What day is this?

I have had difficulty keeping track of the days. Back in the office, it was easy, because life was defined by the weekends. Indeed, life seemed to only exist on the weekends!

This weekend is different here, because today is Election Day, when half the city finds it necessary to shut down because, well, I still haven't figured out why. Someone told me there are no alcohol sales because they don't want people getting into fights about politics. When Bulgaria became democratic, did someone forget to tell them violence about politics isn't the way to make the system work? Shoot, even in the States, there aren't political fights, though I suspect this is because of one of two reasons: 1. Our hate-filled political talk radio and television is a sort of year-round mental violence and Election Day is no different than any other day; 2. The type of person who tends to get into bar fights in the US does not typically vote, as our 40% voter turnout (for presidential elections - it's less during off years) is the lowest turnout in the democratic world. More people than not simply don't care or feel like they don't have a voice in the system.

I noticed something that I hadn't thought about before I saw the Bulgarian election signs. US campaign signs never have pictures of the candidates, just the names, but European campaign signs almost always feature a photo of the candidates. I suppose, though, that some people shouldn't put their faces on signs - it might scare people away. Like this guy!

So much of American politics is based on the superficial and artificial. It's all about image; hence the reason we don't always elect the best guy or gal for the job - too many people vote based on whether or not they'd like to sit down and have a beer with the candidate or whether or not he is religious enough. This has a lot to do with the media - it hasn't always been like this! Franklin D. Roosevelt most likely would not have been elected had there been a television in every home back then, as he was in a wheelchair. Today, not only would people see that as weakness, but the other party would attack him because of his disability.

Of course, American politics is much more complicated than this, as I've tried to explain to several Bulgarians who have been outspoken about their views on America, but I am not going to get into that now, as I am still trying to sort out my thoughts on the topic. (I feel like I am the first American many of them have ever met.) I imagine that other countries vote superficially as well. Since I don't understand what the heck people around me are saying, I don't really know the issues, although I am sure the teacher strike, which has prevented children from starting the school year, is a major one.

Politics - evil, but inevitable. How else could we control ourselves? (Corporate rule is not the answer, either!)

A few more photos

One night out

I am glad I didn't try to find a private room in someone's house. Had I rented a room somewhere, I'd never have the experiences I've had so far. Indeed, I'd probably find it rather lonely.

A couple of nights ago, we went out to see a Japanese drum band at the town theater. Fedio, the host of the hostel, had some friends visiting, so the Bulgarians outnumbered us foreigners. There was an Aussie, Englishman, Japanese, and Czech among us.

I'm not sure why this continues to amaze me, as it is no different from DC, where I worked and hung out with a Czech, a Russian, and Uzbeki, and a German-Uruguan guy who grew up in Costa Rica, among others. Yet, I am still fascinated by the internationalization of the world.

The band were a bunch of kids, really, early twenties at mot, and they were briliant musicians. There were three main guys - one who played a shamisen (3 stringed lute type of instrument) and two drummers. Three others also played in some of the compositions, but the main three stole the show. They started out with traditional Japanese music, which was as visually pleasing as it sounded. The second half was modern, with the shamisen guy playing his instrument like an electric guitar in a rock band. The result was an eclectic mix of the sounds of centuries, and it really worked.

After the show, I went with the Bulgarians to get some dinner while the others headed to a bar that we had all gone to the night before. The Bulgarians spoke for much of the time in Bulgarian, and I merely listened, tried to pick out the few words I know, and recognized a few patterns, which is vital to learning a language. I thought of that Antonio Banderas movie The Thirteenth Warrior, where he is a Moor sitting around a fire with a bunch of Vikings. By the end of the night, not only is he able to understand the insults the Vikings are using against him, but he responds to them in their language. When one of the Vikings asked incredulously how he knew their language, he responded, "I listened." Funny thing was one of the Bulgarians also brought up the scene in this movie. Unfortunately, I have not been able to learn the language in one night! If only it were that easy! But I did find that although I didn't understand their words, I knew often knew what they were talking about. And why didn't they speak in English since I was sitting there? Why should they? When I had something to say, I said it, but mostly I wanted to listen.

