It also felt good because I remember a few months back when I was thinking, "I'll never learn this language!" and I heard other volunteers who had only been here for a few months speaking and thinking, "There's light at the end of the tunnel.")

Saturday had beautiful weather, so a bunch of us went on our favorite hike to the top of the mountain behind town. One other new trainee from Stamboliski joined us, and he was a character. He kept whining about all this stuff he missed from the states (McDonald's french fries, BBQ chicken, etc.) and I thought to myself, "Buddy, you were in the states just two weeks ago..." I hope he can get over it and doesn't end up going home early. It just seems kind of early to be complaining about missing things.

Saturday night the 4 old Krichim volunteers broke apart from the new trainees for the chalga concert in the center. Vesela, one of the chalga stars (one very very popular type of Bulgarian pop music) performed some of her songs, and then they set off some fireworks. Afterwards we met some of Bulgarian and Turkish friends at one of our favorite cafes and stayed until it closed. They were all so impressed by how much better our Bulgarian has gotten.

On Sunday I introduced two of the new trainees to Plovdiv. We saw The Island, which was a pretty interesting movie. It was a beautiful day, but hot and we came home exhausted. However, the trainee living with Maegan's family (my host aunt) had a birthday, and if there is one thing the Turks love it's a birthday party. There was the typical congregation of family members and Americans, lots of dancing kuchek, and even some Elvis songs (thanks to Husein, one of our friends/"cousins" who was home from college in Turkey.) Needless to say, it was another late night.

Monday, yesterday, I more or less spent the day on a very very hot train as the windows were stuck closed. Lots of sleep followed, and I feel back to normal today.

A Mundane Account of Daily Life

2005-08-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

It recently occurred to me that although I write a lot about big things I do (my travels and adventures) I have never written about the mundane day-to-day doings of my life in Bulgaria. Since this weekend was pretty empty, here it is…

I usually wake up around 7 o’clock because the roosters are crowing loudly by then in the neighborhood by my bloc, but I can still lay in bed comfortably until 8 a.m. Much beyond then the sun is too bright and it starts getting too hot. My first order of business when I get out of bed is to check if there is water (there is a 40% chance there won’t be) and turn on my hot water boiler. I made the mistake of not checking the water one morning and I was very lucky to catch it in time before my boiler blew up…it did make a very angry noise though.
During the hour it takes to get hot water, I either doze off or eat my breakfast. I usually eat some muslei (oats, raisins, nuts and corn flakes) with some Bulgarian kiselo mlyako (yogurt that is world-renowned for being awesome). I also have a hard-boiled egg (one of the few things I can cook on my 200-year-old heating apparatus they consider a stove) and this week I’ve been eating some oranges I found at the fruit market in Yambol.
Ever since I got internet at the apartment I’ve been checking my email during breakfast. I also watch either the Bulgarian news or BBC World (though I haven’t gotten that channel this week and I wonder what happened to it…) The thing is BBC World only produces one news broadcast a day, so once you see the 30-minute segment you are done until the next day. The thing with Bulgarian news is, well, it’s in Bulgarian and they speak really, really fast. Luckily with pictures and story headlines across the bottom of the screen, I do okay.
After I shower and get dressed I try to read some of my Bulgarian vocab words. Sometimes I don’t feel like it and watch an American sitcom dubbed in Bulgarian instead. They have Mad About You and Everybody Loves Raymond in the afternoons. That helps because I can read the English lips and hear the Bulgarian words.
By the start of the afternoon I am usually stir-crazy in my apartment. It’s only one room, and one can only sit in the same chair for so long. If it is nice out I’ll either a) take a walk around Straldja or b) catch a bus to Sliven or Yambol and wander there. It’s gotten to the point where Yambol is pretty boring if I don’t have business there, like shopping, but the ride is pretty. It’s across the Thracian Plain, and you can see the mountains next to you get bigger as you head west. Sliven is a bit more of a hassle to get to, but it’s prettier and has a Billa supermarket. There is also really good hiking I still have to scout out when Eric can make it up (my closest volunteer).
The last bus to Straldja from both towns is in the 5 o’clock hour, so I am always back by 6. I try to procure some sort of meal for myself…this week it’s been tomatoes and cucumbers I got from the garden of my counterpart. As it’s just me, and my cooking apparatus is sub-par, I usually don’t keep much food in the house lest it go bad. I have mastered the baked potato and there are usually hardboiled eggs leftover.
Through the evening I alternate between reading books I took from the Peace Corps office the last time I was in Sofia, watching TV (they’ve been showing the tennis tournament in Cincinnati a few days behind, but I’m not complaining), and writing things. Now that I only talk to native speakers of English sporadically, I have to write to keep my color in my speech…Twice a week in the evenings I have my Bulgarian language lessons, which are getting progressively more challenging and useful.
By 11 p.m. it is usually cool enough to sleep, so I go to bed and start the process all over again.
This week I will start my essay-writing classes with three students from school. They want lessons 4 days a week, so I’ll have more to do. I will also go back to Yambol to speak some English with the Red Cross Director there (she is learning and wants a conversation partner.) Other than that, I pretty much bide my time until I have a very rigid, busy schedule during the school year.
So that’s it. That’s what I do right now. In one way I’m glad I had all this time to get settled, but on the other hand I am pretty bored…Soon life will be more work-filled, and I’ll be longing for a vacation! Oh, the irony.