My shelves are bare, and my suitcase, once again, lies packed in the corner. All errands have been taken care of, and I now look at the Pazardzhik-Sofia train schedule for the final time. My sheets drying on the line, I gaze at the rolling hills and Rhodopi Mountains to the South, over the whole town, from my apartment window. Now all that remains is tomorrow, my last day of class, and with it, the last round of goodbyes.
The goodbye process has been going on since last Thursday; I then took the opportunity to do so with my classes that day, knowing that I will have departed Bulgaria come the following Thursday. With the passing of every class, with the final smiling faces, hugs, and waving hands, the more I feel that my departure finally “sinks in” to my psyche.
And now, experiencing fully the emotions that arise from my imminent return back home, I cannot help but look back at those whom I am leaving.
Much to my mental ease, my classes, in the end, almost universally liked me. Some, it might be said, even loved me. All of this might well have been caused by my relaxed, non-confrontational nature, a far cry from their other classes, as is my understanding. This was perhaps one of my greatest weaknesses as a teacher, of which I very admittedly have many; there is always more for me to learn and there are always better habits for me to develop. On the other hand, this apparent weakness of mine contributed to one of my greatest successes: students being open and unafraid to voice their opinions, concerns, and curiosities in class. It is impossible for me to experience the actual thought processes and feelings of my students, but, from what many of them have told me, it is this environment that I helped to foster in the classroom that made it not only enjoyable, but interesting and educational, something different from the norm which many of them detest. It is partially this that caused many of them to beg and plead with me to stay for a second year; upon my announcement that I would not be returning next year, without fail, someone in every class immediately launched a sharp yet disappointed “Why?” at me.
Interesting classes and some cultural exchange, however, are by no means the factors behind the entirety of my current sadness and unshakable feeling that, somehow, I’m not just leaving; I’m leaving people behind.
Some students were less emotional. “You’re cool. We like you” was a common theme. Others, however, forced me to hold myself back from breaking down in front of them.
Today, as my 9д class was leaving my classroom for the last time, one girl, Eliya, gripped me in a hug. “I want to thank you so much. You and BEST (the speech and debate competitions I took them to) changed my life.”
Last Thursday, another girl, Tsveti, hugged me similarly. “I’m going to message you when I finally get a medal in the competitions next year! We’re all going to miss you!”
Most striking was several weeks ago when I instructed everyone to write down some sentences about themselves for a psychology experiment. One young man, who takes part in my modest philosophy club, wrote as his final sentence, “…and my role model is Colby Fleming.”
All I could do was lie the paper on the table in front of me and stare blankly ahead. I have been here merely a year, and have zero teaching experience. How is this even possible? I was completely baffled. I still am. And yet here I stand, unwittingly having so many young minds turning towards me for guidance, for an example of some sort of standard of behavior, God knows what that might be. Intellectually, I realized even before the start of the year that something like this might happen, that students might grow attached to me. But, like so many other things, despite all foreknowledge and intellectual realization, nothing can really prepare oneself for an experience like the experience itself. I have never been a teacher and, to my knowledge, have never been a role model or a mentor, and so nothing could have prepared me for this feeling of immense influence, immense responsibility.
And now, despite this responsibility, I am now leaving these students with whom I have so strongly bonded. Is this equivalent to shirking the responsibility entirely?
In many ways, my departure from Bulgaria is very similar to my arrival here; there is much hasty packing and sorting things out, and the bulging suitcase in the corner; there is anxiety about the future; and, of course, there are the goodbyes and farewells. Coming here, I left friends and family. Leaving here, I am leaving practically the same sorts of people, be they my dear Fulbright comrades and managers, my most helpful Bulgarian friends, or my beloved students. The sad difference is that, upon coming here, there was the light of return home at the end of the tunnel, a reunion with those I left behind. But with those from whom I depart now, there is no such guarantee; it only exists in the faint hope that my life’s path one day takes me through Bulgaria once more. This remains to be seen. But, in any case, many of these people exchange with me our final goodbyes.
And this is what makes my return from this adventure, in many ways, much more painful and melancholy than my setting off on it.
Yet, despite the discomfort and sadness it may cause, I cannot shirk duty. Thus, to all of the aforementioned people, who made my year incredible, I bid you a very, very fond and heartfelt farewell.
And Tsveti, I hope you do win those medals. I think you will. But in the end, it doesn’t matter to me; I’m already proud of you, and I will miss you too. All of you.
This past weekend, with the supreme power granted unto me by the possession of an international driver’s permit–available from your local AAA office–I, along with several others, took a fairly lengthy road trip across Bulgaria, in total covering nearly 1,000 kilometers. Our main destinations were the Veliko Tyrnovo and Shumen provinces, both containing numerous sites of archaeological interest.
The day after visiting the ruins of Nicopolis ad Istrum, the unearthed remains of an old Roman city founded by Trajan, we worked our way to what were, in my mind, two of the top places in Bulgaria that I absolutely could not miss without feeling a sore sense of dissatisfaction with myself and with my lack of a hands-on view of this country’s history. These two places were Pliska and Preslav, the former capitals of the First Bulgarian Empire (681-1018 CE).
A reconstructed gate at Preslav, second capital (893-972 CE) of the First Bulgarian Empire
I had built up some high expectations of my visits to these places, not in small part due to a fairly romanticized film* I had watched about the creation of the Bulgarian people and the conversion to Christianity, as a national identity, at Pliska and Preslav. They were not disappointments by any means. It is simply strange to walk along the bare foundations of what were once magnificent, important palaces and churches, especially when one knows the history behind what one is seeing and standing upon; this feeling is hard to come by back home, where an “old” building is merely a hundred years old. So long ago, Preslav was the center of Slavic learning and culture, and the Tsars residing there challenged, and often defeated, their mighty neighbor, the Eastern Roman Empire.
The signs and museum will explain to you that this city of former glory was destroyed by several attacks, and over time lost its important position. Still, this explanation somehow misses something, somehow does not suffice for me. Merely the surface is scratched. I think about the people who ruled here, who lived here.
What else should they have done?
During the trip, I had begun to fall ill, and so when I returned the rental car in Sofia, I decided to simply spend the night there with a friend and see if I felt better in the morning.
Naturally, our first stop was at a pharmacy, to try to stem whatever symptoms I could until I could see a full doctor the next morning. Afterwards, however, given the typical chilliness of the Sofian plain and my illness, we decided to head to a lovely tea house before dinner, where I had a pot of so-called “Assam” tea.
Naturally, discussion shifts to something my friend has on her mind. “I brought work with me to do during our lazy hours of the weekend,” she says, “but of course I got none of it done. And, given how much stuff we were doing, when would I have had time?”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“I mean, we were taking a trip. What else should I have done?”
“Nothing else.” We sip our tea.
We then launch into the struggle we face with the perennial question of what else we should be doing. In this case, that struggle is, namely, procrastination.
“I’ll have a task in mind, but then I think, ‘Oh, let me check this website, or get this other thing done.’ And then, three more things pop up, and by the time I’m done with small thing number four, it’s almost impossible for me to get started on the original task at hand.”
I empathize completely, recounting the countless hours spent on the internet looking at pictures of cats or other equally meaningless and mediocre things.
“Why do we do this?”