Some more photos

One view

Once Nearly Bitten, Twice As Scared

I had my first real dog encounter today. Scary. The roads were calling me to explore them on this beautiful autumn day, so I wandered rather aimlessly, visiting some of the churches around the town, including one from the thirteenth century. I decided to push on further down the road after the last church I visited, where Assen and Peter planned their rebellion against the Byzantines that led to a new Bulgarian empire. I was in awe of the scenery as I walked, the autumn colors blazing across the rocky hills like a painting, when I came across some trailers near the river and thought it best not to continue down the road. I turned back, passing a rundown house with a Trabant full of tires sitting in the front yard. Trabants are funny to me - what stupid Soviet thought it was a good idea to make cars out of cardboard? Anyway, I was contemplating approaching the car for a photo when I saw a black dog appear from the side of the house and walk towards the road. An older man was not more than twenty yards in front of me (sorry, I have no concept of meters) and the dog decided to walk between us. Slowly. I slowed down and tried not to get nervous because dogs can sense fear and it makes them aggressive.

The number of stray dogs here is incredible. I've heard that people have tried to do something about it but others think it is cruel to put them to sleep, so the dogs remain. Why not do what we do - put them in a pound and let people adopt them. If the people don't want to have the dogs put to sleep, let them take care of them!

I'm not one of those people who is afraid of dogs, but I AM afraid of rabies. Actually, I am more afraid of the six weeks of injections with very long, fat needles you have to get if you are bitten. When I was in Cairo, something I never saw bit me in the leg as I was wandering the city's filthy streets. I had two bite marks on my calf and started to freak out - should I go get the shots? Was I going to die of rabies? Yeah, it's funny now, but I was pretty anxious when it happened. It wasn't a bad bite, and there was hardly any blood, but it still scared me.

That's when I learned a lot about rabies. As soon as I realized something had bitten me, I turned around, booked it back to my hotel, and got on the internet. And got paranoid. I learned that the first symptom one has is a cold. Well, guess what happened? Two days later, I had a hundred and one degree temperature and was miserably sick. Logic later told me I had contracted something from the plane - something I am very prone to - but you can imagine how the paranoia set in.

The Bite has had a psychological effect on me, so I think of rabies when I see these scrawny dogs roaming the streets. And well, this black dog stopped walking. I kept walking past it, trying to ignore it. It began walking beside me on the far side of the road. I tried not to look at it. It picked up its pace and went in front of me. Then it stopped. I tried to go on the other side of the narrow road, but that is when it jumped at me, barking viciously as it began to attack. I thought, "This is it, it's finally happened! I'm going to be bitten and need those shots!" I took off my backpack and swung it at the beast, screaming at it as instinct took over and my legs took off. The old man had stopped to see what was going on, and I ran past him before stopping.

The dog could have followed me but fortunately did not. I never looked back. I didn't understand what the old man was saying to me but we kind of laughed about it, though I was shaking. I stopped at the first cafe I encountered to have a beer - a half liter for .80 leva - about fifty cents! I've been sitting outside on the terrace, but the patter of dog feet on the stone has left me quite jumpy, and I think I'm going to have to order a second beer. For that price, how can I not?

My Left Bank

It was the memory in my computer - I don't have much left, which is why I was having trouble getting the thing to boot. Hopefully now, I'll be able to get the thing to work regularly so I can post what I've written. Unfortunately, I do not have my camera cord with me at the moment, so I can't upload any photos. I had to delete them from my computer to free up the memory. I'll try to upload some later on. Anyway, here's something I wrote a couple of days ago:

On the rainy streets of Washington, DC, umbrellas are mostly black. Here, they are of all colors and designs. Makes the wet drear bearable to look at as long as you aren't standing in it. The rain falls strangely, sometimes stopping, sometimes pouring, but there is no sign of it moving out. After three days, one would think it could let up. This is Europe, isn't it? Even down here near the Balkans the drear beats down on the Earth. It hasn't stopped people from going out, however. They just throw on their jackets and put up their colorful umbrellas and continue on as if it were a flawless sunny day. I had forgotten about the European rain but am now thinking about those countless wet days in Luxembourg. I now recall why I wore a red hat everywhere, even indoors. It was always cold, always wet, always dreary, yet there was something romantically wonderful in it all.

