Thank God for the Motherland

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.