Not for the faint of heart

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

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

Killing Pigs

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

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

(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

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...

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

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

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?!

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The customs man was there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Have a Bulgarian Birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disclaimer for Pending Inactivity

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

A Murder Mystery for Ninth Grade

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

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

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

Musica. Music.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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