The wind is really whipping around, turning several of the umbrellas inside out. I watch some uncovered heads bob across the road - there is this rather bizarre hair coloring going on here, where many of the women have dyed their hair red, not the natural Irish redhead type of color, but the punk kind of red. I just witnessed a purple haired woman cross the street, too. Hair dying seems to be the thing to do among forty and fifty year old women.

This is about the age where people here start looking worn out, like they are much older than their actual age. You can tell which people have benefited the most from prosperity. I am now looking at a distinguished man in a well-kept designer green jacket talking to a shorter man in a cheaper black jacket with a more eroded face, and the contrast seems pretty severe until a hunched man who looks like he should not be older than sixty passes by them, his body contorted so that he walks in a near ninety degree angle.

The electricity has just gone out, and I'm the only one who seems to have blinked an eye. At least the Michael Bolton has stopped with it - the CD had just begun its third repetition. The rain is in umbrellas down mode at the moment and things are brighter - perhaps there is hope!...Ten minutes have passed and the electricity has returned. And so has the rain. Hard.

I continue to be amazed at how much older the youth look and act. A couple of kids, a girl in a bright pink jacket and a boy in a black Adidas windbreaker, stood on the the other side of a very wet street, giving me the impression that they were quite young to be unchaperoned. (Umbrellas down again.) As they approached, they grew older, until their faces were clearly visible, showing me their twelve, maybe thirteen year old ages.

Later...

The sun finally broke through and blue illuminates everything. The buzz of cars splashing through three days' worth of drear sings loudly outside the restaurant window, where I have ordered chicken gizzards because I didn't know the word for gizzards. I figured since I could tell what chicken is and what onions are, the dish couldn't be bad. It isn't. And it's only about $1.50 for a filling meal, so how can I complain?

When the blue appeared, I left the cafe and began to wander, something I hadn't been able to do in a couple of days. Yesterday I stayed in the hostel for most of the day, and it felt like a waste of living, yet it was so miserable outside, and I was in no mood to be cold and wet. Today I left, determined to do something interesting, even if it meant suffering the drear. Now, instead of rain damp, I am sweat damp, as I'm a fast walker and I've walked a lot. The feeling when sunshine appears after days of bad weather is energizing - you can see smiles on faces right now, even on some of the older ones.

In many ways, today has reminded me of Dublin, only with crappy music blaring from every cafe and shop and car that I pass. When the rains let up and the warmer air set in, the sky became spotty blue with clouds moving swiftly across the green mountains. Car exhaust heavy with moisture hangs in the air and reluctantly enters my lungs, which was one of the first things I noticed about Dublin City, as I was used to much cleaner American air, where car emissions tests are mandatory for nearly everyone.

But it was the sky and the feel of the air - how could this be when I'm about as far from Dublin as one can get and still be in Europe? Even the gray concrete houses with their red tiled roofs and red gardenias are the same. But it's more me that's the same, the wandering, curious me that is noticing a freeing of my mind, a me who used to forget everything but now is remembering names, new words for things, and the amounts my cappuccinos cost at the various cafes. I thought my scatterbrainness was an unfortunate result of getting older, but I guess it was a result of unhappiness. The human brain is strange like that.

I wonder what Dublin is like now. It's been seven years since I left it last - a pre-9/11, pre-George W. Bush world. I am sure Joyce's Dublin is dead, replaced with a city indistinguishable from any other city in the Western world and beyond. The city had such a soul, such a feeling of triumph like "We made it. We suffered for 800 years under oppressive colonial rule, but our tenacity and perseverance paid off. We're one of the most prosperous cities in Europe right now; indeed, the world, where we have to import labor because we can't fill jobs fast enough." Now, it's probably, "God has finally rewarded us, and we are repaying Him by abandoning Him for the material world." I am afraid to see Dublin, my Dublin, my favorite city in all the world. Have you become a material monster, too? I know the answer. I can look around me at this exact moment and see change happening before my eyes. I can practically see the soul of the city packing its bags. This place is like Dublin ten years ago. Maybe fifteen years ago.

My first footfull of European soil was a firm step in Dublin, alone, trying to figure out how to get on a bus from the airport into the city. It was ten years ago. Ten years - one third of my life - and I've hit the reality point where I realize life isn't one series of moments in cafes, but I want it to be, and here I sit, three weeks removed from the dullness of office life and ten years from that first step, enjoying the smell of fireplaces and watching the clouds pass overhead in the last few minutes of daylight, more content than I have been in a long time, nearly ten years, in the same state of wonder and amazement I had felt back then in the same shoes I am wearing now.

