Feet to the Fire

“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 06:00

Hand-painted icon I bought from a woman named Maria who loves to paint and sometimes sells her products outside of the Nevski cathedral.