“Anxiety or something, I suppose.” And it’s true. There’s also just something addictive about scrolling through image after image or factoid after factoid. In some immediate way, it’s better than working on something at which we are struggling, or afraid of failing at in the end.
She pulls out her phone, and says, “Reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver,” thrusting in my direction that strange glowing box with little words written on it.
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
What else should I have done, indeed?
“So,” I ask, “how do we fix this problem, exactly?” And what a problem it is. My thoughts immediately turned to Tyler Durden, a character from Fight Club which–partially motivated by having been teased by my mentor professor for conducting a study on masculinity without having watched this iconic film–I had watched for the first time only a week before. Durden, simply, can be seen as the epitome of a man’s dream to live life to the fullest in some way, even if those dreams are quite distorted. The point is: what is stopping us from being Tyler Durden? What keeps us from being who we want to be?
“Well,” my friend begins, “I think the key might have to do with being engaged in something.”
“Do you mean, like, aware of what you’re doing?”
“Maybe, something like that. Mindful.”
Remembering my location and what’s in front of me, I take a sip of tea, because what else should I have done? It smells and tastes like any other Indian tea I’ve had before.
Surely, this must be on the right track. Who would spend their entire life browsing pictures of cats on the internet unless they were ignorant or fundamentally unengaged in some way?
Gears turn in my head. I try to think of times when I’ve been more “engaged,” less likely to absentmindedly hop from page to page, re-watch a video I’ve already seen myriad times, or distract myself from something more pressing.
I think back to the weekend I just had. Not a lot of those things going on there. Then, it comes to me. It’s so simple. Travel.
Never will I be tempted to browse Reddit on my phone while I’m out exploring Tallinn, nor will I idly refresh Facebook when hiking Vitosha. I already knew that I have travelled a lot these past few months, but I did not look deeply into why, and thanks to this conversation, I looked, and I found this: because travel engages me. It grants me the opportunity for new sights, new tastes, new situations, new contexts, new experiences. I can learn; I can develop. It fights against the same old, same old. With travel, I can experience a more ethical bit of Durdenness.
When I travel, I can ask Mary Oliver’s question: “What else should I have done?” And when I travel, I feel like, for now, I can confidently reply:
“Nothing else.”
I relate to my friend my introspective revelation. “Travel is one of those engaging things. For me, at least.”
“Right,” she agrees.
Yet, at the same time, we concur, maybe the expectation that we make our one wild and precious life indeed wild was somehow mistaken or unfounded.
I say, “I think Tyler Durden sort of epitomizes that way of thinking. Rebelling against the status quo and limitations on our lives. It can be easy to identify with him.”
“Besides all the distortions in thinking that he represents,” she retorts.
“Oh, naturally. But since so many fans of the film take him as this hero and role model, it’s impossible to deny that there is something appealing about him, about being him. Hell, the whole film is about imagining what it’s like to be him. There’s something social going on that makes him appealing in some way.” Perhaps Durden represents value-based rationality, where decisions are made towards achievement of some ideal or standard; Durden, of course, by my loose and on-the-fly application of Weberian thought, lives surrounded by a society more largely based on instrumental-based rationality, where micro-level and merely economic considerations like monetary profit and comfort dominate. This form dissociates people from meaning in their lives, and so they turn to Durden to reject instrumental rationality and bring back meaning and a more cohesive, authentic social order.
In any case, Durden’s cult appeal is, in my mind, linked to the phenomenon of internet procrastination and addiction in some way. I explain this to my friend, also adding in the ideal that we should all be heroes.
“No one daydreams about going home and sitting hunched over in front of a computer all day. They want to be in The Hobbit, or in The Lord of the Rings.”
“True,” she says. “But also, keep in mind, those ‘heroes’ usually dream of a quiet, peaceful, uneventful life back home.”
By most accounts, which I have gathered from numerous other Fulbrighters with whom I’ve spoken, these are some of the darkest days of the year.
By “darkest,” I do not mean physically, as in the decreased hours of sunlight. In fact, I was in Tallinn, Estonia for the winter solstice, where the sun had completely set around 3:30pm and the sky was pitch black by 5pm. That was actually quite a good day.
No, by “darkest,” I mean emotionally, mentally. Culture shock is in full force for everyone in my social circle. Teaching and dealing with school are universally stressful; I know this to be the case for myself, and certainly others have shared recent tales of experiences that make me grateful for the comparatively lesser stresses I have endured. Then, there was the long Christmas and New Years break, which was so wonderful that anything following its conclusion–especially a return to work–necessarily led to disappointment. Many of us briefly reunited with family, embraced (or even met for the first time) that special someone, and relaxed with friends in exciting new places.
Thus, it is easy to see why the prospect of returning to our places of work, in a culture where we did not quite feel at home, was neither entirely appealing nor remotely easy to stomach.
Despite the persistent gloom, several weekends after my return, a few of us organized a trip to experience a cultural phenomenon very important to Bulgaria: the Kukeri (mummers) festival.
After waking up at some ungodly hour to catch a preliminary train, we first arrived in the town of Pernik, which was about halfway to Breznik, our intended destination to see Kukeri. After some milling about, we inquire at the bus station about buses that would take us the rest of the way, as one of us had intel that such buses ran fairly frequently between the two towns. As is a common experience in Bulgaria, this intel turned out to be bad, and we were forced to call two taxis to take the six of us the rest of the way.
Looking out the window of the cab into the desolate whiteness of heavy snowfall, I make a mental note of how this road has not received much attention from the snow plows; the main things keeping it somewhat navigable were the tracks of other cars, who had braved this same route earlier on. Apparently, these conditions were perfectly acceptable for our driver, who drove at what was probably above the speed limit even if this were a dry, straight road.
Our cab driver fumbles with the small radio in the car; he tunes into a station, and the beat of the song currently playing quickly becomes recognizable to me. Excited, I turn around to the back seat and say, “Kait, it’s Lana [Del Rey]!”
Kait’s eyes go wide. She braces herself against whatever she could in the car.
Her reaction made little sense to me, until I feel the tires of the taxi begin to skid beneath us. I turn around; I see that we are completely careening to the left side of the road. Worse yet, there is an oncoming car only a few yards ahead.
The driver yanks the wheel hard to the right; we manage to stop, and the other car simply swerves by, honking just barely enough to make it clear that he meant to honk, but too lazily and not hard enough to give the brief noise any real meaning or express any deep annoyance. Our driver calmly mutters something under his breath, and lets our friends in the taxi behind us drive ahead to claim their share of the risk.
Perhaps because of the adrenaline, I don’t remember how long it took after that near-death incident to reach Breznik. But, by some divine miracle, we did. And at a reasonable time, too! We start heading into town, asking an elderly couple which way the main square was. Just after they explain and we thank them, I notice that, despite there being some roads closed off, almost no one was outside. Even though it was freezing outside and snow was quickly accumulating, the town looked a little too dead to be having a festival right now. I note this to Lauren, who is leading the pack with me. She looks sheepishly down at the ground and says, “Well, our driver told us that the festival doesn’t start for another four hours. No one else but me in the car spoke Bulgarian, so now you and I are the only two that have this information.”
“Maybe we should inform the rest of them,” I suggest.
“Hmm. Nah.” And so we didn’t, for some time.
After reaching the square and taking some obligatory selfies, we headed up to Breznik’s main church, which was totally gorgeous. Even better was that we met a lady who took care of the church; she invited us inside the church office to warm up by a heater as we made small talk with our broken Bulgarian skills. She also kept reminding us that we were allowed to take pictures inside the church; this is usually a no-no in Orthodox churches, which is interesting. I declined this time, but her warmth–both from her personality and the heater–really set the tone for the rest of our experience in the town.
We continued to explore Breznik a bit more, and sat down in several cafes and restaurants to pass the time. People seemed very, almost unusually, friendly; our waitresses, though perhaps forgetting a few side items we ordered, were wonderful, putting me at greater ease in this new place. Vendors, selling candies, roasted chesnuts, and souvenirs were amiable also. One turned out to speak Spanish, and another Fulbrighter, eager to hold back the decay of her Spanish skills, practiced with him for some time outside even as the snowfall continued.
After finishing up some beers at a cafe, we all began to don our jackets and scarves to brave the harsh temperature once more. Some sort of a rhythmic noise had developed outside, signalling to us the beginning of the actual festival. I head to the bathroom to ensure there will not be discomfort later on; I look out of a window situated inside, from which I capture my first glimpses of the performers. It is hard to describe them, so I will show pictures and videos, but I was struck by the juxtaposition between the mummers, dressed basically as pagan monsters, and an Orthodox priest swinging around a censer between them.
Witnessing the mummers’ costumes was interesting enough, but the noise generated by the bells was almost musical, and rhythmic enough to get me dancing to a beat (apologies to anyone who might have witnessed that).
After watching all of this for an hour or two, the time came to head back to the “bus station”–some building with bus schedules, possibly outdated, posted on the windows–to catch what might be, for all I knew, the last bus back to Sofia.
As I was returning to the cafe after a walk with Lauren, we realized that we didn’t actually have a picture of us with any of the performers. We approached one man with a particularly interesting mask, which was several feet tall, and asked him in Bulgarian what probably sounded like, “Excuse, may we picture with you?” He grins and hoists his mask up into the air, carefully setting it down on his head; then he motions us in, and we snap a selfie.
According to folklore, the purpose of Kukeri is to drive away evil spirits. Before actually having seen it, I thought of Kukeri in a very theoretical way; having read part of a book on the festival as part of a Post-Soviet Life class project, my mind considered more so the various possible meanings behind the bells and masks carried by the performers and how the festival had changed since the collapse of Communism. But witnessing this event live in the freezing cold of mountainous Breznik gave me a different perspective, a more human one; Kukeri was just fun, and it brought people together in a good, beneficial way.
Moreover, I am a believer in Kukeri. It definitely does drive away evil spirits; this much was evident not only from the demeanor of the townsfolk, but also from the little bit of faith in Bulgaria restored to me as a result of this pilgrimage to Breznik, a tiny ray of sunlight so desperately needed in these dark, wintry days.
Certainly, this good mood of mine helped me endure the bus ride back, which was much like the taxi ride, except on a rickety bus, through more mountains, and featuring cliffs mere feet from the side of the “road.” But, the snow-covered vistas were magnificent; this, combined with my experience at the festival, gives Breznik a special place in my heart.
“If all of human knowledge, everything that’s known, is believed to be an enormous hierarchic structure, then the high country of the mind is found at the uppermost reaches of this structure in the most general, the most abstract considerations of all.
Few people travel here. There’s no real profit to be made from wandering through it, yet like this high country of the material world all around us, it has its own austere beauty that to some people makes the hardships of traveling through it seem worthwhile.
In the high country of the mind one has to become adjusted to the thinner air of uncertainty, and to the enormous magnitude of questions asked, and to the answers proposed to these questions. The sweep goes on and on and on so obviously much further than the mind can grasp one hesitates even to go near for fear of getting lost in them and never finding one’s way out.”
Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
Me, very tired
Several weeks ago, I joined up with a fellow Fulbrighter to hike Vitosha mountain. Most of it, anyhow; we were planning to get to the summit, Cherni Vruh, but departed late and were informed by a local, mid-hike, that we did not have enough daylight left to reach it and return safely. So, we settled on reaching one of the other sights, called “the Plateau.” After a grueling hike up–with more complaining on my part than I would care to admit–we had reached our goal, some 7000ft in elevation. The air being much thinner than I am accustomed to, each breath was just a little longer, a little more desperate. But the soreness in my legs and the challenge to my willpower were more than paid back as I looked out across the Plateau; clouds were scattered about, several sheets even floating in the distance below us, obscuring the ground below. We were able to see Sofia almost in its entirety, as if it were a mere model to be tinkered with, or to be conceptualized and turned into a theory for future publication.
The sun was beginning to set, but not so much that the Plateau was not basked in a soft, golden light, enhancing the contours in the hills and rocks around us. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or endorphins, but I experienced a feeling quite near what I might expect others to call religious, as if I should sit down right there, meditate, and reach enlightenment.
I remarked to my partner, “I think this might be one of my favorite places in the world.” Then, she turned back and gave me a sort of quizzical look. “I think it’s not the best idea to have a list of ‘favorite places,'” she said. “I was once sitting on the riverbank watching the sun set over the Hudson with a friend, and she said that this was nothing, that she had seen something so much more beautiful,” in some other time and place.
I listened to what she had said. I found myself quite far away from enlightenment indeed.
Her idea, told in that way, has stuck with me ever since. I eventually began to wonder, if it is in fact unskillful to have a list of ‘favorites,’ might it not be bad also to have a list of ‘least favorites?’
This question of mine holds more than theoretical significance; it is also practical. This is so because, at this time, I find my job and situation to be stressful, taxing. Standing up in front of a room filled with twenty-six pairs of eyes looking up at me–or turned around talking to each other and being a bit noisy, as the case may be–is demanding, at the least, especially for someone who fancies himself to be some hardcore introvert that needs serious rest after longs bouts of such intense social interaction. This is not to say that I am necessarily doing badly or that certain students are in any way malevolent or unworthy. It is all brand new, I often feel underqualified, and I had expectations of myself as some teacher on par with Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society. These expectations are starting to be lowered, gradually, but there is no switch I can pull to accomplish this instantly. The remaining self-criticism does cause stress, so now I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t some place for which I might be better suited.
As time goes on, I think more and more about my studies at university. Reading complicated books, attending lectures, discussing theory with animated professors are all things that I find I miss terribly, a feeling which, in the mayhem of my final semesters, I never really imagined would ever, ever occur. Now, I am feeling the call to return to this environment, except this time as a graduate student. I’ve been spending late nights meandering about the internet, glancing at various doctorate programs available for Sociology; part of this has been prompted by being immersed in Eastern Europe and yet not really knowing quite how to analyze and interpret everything that I see. I feel the need to be an expert, to know more about what is going on and how things work, especially in a fairly abstract way. Pursuing further study would likely only open up more questions, I understand, and I would welcome them; at least I can be even more skillful at asking them.
However, with this new dream of mine, it seems I have fallen into the same trap about which I was warned on the Plateau; might I not, so to speak, be looking out over the Hudson yet dreaming of someplace far away?
I’ve heard it said by other Fulbrighters that this stage in the program is the most difficult; holidays are passing by with family 5,000 miles away, culture shock is at a high intensity, problems at school begin to gain momentum, and it hasn’t been quite long enough to really get a grasp on what is going on. I find a great deal of truth in this assessment of the situation.
I readily admit that this (hopefully) temporary valley affects my judgment of my circumstances and colors my vision towards the future. My past circumstances also did the same thing; during the application process for the Fulbright, I used to see this as sort of an end goal, not having any idea what would happen after, but surely, I thought, this experience would be largely sunshine and roses even with some setbacks. In any case, certainly it would be better than the stress of long university papers and presenting at a conference; finally, I’d be free. So I had thought.
Clearly, there is a trend here, and, like a good theorist, I must apply this pattern to other situations, namely, the future.
No doubt, graduate school would be difficult, more difficult than I can possibly imagine now, as was also the case when I was originally thinking about the Fulbright. And then I will probably be looking back on all of this, wishing to be back in Pazardzhik, and imagining how comparatively wonderfulit was.
I should break this cycle before it happens, then, if at all possible; I should look out and appreciate what is in front of me before I move on to the next place or phase and then simply start the mindless imagining all over again.
But, how?
I can start, I suppose, by noting the good things about my experience so far. This Fulbright program, I believe, is very worthwhile, and I feel that I have grown a lot already as a result. Adapting to such a different culture and line of work is bound to do so. “It is good to know something of the customs of various peoples, so that we may judge our own more soundly and not think that everything contrary to our own ways is irrational (Descartes).” I think myself more confident and able to lead as a direct result of my experiences as a teacher and as the coach of my school’s speech and debate club. After my debacle with getting to Silistra and back, I am now mostly able to navigate the Bulgarian transportation system, which at first was daunting and inspired dread. I’ve become fearless in hanging clothes above the street to dry, and now I feel somewhat comfortable shopping at the local market instead of heading to the store where I can wordlessly place items on the conveyor belt and pay without any interaction. In a word, I’ve gained some small measure of independence from all of this, despite not even being halfway through the grant period. And certainly it is no small bonus that I am able to travel widely and live quite comfortably.
I think this is the wisdom to which I was directed during my hike up Vitosha. I don’t have to wish I was somewhere else doing something better; but, I have realized, neither should I ignore the challenges I have faced and treat them and the situation in general with total admiration or irrelevance. Even appreciating the situation, it would be a disservice to ignore the flaws, to not let them factor into my next decision.
Before, I viewed this experience as a sort of end in itself, and while thinking of things merely as steps to a higher step would violate the very principle discussed here, I have come to see this experience in another way also; a base camp, which helps me to more fully prepare for the next long, laborious hike upwards.
Until then, I will simply have to try and appreciate the experience that is in front of me, for what that’s worth. Maybe, maybe soon I won’t be able to help but love every minute of it.
I cannot express enough gratitude to one of my professors, who gave me this bit of advice regarding teaching just the day before my departure for Bulgaria:
“Here’s what I tell all new teachers: You’re going to screw up.”
The Watch, as requested.
Or, something like that. Perhaps, after working with me for years, she caught a glimpse of my inner perfectionist and tailored some advice to my needs, disguised by an appeal to a general audience of new teachers, or perhaps this really is what she tells every new teacher. In either case, a sentence as simple as this has proven invaluable. I find myself more aware of the thoughts that bubble up which criticize me for every little thing missed or botched during work hours; now, I’m getting better at acknowledging them without taking them as gospel or any sort of penetrating evaluation of myself.
By no means does this prevent me from experiencing anxiety about my classes, of course, especially in the mornings upon waking. Because of this, combined with the dropping temperature, I admittedly stay wrapped up in a small cocoon of blankets far longer than perhaps I should. This morning was one of those very mornings, due to some severe doubts about a lesson plan I had concocted the previous night (with the help of some digital materials left by Fulbrighters past) on an infamous yet quintessential element of American television: infomercials.
I am not sure if my doubt was well-placed or not. On the one hand, there were a few problem classes two weeks ago, which, it turned out, were almost as anxious about me as I was about them; I was later told by a colleague that they had trouble understanding me, not meaning that I was slurring my speech or any such similar problem, but rather that the requisite vocabulary for that day’s topic–we were, essentially, discussing dialects of English, how they relate to social standing, and who controls “correct” speech–was simply too advanced for them at the time. I am now sure to beware of overestimating their language capabilities, which I still find quite surprising given they are in early high school.
On the other hand, careful to lead class according to the students’ abilities, I had conducted some very successful class sessions on the trolley problem, which certainly caused some deal of eye-rolling. By and large, though, students were at least listening to our discussion, if not actively engaging in it. Several even spent precious minutes between classes to discuss a bit more with me. Most of this was done in English, making me feel at least somewhat confident that I was in fact doing my job.
Into my leather messenger bag I stuffed my laptop–absolutely necessary for the infomercial lesson–and looked at my watch. 8:08 AM. I had spent too much time in my warm bed and even warmer shower, now leaving only twelve minutes to make it to class. During my power-walk to school, I sort of resolved myself to whatever outcome my infomercial lesson would have; sometimes, “you’re going to screw up,” and that, I think, is no satisfactory reason not to try.
I’m sure I have many more blunders ahead of me in the coming year. Today’s lessons, however, were not those blunders. I opened the lesson by stating, “Today, we will have our most important and most serious lesson on American culture of the whole year.” Their faces grew serious. Writing the word “infomercials” on the board, I said, “I’m totally joking, of course. Does anyone know what an infomercial is?” Students, somewhat confused, eyed each other. “Is it a commercial that informs?” “In theory, yes,” I replied, “but they often end up being more entertaining than informative. We’re going to watch some of these, and then you’ll make your own infomercials.” So then I showed them the masterpieces of modern civilization that are the EZ Cracker and Snuggie. Engaging the students so quickly with a task and interesting material–they found those videos to be very funny–proved effective, as they attentively listened to and made observations about the various principles of these advertisements, like starting out with a problem, introducing a perfect solution in the form of a product, and trying to rush or entice viewers to buy right away.
This discussion was brief, of course, since we had to get to the real task originally promised. I allowed the students to choose their own groups, which proved to be effective here, since each little clique had its own inside jokes or unique understandings that helped them to come up with a silly first-world problem and then market an equally silly product. I gave them the option to either write scripts or act out their infomercials; surprisingly, most were enthusiastic about acting them out, and some even did both assignments. Some ideas included:
The Nike umbrellas for shoes. “Just Do It!”
-A special cologne to attract a girlfriend to one of the group members, Miro. They even poked a small hole in the top of a water bottle to simulate spraying on too much cologne, and enlisted a girl from the class to begin flirting with Miro once the cologne had been liberally applied. The price for this cologne: “only” $200, for a limited time only.
-A utility watch that included all of a woman’s basic beauty and practical necessities, including lipstick, a hair brush, car keys, and others. The initial set-up for the product included a beautiful performance by a girl who acted as if she forgot to brush her hair, put on lipstick, and bring her car keys with her simultaneously.
-Last, but certainly not least, miniature Nike umbrellas to wear over your expensive Nike shoes to prevent them from getting wet in the rain.
Just about everyone, including myself, was keeling over with laughter. As certain groups performed, others, who originally intended to write scripts only, became enthusiastic, even demanding, about themselves performing. Class time was not something we had much of, but we did possess in abundance both fun and opportunities to practice English in a meaningful way.
I certainly make the occasional screw-up, but having the occasional success sure does help. After all, “You’re going to screw up” does not mean “You’re going to fail.” Quite the opposite, in fact; I have to take risks, risks like my infomercial lesson, like trekking across the whole country, like even coming to Bulgaria in the first place.
For me, sometimes rolling out of bed, stepping out of the shower, going and taking that risk is itself a success. But it sure is nice to have one as a follow-up too.
For those of you who miss the reference made by the title:
Despite the misadventures, if there is any one thing I regret from my journey to the northern half of this country, it is that I did not stay longer in the prominent border city of Ruse (pronounced Roo-say). Even outside of the city centre, old apartment blocks seemed somewhat better-maintained than in other parts of Bulgaria. Apartment blocks, of course, are not my primary criteria for judging a city. Ruse’s claim to esteem on my part–though I was there for only a day–is its atmosphere and architecture. There is a vibrant culture of pedestrian traffic, cafes, and many clubs that gives an air of vibrant youth to the city, yet all of this exists within the backdrop of the sort of imposing architecture which gives Ruse the title of “The Little Vienna.”
To my temporary inconvenience, however, Ruse, even with the personal appeal, is still a part of the Bulgarian transportation system, and with that necessarily comes the occasional problem. Myself and two other (totally amazing) Fulbrighters, themselves living in Ruse, had decided beforehand that we would travel to Silistra, just East along the Danube. Knowing that there was a bus heading out at 10:30am, we found a taxi and got to the station.
As we approach the bus terminals, I see a tiny white shuttle bus that could seat about 10 people, maybe 13 or so without much regard to comfort. This bus was completely full beyond rational capacity and still had about 10 people lined in a semicircle around it. We were still looking for our bus, which should be arriving soon, but I see no other active vehicles around. Possessing most of what little Bulgarian we collectively knew, my role in the group was to try and figure out what was going on and where we could buy a ticket. After some misdirections by random bystanders, I approach an information window. “Uhhm, we’d like three tickets for the 10:30 bus to Silistra, please,” I attempt to say. The man points behind us; “That bus,” he says, “you buy the ticket on the bus.”
I turn around and realize that there is no other bus here besides the sardine can of a shuttle that was already loaded up like a clown car. He was pointing to that bus. Sure enough, I circle around its front and find that it reads “RUSE -> SILISTRA.” There was no way we would ever find room on that thing for the three of us, but, disheartened, we decide to wait and people-watch just to see what’s going on.
Just after we took a seat on a bench, a woman exits the small mob lingering outside of the shuttle and walks over to us. One of my companions stands up to greet her; the approaching woman is a fellow teacher at a school in Ruse, and, as if the gods themselves sent her as help, she speaks English. She explains to us that there was a bus scheduled to go to Silistra at 8:30 that morning. Somehow, this bus never appeared, and so everyone who was waiting for the 8:30 was now making a bid for the 10:30, along with everyone else who had planned on leaving at 10:30 also. The helpful teacher explains to us that she will be on this bus and so does not have much time, but she helps me at the info desk again to ask about the next bus to Silistra. We thank her heartily and she returns to the bus, which puttered off out of the station a few minutes later.
We enter a little waiting area within the station to locate the correct window from which to buy the tickets, as there were multiple bus lines in operation. I look at the bus schedule and see the correct time and destination. “Three tickets to Silistra at 11:30, please.” “21 leva,” she says dispassionately. I put the money down on the tray–it is custom in Bulgaria to put money down on a tray first rather than to take it from someone’s hand directly–and she scoops it up slowly, printing out our tickets. I ask her where the bus will be; she mumbles something in response that sounds like numbers. “Sorry, I don’t understand,” I say. Suddenly, a sign that I imagine read “Do not disturb” gets slammed onto the window, and a shutter is pulled down. A different employee for the same company steps out of a door adjacent. Obviously somehow irritated, she yells, “HERE, HERE,” pointing at some vague location in front of the waiting room. I nod my head and acknowledge just to get out of the situation.
Waiting outside at a table, the three of us get a small snack and watch the seconds tick away, since we had at least an hour to wait. There was little room on table for our small banitsa one of us had purchased from a store inside, as all of our bags were sitting on the table; in Bulgaria, there is a superstition that leaving your bags on the floor will bring you poverty. Whether out of belief in the superstition or simply to avoid being hassled–as some Bulgarians will let you know when your bags are on the floor–we complied with the tradition.
11:30 rolls around, and I have seen no bus with our destination listed. The anxiety really starts to build for me, as I’m worried we’ll have another no-show bus and then will have to wait even further and be stuck on another crammed shuttle. I gather the courage to go to attempt asking the information desk, again, for information. “I don’t see our bus,” I say, or something like it. He fires off a few sentences with great speed, and I suppose he sees the confusion in my eyes, so he says more slowly, “It has not arrived yet.” Recalling the no-show bus, I inquire, “Will it arrive?” “Yes, I think so,” he says. Reassuring.
Fifteen minutes late, a bus reading “SOFIA -> RUSE -> SILISTRA” pulls around the corner. We all leap up and hurry to stow our baggage just so we can be on the bus and maybe sleep for the two-hour ride.
Me sitting next to the Danube in Silistra
Silistra, though fairly remote, turned out to be quite nice also. While in Ruse, I was never actually in a good position to get a look at the Danube; I got that opportunity abundantly in Silistra, where there is a whole magnificent park which stretches along the riverbank. Unlike in Ruse, we also got to see, and even thoroughly explore, several sites of old ruins, as they were open to the public, not closed off by fences or gates. It was a strange experience to be cracking jokes in modern English, a tongue which the inhabitants of these structures would never have heard even a word of, while walking through what were once their walls, all of this happening, at times, nearly two millennia after the structures had been abandoned.
Ruins, a fairly typical sight in Silistra.
We stayed at another ETA’s apartment in Silistra, still with the intent of making it to Bucharest the next day. We had some contacts in Silistra, including a cab driver who would be willing to take us across the border and into Bucharest for a flat fee, and a fairly reasonable one, at that, for both the journey there and back again. We thought this was fantastic, and set our alarms for the next morning to meet the driver.
Upon awakening, we could not see out of any windows for more than a few yards; apparently the Danube had kicked up some serious fog in the area. If you looked closely, you could actually see the particles of water vapor dancing about. We pack our things, check that we have our passports, and set foot outside. I again regretted leaving my George Mason hoodie in my apartment back in Pazardzhik, as the temperature was still chilly. After awkwardly standing around for a few minutes, the taxi driver pulls up; we pile in our bags, and we’re off to the border.
Guards at the border control peer into the cab’s windows to verify that we bear some resemblance to our passport photos. At one point, a guard, apparently not knowing what kind of a word “Colby” was, asked me if I was “Alexander” (my middle name). I nodded my head. The cab driver, also not knowing any English, decided to call me “Alex” for the rest of the trip.
Once through the border control gate, we start moving through the fog… and then suddenly stop at a line of cars. People are getting out of their cars to go into several shacks nearby or simply stroll about. We asked ourselves a lot, why aren’t we moving across the bridge? Somehow, word gets to us that it is because of the fog; there isn’t enough visibility to make it across. Us ETAs decide to step out of the car and have a gander at the area, only to discover that there is, in fact, no bridge at all; the line of cars lead up to a ramp, which ends abruptly in the Danube. Looks like we are taking a ferry across.
No less than a full hour later–cutting into our planned Bucharest time–the “ferry” meanders up to the shore, and when I say “ferry,” I mean a dinky Romanian tugboat with a rickety metal platform towed behind it (these “no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole” moments seem to be quite common for me on this trip). We run back to our taxi, and almost immediately after, the driver says, “Ah, the ticket!” and hops out to run into the nearest shack, presumably to buy the ticket for the “ferry” which he should have gotten ages ago. He hops back into the cab, and we inch forward onto the precarious platform which was to separate us from the cold waters below.
The “ferry” proved to be surprisingly stable. So stable, in fact, that as we were standing outside of the cab looking around us, we noticed a stowaway Bulgarian pigeon walking about, apparently trying to sneak across the border via our ferry. In the distance, we see another ferry approach, filled to the limit with cars just as much as ours was; among the crowd standing about we notice a familiar face. We see another ETA who was on her way back from Romania. We eagerly wave to her, and I think that was one of the most sincere and excited “Hello!” waves I have ever given.
The drive to Bucharest was long, but the roads were well-maintained, making for a smooth ride; we managed to get some shut-eye before we entered Bucharest and had to pull over to ask at least 3 other taxi drivers how to get to our destination, a hostel, since none of our Bulgarian phones worked in Romania and the hostel was located on some random side street that few people would know off the top of their heads. We pay him the agreed amount of leva for our whole trip and he speeds off, promising to meet us the next day at around noon.
If anyone has the opportunity to see Bucharest for a night, I do recommend taking that opportunity. Though, do beware of which taxi cabs you get into, as after dinner (partially consisting of some Staropramen beer on my part) and having explored some of the more important landmarks by foot, we were looking for a way to get back to the hostel. A man approached us offering a taxi (red flag #1); we looked at each other and said, “Sure.” Inside the taxi, no prices were listed (red flag #2), the meter was completely twisted to the side such that only the driver could read it (red flag #3), and the driver mentioned something about there being “night tariffs” (although a legitimate thing, they usually aren’t that much more expensive than daylight trips, and so probably would not be worth mentioning at all, especially if prices were posted: red flag #4). About a third of the way through our journey, I begin to realize that maybe, just maybe we were going to get seriously ripped off. But none of my companions seem to be alarmed, so I chalk it up to paranoia. Paranoia and beer.
In this part of the world, 83 RON (~20USD) is way too much for a cab ride a few kilometers across town. Whatever, nothing to be done about it; we scrounge together the money, get out, and settle down in our lovely hostel.
Finally came the last leg of our journey; getting back to Bulgaria. The ETA from Ruse decided she would find her own way back home by bus or train, as both myself and companion 3 had to go back to Silistra (he lives there, and I left a bag in his apartment). No point in her tagging along, really, so she heads out just before our original cab driver is supposed to meet us.
The cab driver is forty-five minutes late. I never learned why this was, but perhaps it was because of Bucharest’s horrible traffic. Anyhow, he exchanges some words with my colleague from Silistra; apparently, the servers were down at the border control in Silistra (from which we came), so if we wanted to get back home, we would have to drive all the way down to Ruse first, and from there to Silistra. Overall, a lot longer than the original, planned-upon 2 hour return leg home.
If I had not left my bag in Silistra, I could have just been dropped off in Ruse and I would have gotten home smoothly, as I had to go back to Ruse anyhow to get to Sofia, and from Sofia to Pazardzhik. This level of convenience was, of course, not available to me. The drive to Silistra seems to take forever as I begin to worry, would I arrive on time to catch a bus? I knew a bus was supposed to leave at 3:30, but there was no possibility of making that now, as we had to take a detour through Ruse first, adding at least an hour to our trip. There was one more, however, at 5pm that I might just catch. “Alex,” the driver said to me, “I think you will be successful with that bus.”
And successful I would have been, as we rolled into Silistra around 4:30. The ETA and I go into his apartment, I grab my laptop bag, and I run back to the cab to make it to the bus station.
The driver says, “Where is your friend?”
I (try to) say, “Oh, he’s not coming. He’s in his apartment, where he lives…” “What about the bill?” My heart sinks. I thought we already paid the bill for both to and from Bucharest when he dropped us off at the hostel. But I’m in a rush, so I ask him how much the bill is, figuring maybe I can just pay it myself and be on my way.
“200 leva.”
It was at this moment that I realized I would be stuck in Silistra for that Monday night. Now I had to rely on all transport going smoothly on Tuesday, as I had to be back at school by 8am on Wednesday morning.
I run back to the apartment. Out of breath, I explain that the driver is saying we owe him more money. We walk down and try to discuss with him what is going on, as my Bulgarian was not quite up to par for this task. Apparently, we were to pay him the one-time fee if he stayed in Bucharest for the night, which he did not. Instead, after dropping us off, he drove all the way back to Silistra, and so today’s fee was because he had to drive all the way back. A stupid misunderstanding. I woke up early the next morning to catch whichever damned bus was the first out of Silistra. Mentally exhausted, I slumped against the window for the entire 7+ hour ride to Sofia. From there, I managed to get a train without problems back to Pazardjik. I walked into my apartment at about 8:30pm that night, fewer than 12 hours before I was to begin classes the next morning.
And I hadn’t come up with a lesson plan.
During one of my classes the following week, we had some extra time, so I recounted an abridged version of my tale to the students. I asked, “This is about as bad as transportation gets in Bulgaria, right? So I should be able to handle anything at this point?”
A girl rose her hand. “Nah, that’s pretty average.”
I’ll have the rest of the year to find out whether or not she was joking.
(A big thanks to Angela, for housing me in Ruse and providing an emergency lesson plan, and McKinley, for housing me in Silistra. You’re the real MVPs.)
For the first few nights of living here in my apartment in Pazardzhik, I could only stare out over the whole town and towards the Rhodope mountains from my sixth-floor apartment and think:
“Where the hell am I?”
Admittedly, my anxiety was unnecessarily provoked even further by the state of my “new” home sweet home. At first, I was under the impression that this is simply how apartments in Bulgaria exist, but after some fresh insight from a few people visiting my apartment, a thorough cleaning was done of the place, which by some miscommunication had not happened according to schedule.
Still, I love the view from my apartment, even though partaking in this view brings into my line of sight some sets of clotheslines hanging just below the window, right over the street below. I have clotheslines inside too, but hanging shirts and the like outside is far preferable, since the breeze is unhindered, leaving the shirts less stiff from hanging in a totally static position inside. The issue–and a funny issue to have at all–is that, at first, the clotheslines outside filled me with a weird sense of dread and anxiety. It must have been some combination of the height and the thought of my shirts simply breaking loose and falling into the street, but every time I thought about hanging an article of clothing there, a wave of apprehension overtook me; I had never really hung clothes to dry at all, let alone outside, so I had no idea what the standard operating procedure was. Eventually, I made the leap and set out a single unimportant undershirt, which might as well have been the Soviet flag raised over the Reichstag in terms of my feeling of success, secured by a total of four clothespins. I do still own that undershirt, and I have been hanging more and more shirts out there since. Jeans, even!
Another compact victory was the purchasing of a watch. For whatever reason, last week, before school officially started, I was feeling particularly down and unmotivated. Yet, I knew that I had to have some method of timekeeping for classes; a watch seemed like a good solution, but so many doubts ran through my mind. How much would a watch even cost here? Would I be able to communicate enough in Bulgarian with a shop owner to pick one out? All of this was occurring while just sitting on a bench overlooking one of Pazardzhik’s many town squares. Eventually, I realized I could sit there all day just thinking about it, but eventually I did need a watch. So, I got up, strolled around, found a store, and purchased a fairly cheap watch. I even managed to understand that the watch came with a guarantee for a year or two. For awhile, I wore that watch like a war medal.
Not all of my adventures have been resounding victories, however. This past Tuesday, the 22nd, was Bulgaria’s official independence day. Generally, days between holidays and weekends are given off from work also, and I do not teach on Fridays, so I had a five-day weekend, Friday through Tuesday. Feeling incredibly homesick and dying to see some familiar American faces, I decided to spend it with other Fulbrighters while seeing some more of Bulgaria. I ended up connecting with other ETAs in the cities of Ruse and Silistra; some even suggested staying for a night in Bucharest, Romania, which I agreed to.
The problem is, Ruse, and Silistra especially, are both on the opposite side of the country from Pazardzhik (have a look at my map on the “About Post-Communist Colby page to see places I’ve travelled to). It is no small journey to get so far Northeast. My best bet was to take a train to the capital, Sofia, and then from there get a bus to Ruse at about 10:30am, putting me in Ruse just after lunch. Perfect, or so I thought.
I woke up at 4:30AM in Pazardzhik to get ready and catch a cab to the train station; construction was being done on the train tracks, so there was to be a bus leaving from the station at 6AM to drive us a few villages over where a train would be waiting for us. So, I arrive at the station at 5:30, manage to buy the ticket, and communicate that I am indeed aware of the bus transfer situation. Strolling outside into the chilly morning air, I begin to wait. And wait. And wait. 6:15 rolls around. Other passengers to-be are looking antsy. Normally I try not to draw attention to myself by speaking, because I then immediately reveal myself as a foreigner, but I figured I should at least find out who is going in the same direction as me. “Are we travelling to Sofia?” I ask to some older ladies. “Yes, to Sofia,” they say, eyeing me up and down a bit. I hear some chatter about about the town where the train is waiting. Meanwhile, I am only in a t-shirt–my sweatshirt was still wet from the previous night’s washing–so I stood there rubbing my exposed arms a bit. One of the ladies looks at me and says, “You don’t have a coat?” It takes me a few seconds to process the word for “coat.” “Yes, but in the apartment,” I say. “Ah, in your apartment,” she says, smiling a bit.
Eventually at around 7am, with the dawn finally starting to break, a bus meanders its way out of a side road near the station. The lady says to me, “It’s here. This one.” “This one?” I say, pointing to it. “Yes, this one.” The bus pulls up. By this point at the station, a herd of people had gathered for some bus or another and mobbed the door the bus. A short lady with a rather angry, irritated demeanor stepped down from the bus yelling Bulgarianisms incoherent to me. I looked at the bus and realized that there were already a ton of people on it, thinking, “There must be some sort of mistake!” People were handing the angry lady tickets, but for no reason obvious to me at the time, many passengers were bluntly refused entry onto the bus. Yet, the older lady I had spoken with at the station handed a ticket and hopped on. I pushed through the crowd a bit and stuck out my ticket towards the angry lady. She looked down at it, checked it off, and motioned me on. Thankfully I had boarded when I had, because this bus was getting full quickly. The angry lady then re-boards, shouting very loudly in Bulgarian down the rows of seats. People are shifting around, some are moaning, some are getting off the bus, and I have zero clue what is going on. I see people on the bus whom I overheard purchase tickets to Sofia, however, so I just hide in the corner of my seat and pray to various deities that everything will be okay.
I nervously eyed Google Maps throughout the whole bus ride to verify that we were indeed headed in the direction of the promised town, Belovo, where a train was awaiting us… if there was even still a train, since we were well over an hour late. We stopped in a town halfway to Belovo; the lady who had initially assisted me got off, but most others stayed on. I was tempted to follow her, but thankfully I remained true to my herd instinct, continuing to find refuge in the corner between my seat and the bus wall, and the bus set off again. Eventually, we reach something resembling a train station, and Google tells me that I am indeed in Belovo. Yet another older lady, who happened to be sitting next to me and somehow deduced that I was a foreigner, I suppose, turns to me and says, “We’re here.” I thank her, hurriedly grab my stuff, and powerwalk through the herd to find two trains opposite each other on the platform. I pick the one with open doors, get into a second class car, and find some people already waiting. I pick an older couple towards the back and ask if we’re going to Sofia. They affirm: “Da.”
A few minutes later, the train begins to roll out. I look down at my phone. The time, as I recall, is at least 8am. I was supposed to be nearing Sofia’s city limits by now. Still, since I had already completed a leg of the train journey by bus, in theory the train ride should be shorter, and I should make my early bus from Sofia to Ruse.
Well, that never happened. The train ride still took a full 2+ hours, despite having completed 26km of the journey already. My bus was to leave at 10:30 am. Again, I nervously eyed Google Maps tracking how much distance I had left until we got to Sofia’s main train station, which, conveniently, is next to the bus station. The time ticked away with each tiny stop we had to make at various dilapidated neighborhood train stations in the Sofia area. The train pulled into the station around 10:20. I figured just maybe I could make the bus.
I hurry to the bus station, only to see a bus with a prominently displayed “SOFIA > RUSE” sign already loading up its last passengers and getting ready to close its doors. This, of course, required me to go into the station, look at the schedule, find the next bus to Ruse (which thankfully was only a bit over two hours later), and communicate to the cashier that I wanted this ticket. I went to a cafe opposite the university and the Nevski cathedral for awhile, and returned to the station for the next bus without incident.
With some difficulty, a group of us figured out how to get tickets for the bus out of Ruse to Silistra the next morning.
(There is much more to this tale of travel; I might put up a part 2 in the near future!)
“From Moscvu?” the taxi driver said, attempting some broken Russian.
“No, I’m American.”
I paid my 10 leva fare and stepped out of the taxi, the driver hopping out to help me remove my bags from the trunk. I was glad to be out of the van, as our relationship was somewhat awkward; upon exiting the airport, a man had come up to me, presumably–but maybe not–from a taxi, and just reached for my bags. I’m in a totally new country, and it is hot as hell outside. Despite anxiety and the desire to just go with the flow, I just ignored, turned, and walked the opposite direction for a few steps, until a man at the designated taxi kiosk pointed to the grabby stranger. He was to be my driver to the hotel. Super.
Despite the blissful reprieve from heat and anxiety upon my arrival, and the following flopping on the bed in the hotel room, awkward situations were certainly not behind me. Meeting with another ETA, we approached a restaurant; looking to sit down and in typical American custom, he stated our party size, “Два (two).” The waitress looked puzzled and replied, “Да (yes)…?” Most of my Bulgarian was escaping me–including the word for “eat”–so we tried some gesturing with no success. Having sufficiently botched the social encounter, we turned around and left to look for another venue where perhaps our embarrassment would not be known.
More awkwardness ensued at the post office. This time, I went with a different ETA, the objective being to procure enough stamps to send off fifty postcards total, twenty-five each. The window at the desk open, my partner motioned me in to talk, as I had the best working (though by no means well working) Bulgarian. I try to get out, “We want postal stamps for fifty postcards.” The man just sighs and says in English, “You want stamps for fifty cards?” My companion holds up an example of a postcard. “For Europe? Or USA?” We say the latter. He nods his head and walks around to get stamps, and returns with several pages’ worth. Well over fifty stamps total. I look at the numbers on the stamps; there were at least fifty stamps of 1.30 leva, and a myriad of others. Anxiety begins to build as I realize there is no way that we have enough money to pay. We had only brought 50 leva or so total, thinking that stamps for postcards would be cheap. I see the total on the screen. “105.50 ЛВ.” She and I sift through our wallets pointlessly, and then hold up what we have. The man sighs again and says, “There is ATM across street. I will charge the items, but you just come back in next hour to pay.” We braved a quick jaywalk across the road and were back in five minutes, walking out with four different sheets of stamps.
These are some of the more memorable social situations; the ETA orientation process has begun, and it isn’t exactly brutal, but fairly tiring for someone newly arrived and still acclimating. The day after I landed was the only one for me without orientation obligations, so I spent that exploring Sofia, the photographical results of which can be found HERE.
After a long day of orientation training, we were taken to a restaurant in the mountains above Sofia to eat and see some Bulgarian folk performances. As I’m being funneled through the gorgeous stone walls and nicely decorated tables, some men in black suits with fancy earphones catch my eye, but in my brain it gets chalked up to some random important person being in another part of the restaurant. Eventually, I just sort of drift to an empty table to which we are vaguely being motioned. Just after I sit down, a man in a polo and jeans approaches our table; everyone gets up and shakes his hand for introductions. I wasn’t quite sure who he was or what was going on, but he seemed nice, so I went with it. He goes to sit down when another gentleman swiftly approaches him and says, “Ambassador, your security detail,” pointing to the empty seat directly to my right, “wants you to sit on that side of the table.”
My heart jumps.
A million worries rush through my head. What do I talk about? Will I be cutting my food the right way? Will I have to tackle an assassin to the ground?
Turns out, Ambassador Moore was quite likable, and casual, too. I also got to sit next to Eric Halsey, creator of the Bulgarian History Podcast; being between those two in conversation was super interesting, and not terribly awkward. For once, I felt somewhat at ease, perhaps because of the section we were sitting in which was under the open sky.
Eventually, after many glasses of wine and “Na Zdrave!” toasts, some performers in traditional Bulgarian dress danced, not incredibly fluidly, but I suppose that is tradition. I bobbed my head to the rhythm. Eventually, lights started to dim and drums began playing. A small bonfire, which I had previously seen in a small round pit and had wondered about the purpose thereof, had since disintegrated into coals. This was, as promised to us, to be used for traditional walking on the coals. The coals having been spread evenly across the shallow pit, the performers held up some sort of prop (hard to see what it was), lowering it and then holding it up into the air over and over again in front of the pit, which much resembled an incredibly starry sky, but orange and of varying hues as opposed to discrete white blips. An extended camcorder flash lit up the stage; the main performer stopped what he was doing, holding up his hand and giving a stern look towards the light’s owner. The flash turned off.
All the beholders, including myself, squeezed as close as possible to the show. Then, suddenly, the performer breezed straight across the coals and onto the stone floor, seemingly taking care to not spend too long getting burnt. Performer two did the same, each quickly walking in arcs across the circular pit. Without much notice, one performer went and picked up a young lady from our group and carried her across the still glowing coals. As I was taking this in, I only thought to myself:
I’d rather do that than deal with all these other awkward social situations.
My view from my first hotel room as of about 06:00Hand-painted icon I bought from a woman named Maria who loves to paint and sometimes sells her products outside of the Nevski cathedral.
Sitting at an intersection with the stark glare of red traffic lights temporarily halting my passage, my friend asked me this question, which, even in the calmest of circumstances, I never really quite know how to answer; the night’s festivities and my impending future, though by no means negative, were not exactly calming.
“Half of me hasn’t even registered that it’s happening,” I respond, “while the other half is just… ‘Woah, what am I doing?'”
That night, my friends were throwing a fairly impromptu going-away party in my honor. In six days, I was to board a plane and leave the US for a period of ten months. My destination: Bulgaria, where I am to serve as an assistant teacher of English at a local high school. Given that this is my first extended stay outside of my home country–my only other trip outside the country was to Paris for a week or two, and with a loving aunt and uncle who were fluent in French, at that–this is going to be a big deal in my life. Further, 10 months is a long time to live without seeing friends and family.
To do what little can be done to prepare for those 10 months, my mother insisted that she stop by to help me pack. I was reluctant at first, until I was informed that I have no idea how dress pants are to be correctly folded (my folding method made perfect sense to me). The first trial of my suitcase setup is currently sitting in the corner of my increasingly bare bedroom, complete with appropriately folded pants. There is a strange feeling I get in turning around and gazing at the contents of the suitcase, which were formerly stacked neatly in a dresser or hung up in my closet, now crammed into the limited space provided. Yet I had wondered up to what point would I still feel like none of this was happening, that I was in a dream or that I was just waiting to hear that there was a bureaucratic blunder and that Colby, in fact, was not intended to take this journey. That feeling is not the feeling I get when I see that mostly-packed suitcase resting expectantly in the corner.
I was afraid that there would never come a time when that surreal mindset would give way. Would I always be waiting to be hit by the reality of the situation, but never actually experience that psychological impact that, yes, this was happening to me? I had known of my plans months in advance, and whenever I discussed them with others, I usually felt disconnected from it all. Sometimes, I almost felt annoyed, as if we were meaninglessly conversing about something that was not real, only imaginary.
But now, seeing my packed belongings, it is almost hard to imagine that mental distance I had previously between me and what was to come. Almost.
This feeling had not passed towards the end of the party, when the friend who asked me how I was feeling hugged me goodbye and left. I could really only hug out of obligation, rather than genuine feeling, because, at the time, none of this was really happening. The situation did not change when I returned to the friends who remained and continued to have fun. None of this was really happening; I’m not going anywhere. And I felt the same way when I pulled over a blanket and drifted to sleep on the couch. Not happening.
The light of the sun entering the room awakened me, as it usually does early in the morning. I got up and began to quietly gather my things strewn about the room. Slowly, others began to meander about, either tossing in half-sleep on a sofa or themselves looking about the room for a lost cell phone or set of keys. I pat myself down: phone, check; wallet, check; keys, check. I look into my bag and see that my laptop and all related items are inside. One last thing to do. “Well, I’m leaving,” I say.
And so I approach each friend with a strong hug. With one I had shared many conversations about whatever random philosophical questions popped into his head. Another will be joining the military and I might never see him again. “We’ll miss you,” they say. And I reply that I will miss them too.
Exiting the house, I realize something is amiss. My heart feels heavy; I contemplate running back inside and telling them that I am having a heart attack, but I stop myself. I feel anxious; moreover, I feel sad. And that is when “This isn’t happening” turned into “This is happening,” when I realized that I would be without my best friends for nearly a year, that I would not get to hop in a car and drive past the mountains to my old hometown every weekend to play games and hang out. That night was to be one of my last with them for a long time.
Post-Communist Colby 