Grays and rainbows

Last night a more civilized conversation was had by those of us here at the hostel in which I am staying, a far cry from the previous night's anti-American argument that occurred. An Aussie, Scot, Quebecois, two Japanese, and two Bulgarians and I enjoyed a wonderful dinner. Afterwards, our host gave us a brief history of Bulgaria. I hadn't realized how close was the Bulgarian-Russian relationship since the Russians helped to liberate Bulgaria from the Ottomans. I had picked up on their hatred for the Turks on day one of my time in the country, but I had thought perhaps life under Russian rule would have changed views. I'm a little confused, though, by the role of the Ottomans in the first world war. I had always thought the Ottomans were on the opposite side of the British and admit I don't know much about that war. I know so much about WWII, as it has been rammed down our throats by Hollywood, but I remember very little about The War to End All Wars.

It's funny how skewed is the history that you learn. Each story is told from a different point of view, each version a variation of the other. I always roll my eyes at those Americans who are outraged that Columbus Day is no longer a holiday in the States, who adamantly defend the erroneous belief that Columbus discovered America when there is indisputable proof that he was not the first to arrive and that indeed, there were already people here when he came. The history they learned was biased and wrong, yet they refuse to accept reality because that "wasn't what I was taught." While people tear up and feel outrage when they watch Holocaust movies, why don't they feel outrage towards our own American ancestors who took part in the genocide of the native populations of what is now "our" land? And then we took the survivors and put them in concentration camps we call "reservations."

History is funny like that. It's full of good guys and bad guys who are constantly switching sides and loyalties. I remember being confused as a kid that the evil Russians fought on "our side" during World War II. It was pretty tough for me to wrap my head around the fact that our mortal enemy was an ally fighting "evil" fascism. Which was the real evil? How could the evil Russians be fighting the evil Germans?

Being an astute kid, it didn't take long for me to realize that nothing is black and white, that the whole world is a swirling mass of gray like the concrete structures built by the Soviets in the 60s and 70s that look like the concrete structures built in the 60s and 70s in Washington, DC.

I prefer the colors of the world - the fresh yellow paint on the newly renovated building I can see from where I sit in post-Soviet Bulgaria, the joy inciting green of a freshly mowed baseball field, the creamy brown of the cappuccino in my glass, the blue stripe of my very warm sweater on this damp, dreary day...color is such life, and the Bulgarians know it. I've walked past apartment buildings where people have painted the walls of their balconies with pinks, purples, greens, and yellows, where flowers bloom from bright flower boxes, where people have been creative in ridding this city of the drab grayness and have made it come to life. We should all learn to find the color in the gray.

Two nights ago, I watched a Serbian film called Black Cat, White Cat with people from several different countries. In the end, the black and white mix. This is how the world is, how history is, and it's a shame more people can't see it that way.

Suspicious Minds

My laptop has decided it does not like Veliko Turnovo, for it has not started in two days. I am not giving up hope, as it has done this before, and I'm hoping a couple of days' rest will leave it refreshed and ready to work again. Besides, the weather has been so beautiful I wouldn't want to spend the day in front of the computer!

I've been writing the old fashioned way - with pen and paper, which is actually what I prefer to do. I hate the typing part of it. Maybe someday if I've become a successful writer, I can hire an assistant to do all of my typing for me.

This city is my Left Bank. It has all of the charm and history to qualify, as my gut told me in September when I first conceived the notion of this trip. The view from where I am staying is incredible. I could write a whole novel from the balcony. I've been wandering the winding, narrow streets, thrilled with each discovery of a new stairway leading to new things I've not yet seen. I've no real destination and am free to take every new twist and turn I come across.

A slow moving mass with swollen ankles and an oppressive slouch shuffled along a narrow stone street. The only part of the woman that did not suffer from the staleness of aging was a shiny green jacket, probably a gift from her children whose best years of life had not withered away under soulless communism. A string worn around her ankle looked as if it were meant to tie her foot to the rest of her leg. Somehow, though, she managed to shuffle out of sight, those aged legs still serving their purpose.

The deep blue October sky and the warmth of the day provided a spotlight for an ancient city to shine. Cafes with outside terraces moved with the kinetic force of urban prosperity. A younger, much luckier generation sat at tables covered with umbrellas that proclaimed capitalism's triumph: Coca Cola, Lavazza, and now, Kamenitza. Western pop music played loudly from Japanese speakers as if it always had. Laughter, smiles, and conversation flowed freely. The old woman was a relic from a much unhappier time.

What it must have been like then, and the youth don't even know it. Now they carry mobile phones and drink lattes and never get tricked into telling on their parents. To an American who grew up associating the Cyrillic alphabet with nuclear weapons and believing the gateway to Hell was located in Moscow, being in an ex-Soviet satellite with no visible reminders of that time is a bit strange. We had such an impression of life under communism that I couldn't envision anyone not sitting around in overcrowded apartments when even in July it was cold and damp and gray and miserable. There is such color here, such life, and I have been struck with a permanent and unsatisfiable curiosity about how it was back then. That is a good thing.

The old are suspicious. They will stare at you as you approach from a distance, and you can feel their eyes on you until you disappear from their weak sight. They frown at you even as you try to compliment their gardens in broken Bulgarian, even as you smile to try to prove you are not out to get their meager possessions. Maybe their bitter faces are the result of hearts hardened by years under communism. Maybe they are simply lamenting the invasion of the corporate mentality, where materialism reigns supreme. The pace of change is so rapid that one can feel today is more hectic than yesterday. It must be difficult for someone who has been used to a slower, even more boring, pace of life.

Or maybe it is simply the aging process - you know, the "kids these days" mentality that is a natural reaction to change and aging.

Veliko Turnovo Part 1

This place I like. Veliko Turnovo, an old imperial city with some character, is where I now sit. I only arrived this afternoon and haven't seen much, but the winding streets and the incredible views gave a good enough first impression that makes me look forward to waking up tomorrow and wandering around aimlessly.

I'm kind of sick of "internet cafes" and am looking forward to having my own internet access once I find a place to stay, which is my goal for tomorrow. I'm terrified of someone bumping my fickle laptop, which will send it into hard drive chaos, as I know all too well from experiences of the last week. Speaking of internet cafes, it is a strange sight to see not one laptop in all of the cafes I have been to so far. In DC, hardly anyone sitting in these places did NOT have one. It was too the point where I wondered if anyone ever talked to each other anymore!

It was a beautiful day, but I spent most of it trying to get here. The bus ride was only three hours, but it felt like fifty since they didn't have a toilet on the bus. I only was able to take fifty photos today instead of my normal two hundred, which doesn't really matter anyway because it takes so long to upload them to Blogger that I don't have time to post them.

Right now I'd like to know what the drinking laws are here, as there are some kids not more than fifteen who are drinking. I am an advocate for lower drinking laws in the US, but I think 16 should be the minimum for unsupervised kids. They seem much more grown up than American kids, though. They aren't loud, they are well dressed, and they are acting like there are others around them to respect!

Anyway, here are a few more pics from the city. Hopefully my internet access (and my laptop) will stabilize so I can post more regularly. Although I guess I have been pretty regular.

To be continued...

A Monstrosity

The sun has finally come out in Sofia, and though it is quite cold, I find the day very pleasant. Oh, and for the first time since I arrived I am seeing something massive - the Balkans!

It seems strange that I have not seen the mountains in a city that is surrounded by them, but I arrived at night and the weather has been crappy for the last couple of days, so you couldn't see them through the clouds. I spent the morning rephotographing things because they just look better in the sunshine! Golden church domes, for example.

One thing I wish I never had seen here is the pizza with pickles. I am having lunch now at a place where I can see the mountains. It happens to be a pizza place. I ordered a margharita pizza because I wanted to make sure there were no pickles on it, so of course I had to order the plain cheese!

The grossest one I've seen so far is the pickles/corn/ham pizza. I can recognize the word for ham because it is near the German (and the English word "swine"). I know the word tomato since it is the same. I know the word for cheese. But pickle is not a word I expected to have to know.

After I ordered, I remembered I bought a Bulgarian/English dictionary. So I looked up the word for something I need to know - because I will NEVER eat it on a pizza! саламура

Oh, and the pizza I do have tastes like frozen grocery store pizza. But at least I get to see the mountains.

Here are a few more photos, which I hope are much more tasteful: