I fear that I may have gone a little bit over board in my canning this past summer/fall. But as last night I heard that a few years back, the lev got so inflated that all one check was able to buy was six loaves of bread, I think that to have too much canned goods is a good things. I recently did an inventory, and here are the results:
11 jars of tomatoes
9 jars of peaches
9 jars of jellies, assorted
7 jars of pickles
3 jars of babagunosh,
6 jars of pumpkin,
2 jars of applesauce
And keep in mind that "winter" has been here for a month already. Sometimes I think that the jars are multiplying under my table. They do have a lot of privacy down there, so I can never really tell.
As some of you may know, last year I had a guest that I really couldn't see. My apartment is infested with holes that have been cut for smoke pipes, but since I don't have a wood burning stove, they have been wallpapered over, or in the case of my kitchen, a cabniet has been put up to block it. I don't think that anything has been done to the outside portion of the pipe, because last winter, I had what I like to think of as a feral guineua pig. Of course, due to the cabniet blocking the entrance, he couldn't get out, I couldn't get at him, and we had about an inch to stare at each other in frustrated (at least on my part) stalemate. He blithely went being the neat beast he was. Unfortunetly, this meant that he cleaned his hole rather often. You can imagine what exactly needed cleaning in his hole. That ended up on my counter. Ew. I had by that time, explored the contents of my medical kit and found the answer to pretty much all problems here. Medical Tape. It sticks to walls, it sticks to people, it stuck to the bottom edge of the cabneit and the "droppings" stuck to it. Thankfully, I haven't had to apply that messure this year, yet. Hopefully the cat will make threatening enough noises that he will tremble in his little furless feet, and find another pipe to nest in. Or not. Either way, I'm ready for him.
Sunday, December 07, 2003
Saturday, December 06, 2003
I fear that I may have gone a little bit over board in my canning this past summer/fall. But as last night I heard that a few years back, the lev got so inflated that all one check was able to buy was six loaves of bread, I think that to have too much canned goods is a good things. I recently did an inventory, and here are the results:
11 jars of tomatoes
9 jars of peaches
9 jars of jellies, assorted
7 jars of pickles
3 jars of babagunosh,
6 jars of pumpkin,
2 jars of applesauce
And keep in mind that "winter" has been here for a month already. Sometimes I think that the jars are multiplying under my table. They do have a lot of privacy down there, so I can never really tell.
As some of you may know, last year I had a guest that I really couldn't see. My apartment is infested with holes that have been cut for smoke pipes, but since I don't have a wood burning stove, they have been wallpapered over, or in the case of my kitchen, a cabniet has been put up to block it. I don't think that anything has been done to the outside portion of the pipe, because last winter, I had what I like to think of as a feral guineua pig. Of course, due to the cabniet blocking the entrance, he couldn't get out, I couldn't get at him, and we had about an inch to stare at each other in frustrated (at least on my part) stalemate. He blithely went being the neat beast he was. Unfortunetly, this meant that he cleaned his hole rather often. You can imagine what exactly needed cleaning in his hole. That ended up on my counter. Ew. I had by that time, explored the contents of my medical kit and found the answer to pretty much all problems here. Medical Tape. It sticks to walls, it sticks to people, it stuck to the bottom edge of the cabneit and the "droppings" stuck to it. Thankfully, I haven't had to apply that messure this year, yet. Hopefully the cat will make threatening enough noises that he will tremble in his little furless feet, and find another pipe to nest in. Or not. Either way, I'm ready for him.
11 jars of tomatoes
9 jars of peaches
9 jars of jellies, assorted
7 jars of pickles
3 jars of babagunosh,
6 jars of pumpkin,
2 jars of applesauce
And keep in mind that "winter" has been here for a month already. Sometimes I think that the jars are multiplying under my table. They do have a lot of privacy down there, so I can never really tell.
As some of you may know, last year I had a guest that I really couldn't see. My apartment is infested with holes that have been cut for smoke pipes, but since I don't have a wood burning stove, they have been wallpapered over, or in the case of my kitchen, a cabniet has been put up to block it. I don't think that anything has been done to the outside portion of the pipe, because last winter, I had what I like to think of as a feral guineua pig. Of course, due to the cabniet blocking the entrance, he couldn't get out, I couldn't get at him, and we had about an inch to stare at each other in frustrated (at least on my part) stalemate. He blithely went being the neat beast he was. Unfortunetly, this meant that he cleaned his hole rather often. You can imagine what exactly needed cleaning in his hole. That ended up on my counter. Ew. I had by that time, explored the contents of my medical kit and found the answer to pretty much all problems here. Medical Tape. It sticks to walls, it sticks to people, it stuck to the bottom edge of the cabneit and the "droppings" stuck to it. Thankfully, I haven't had to apply that messure this year, yet. Hopefully the cat will make threatening enough noises that he will tremble in his little furless feet, and find another pipe to nest in. Or not. Either way, I'm ready for him.
Today I took a walk.
Now, this may not seem too surprising, but considering the manner in which it was done, it is something truely remarkable.
To be more presice, I strolled.
Here's the story:
I went to Kurdjali, the nearest big town, which really isn't all that big. However, it does have an Office 1 superstore, so for all of you who think that I live in the sticks, it simply ain't true.
The weather was great. After a week of being able to see nothing of the sun except for fantastic sunsets, it was out all day, and actually made the weather warm instead of frigid.
On the bus was one of my colleagues, Erhan. Erhan was going to Kurdjali to spend the night before he went to Plovidiv to take a test the next day. We traveled together.
Once we got to Kurdjali, instead of splitting up, we decided to go get some coffee. Big surprise, I know. But, instead of walking quickly as I usually do, because of some weird thing that makes me go about life as quickly as possible, We strolled.
One step at a time. Then another. I had to fight against the leisurely pace at first, but then it became easier.
Strangely enough, when I slowed down, the town became more interesting. The people, who usually seemed really dour and not happy were all smiling. I felt like I was in a fairy tale.
It was fun.
I doubt that I will be able to walk like that again, just because I know that I'm usually in a rush, but today was good.
Enough with the sentiment, I know.
Now, this may not seem too surprising, but considering the manner in which it was done, it is something truely remarkable.
To be more presice, I strolled.
Here's the story:
I went to Kurdjali, the nearest big town, which really isn't all that big. However, it does have an Office 1 superstore, so for all of you who think that I live in the sticks, it simply ain't true.
The weather was great. After a week of being able to see nothing of the sun except for fantastic sunsets, it was out all day, and actually made the weather warm instead of frigid.
On the bus was one of my colleagues, Erhan. Erhan was going to Kurdjali to spend the night before he went to Plovidiv to take a test the next day. We traveled together.
Once we got to Kurdjali, instead of splitting up, we decided to go get some coffee. Big surprise, I know. But, instead of walking quickly as I usually do, because of some weird thing that makes me go about life as quickly as possible, We strolled.
One step at a time. Then another. I had to fight against the leisurely pace at first, but then it became easier.
Strangely enough, when I slowed down, the town became more interesting. The people, who usually seemed really dour and not happy were all smiling. I felt like I was in a fairy tale.
It was fun.
I doubt that I will be able to walk like that again, just because I know that I'm usually in a rush, but today was good.
Enough with the sentiment, I know.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
While all of you were eating Turkey and Sweet Potatoes this past weekend, I was off having the second part of my Thanksgiving Adventure. For those of you who missed it, it involved many, many hours of travel, on buses and trains, many bad or even wrong directions, a waitress/taxi driver, a broken phone, and sock coffee. While many of those things didn't happen this year, (sad. I was really looking forward to some coffee strained thru a sock. It's good. Alyse knows how to clean her socks and clean them well.)
So, in a short little thing, as I am exhausted from this weekend, here goes:
A lingually confused man who swore that Chicago was only 50 kilometers from Niagra Falls. Despite the instance of Meghan, who is from Chicago, that this was not true, he bet us a bottle of whiskey. We declined.
A parade of live chickens being carried down the street by their feet. It was just funny to me.
A side stepped water balloon.
A stalker dog. The dog followed Meghan and I from the center pretty much to Alyse's front door. Whenever we stopped to let it pass, he would go up ahead, then lurk behind a tree to get back behind us. Even when we ducked into a shop, he sat down and waited for us. Luckily, an old man came and chased him in circles until he ran away. It was freaky in a funny way.
A second water balloon. This was a surprise attack and the target was hit. Oops. Did I mention that it was cold here? It's cold here.
A day of cooking things and eating things. Our complete menu: A tofurkey, two lasangas, pumpkin soup, fruit stuffed pumpkin, cauliflower, spinach salad, walnut loaf, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce (Thank you Margret's Mom!) and bread. And about 7 bottles of wine between 12 people. Also, for desert, two apple pies, a pumpkin pie, and a cheese cake made with Happy Cow cream cheese. It was very happy.
The restaurant we ate all of this food at supplied a very strange singer. He had white hair, glasses, and sang selections from really random people. Kevin and I even waltzed.
A fish of a different sort. Alyse has a wall full of fish that people paint whenever they come over. Our friend Adam painted a really bad Orca. Our friend Kevin, as a joke, outlined a larger fish who was going to eat Adam's fish. Adam got huffy, and Kevin painted an egg instead. However, after both had left, Margaret painted the outline in. So now, there is a bad Orca about to be eaten by an invisible eel monster. The soap opera of Alyse's fish wall!
So that was pretty much my weekend. I spent a lot of time cooking, a lot of time traveling, a lot of time laughing with my friends, a lot of time cleaning, a lot of time and even more time eating. But, since it was a vegetarian Thanksgiving, it was a lot of veggies. That makes it all okay, right?
So, in a short little thing, as I am exhausted from this weekend, here goes:
A lingually confused man who swore that Chicago was only 50 kilometers from Niagra Falls. Despite the instance of Meghan, who is from Chicago, that this was not true, he bet us a bottle of whiskey. We declined.
A parade of live chickens being carried down the street by their feet. It was just funny to me.
A side stepped water balloon.
A stalker dog. The dog followed Meghan and I from the center pretty much to Alyse's front door. Whenever we stopped to let it pass, he would go up ahead, then lurk behind a tree to get back behind us. Even when we ducked into a shop, he sat down and waited for us. Luckily, an old man came and chased him in circles until he ran away. It was freaky in a funny way.
A second water balloon. This was a surprise attack and the target was hit. Oops. Did I mention that it was cold here? It's cold here.
A day of cooking things and eating things. Our complete menu: A tofurkey, two lasangas, pumpkin soup, fruit stuffed pumpkin, cauliflower, spinach salad, walnut loaf, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce (Thank you Margret's Mom!) and bread. And about 7 bottles of wine between 12 people. Also, for desert, two apple pies, a pumpkin pie, and a cheese cake made with Happy Cow cream cheese. It was very happy.
The restaurant we ate all of this food at supplied a very strange singer. He had white hair, glasses, and sang selections from really random people. Kevin and I even waltzed.
A fish of a different sort. Alyse has a wall full of fish that people paint whenever they come over. Our friend Adam painted a really bad Orca. Our friend Kevin, as a joke, outlined a larger fish who was going to eat Adam's fish. Adam got huffy, and Kevin painted an egg instead. However, after both had left, Margaret painted the outline in. So now, there is a bad Orca about to be eaten by an invisible eel monster. The soap opera of Alyse's fish wall!
So that was pretty much my weekend. I spent a lot of time cooking, a lot of time traveling, a lot of time laughing with my friends, a lot of time cleaning, a lot of time and even more time eating. But, since it was a vegetarian Thanksgiving, it was a lot of veggies. That makes it all okay, right?
Friday, November 21, 2003
I believe that I'm the happiest person in Bulgaria at the moment. While I was walking to buy opera tickets today, I stumbled across a cafe. While anyone knows that the usual cafe/city block ratio in Sofia is about 25/1, this may not suprise you. But, this was an honest to goodness, almost Starbuckian type cafe. I mean, they had mochas, lattes, steamers, iced coffee, crosiants, muffians, brownies, and that was about all I noticed before I went into spasms of estacy. I, of course, got a mocha, and it was the best mocha, indeed the only mocha, that I've had since leaving the good old U.S. of A. I believe that the happiness will last at least until I go see the new Matrix movie, which I've heard mixed reviews on. Have a happy weekend!
Thursday, November 20, 2003
I have a confession to make. I have an addiction. It is not something that I ever planned on becoming addicted to, and even as I type I'm aware of its grossness.
I do this habit mainly in my home, but I've been known to take it to the streets, especially as I'm walking to my counterpart's cafe. I haven't done it at school yet, but after school, I almost directly go for a hit.
I don't think that many people here have noticed. Well, obviously the ones that I do it in front of in the streets, but I doubt that they would comment on it, as they do it as frequently as I do. In fact, they like doing it in pairs or even more.
The habit has affected me physcially yet, although I do have to be careful of my nails, and sometimes it leaves spots on my teeth. Nothing that a quick swipe of my trusty toothbrush can't take care of.
Yes. It is true. I can hide it no longer. Every afternoon, after a long, stressful day of teaching Bulgarian children, I come to my apartment, feed the cat, and pour myself a bowl full of sunflower seeds.
Then, I sit and I crack them open with my teeth until they are no more.
I'll understand if this disgusts you. It disgusts me a little too. I can only hope that one day, I will be able to find someone to share this habit with. Sunflower seed addictions, once you've gott 'em, are tough to crack. Ha.
So, my friend Heidi wanted to respond to a previous message about her own experiances with strange things in her apartment:
Hey, I read your Blog about TC. Did I ever tell you my apartment when I first moved in had fleas? Yes, the apartment. A few days after moving in I had little red bites all over my lower legs, and boy do they itch like hell. If you looked close to the floor you could see them hopping around. This was before we got our two kittens. So we bought some flea bombs, evacuated the apt., and bombed the place out -- bam, no more fleas. The weird-little-inch-worm population were attracted to the bombs though, because when we came back there were hundreds of little dead inchworm thingies all over the floor around each of the bombs. Yick. Then we got our kittens, and guess what, they came with fleas, so we had to give them flea baths, and finally our experience with fleas was over. Now we don't have fleas or inchworms, but our basement is infested with clear, mutated spiders. They mutated from the flea bombs probably, a new, poison resistant species. They haven't taken over our apartment upstairs though, which is good, just beware if you go down to do laundry...
I do this habit mainly in my home, but I've been known to take it to the streets, especially as I'm walking to my counterpart's cafe. I haven't done it at school yet, but after school, I almost directly go for a hit.
I don't think that many people here have noticed. Well, obviously the ones that I do it in front of in the streets, but I doubt that they would comment on it, as they do it as frequently as I do. In fact, they like doing it in pairs or even more.
The habit has affected me physcially yet, although I do have to be careful of my nails, and sometimes it leaves spots on my teeth. Nothing that a quick swipe of my trusty toothbrush can't take care of.
Yes. It is true. I can hide it no longer. Every afternoon, after a long, stressful day of teaching Bulgarian children, I come to my apartment, feed the cat, and pour myself a bowl full of sunflower seeds.
Then, I sit and I crack them open with my teeth until they are no more.
I'll understand if this disgusts you. It disgusts me a little too. I can only hope that one day, I will be able to find someone to share this habit with. Sunflower seed addictions, once you've gott 'em, are tough to crack. Ha.
So, my friend Heidi wanted to respond to a previous message about her own experiances with strange things in her apartment:
Hey, I read your Blog about TC. Did I ever tell you my apartment when I first moved in had fleas? Yes, the apartment. A few days after moving in I had little red bites all over my lower legs, and boy do they itch like hell. If you looked close to the floor you could see them hopping around. This was before we got our two kittens. So we bought some flea bombs, evacuated the apt., and bombed the place out -- bam, no more fleas. The weird-little-inch-worm population were attracted to the bombs though, because when we came back there were hundreds of little dead inchworm thingies all over the floor around each of the bombs. Yick. Then we got our kittens, and guess what, they came with fleas, so we had to give them flea baths, and finally our experience with fleas was over. Now we don't have fleas or inchworms, but our basement is infested with clear, mutated spiders. They mutated from the flea bombs probably, a new, poison resistant species. They haven't taken over our apartment upstairs though, which is good, just beware if you go down to do laundry...
Friday, November 14, 2003
It truely is a day for celebrations. First, The Cat and I are somewhat at peace, and maybe even better, there is a real toliet at school! Yippie! That's right, no longer is there a porcilein hole in the ground. I can now relieve myself without fear of falling or other grossness that you probably don't want to hear about. I was very excited. I don't think that any of you can understand unless you've actually used a Turkish toliet, and the one that was at school was not a shining example of one.
Secondly, The Cat and I have finally had a break through in our relationship. Today, for the very first time, I was allowed to pet him, without prior hissing (on his part, of course) ON MY BED. That's right. We have breached the only-pet-me-on-the-refridgorator-truce we had reached, and I might, just might, now be able to pet him in two different places. This leaves me hope. Eventually, I hope to be able to walk into a room without him running and hiding. It's a big hope, but hey, shoot for the moon, right? I'm just happy about the cuddling we did. It was nice. Then, after I got mad at him for making noise during a migrane and had locked him in the (rather chilly) kitchen, he ran directly for my bed when I finally let him out. It made me feel a little bit better. Just a bit.
Other than that, it is pretty darn cold here. I can tell, not only by the themostate in the town center, but just by walking out of my living/sleeping area into the cooking/bathing area. It seriously drops twenty degrees (that'd be farinheit) between the two. I think that the previous paragraph was made possible by both TC and I trying to get as close to Bertha the heater as possible without singeing ourselves.
Consequently, I know if I'm dressed warm enough for school if I can stand being in the kitchen without running for more layers. It's just about right, especially in the morning. Layers are my savior at the moment. If I get warm teaching, I can take off a sweater or three, but I know that the moment I step out into the hallway, I'd better put them back on, because the same principle applies at school as my apartment. Where people spend most of their time is warm, otherwise you'd better have full parka gear going for you. BRRRR!
So that's pretty much all. I have a super fun weekend planned that involves winterizing my apartment, correcting half a semester worth of journals, and canning pumpkin. Mmmm. Pumpkin. It's so good! Definately going to be the best part of the weekend.
Secondly, The Cat and I have finally had a break through in our relationship. Today, for the very first time, I was allowed to pet him, without prior hissing (on his part, of course) ON MY BED. That's right. We have breached the only-pet-me-on-the-refridgorator-truce we had reached, and I might, just might, now be able to pet him in two different places. This leaves me hope. Eventually, I hope to be able to walk into a room without him running and hiding. It's a big hope, but hey, shoot for the moon, right? I'm just happy about the cuddling we did. It was nice. Then, after I got mad at him for making noise during a migrane and had locked him in the (rather chilly) kitchen, he ran directly for my bed when I finally let him out. It made me feel a little bit better. Just a bit.
Other than that, it is pretty darn cold here. I can tell, not only by the themostate in the town center, but just by walking out of my living/sleeping area into the cooking/bathing area. It seriously drops twenty degrees (that'd be farinheit) between the two. I think that the previous paragraph was made possible by both TC and I trying to get as close to Bertha the heater as possible without singeing ourselves.
Consequently, I know if I'm dressed warm enough for school if I can stand being in the kitchen without running for more layers. It's just about right, especially in the morning. Layers are my savior at the moment. If I get warm teaching, I can take off a sweater or three, but I know that the moment I step out into the hallway, I'd better put them back on, because the same principle applies at school as my apartment. Where people spend most of their time is warm, otherwise you'd better have full parka gear going for you. BRRRR!
So that's pretty much all. I have a super fun weekend planned that involves winterizing my apartment, correcting half a semester worth of journals, and canning pumpkin. Mmmm. Pumpkin. It's so good! Definately going to be the best part of the weekend.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Let me take this opportunity of relitve calmness/nothing new in my life to tell you all a little bit about the BUlgarian school system. Other than the fact that there are teachers, and there are students, there is relatively little the same about the two.
Also, I feel the need to celebrate a little. We finally have a final schedule, in the eight week of school, and for the fourth time. I'll see how long it lasts. Another reason to celebrate is the arrival of the Dnevknitsi. These are the books that teachers use to record absentences, grades, and any other relavant information. It was a tough month without these.
First off, I do not have a classroom. In fact, no one does. This means that I have to find my students, where ever they may be. This is helped a little by the fact that, most of the time, the students do have their own classroom. However, it is the other 30 % of the time that is the problem. Then, I have to wander around the school, sometimes all four stories of it, to find a classroom that is free to take over for that period.
Second, let me explain how this class thing works. Each student, instead of just being in 10th grade, for example, is in instead asigned a parralell to be in. This means that there is 10A, 10B, and 10V. (the Bulgarian Alphabet runs a little differently than ours.) Each paralell has their own classroom. But, within each class, there are different tracks for second languages. Thus, half of 10A might be learning English as a first foriegn language, the other half French, and therein the need for an extra classroom. What makes matters worse is the requirement for a second forgein language as well. Ick.
Now for the faculty. Teachers are only required to be at school for those periods they teach and the fifteen minutes before. With the way my schedule works most days, this means that I get to have about five cups of expresso while I'm waiting for my classes. Can we say caffine overload, we sure can.
So, now for the school day. There are about 7 class periods a day. I say about, because each day has a different schedule, and I'm not just talking day A and Day B here. I mean every day of the week has a different schedule. Each teacher has an assigned number of classes to teach in the week. For example, I have to teach two groups of 11B class seven hours a week, but 12B is only gifted with my presence for 3 times a week. Now is the fun part. Remember how there are only 7 periods schedulded a day, and I have to teach 14 periods of English for 11B? (Two groups*Seven hours=fourteen hours) I have only seven hours, total, schedled for those groups. This means that I get to schedule seven hours outside of the school day to teach these classes. Some days, those poor, poor girls have to be in class from 7:45am to 4:00pm, STUDYING.
Are you ready for an example? Let's take today. (I'm writing this during my "lunch break".) I teach first period on Tuesdays. I get to school at 7:30, with my cup of coffee, and sit around the teacher's lounge. When the second bell rings, I grab the dnevnek, and walk upstairs to my 11B, group A class. (We are presently *just* opening doors, or buying stuff. Lots of fun.) The bell rings, and I go back to the teacher's lounge. I wait the ten minutes for the next class to begin, then I go get coffee with the other teachers who don't have second period. The discussion is about a teacher who just got a new car, and consiquently, paid for the coffee. After forty-five minutes of this, I head back to the teacher's room, and correct some tests. Third period, which starts at 9:35, I teach 12B. They are without a doubt, the most challenging class ever. Not because it is hard to teach them, they justl like to ask why and I need a reason for everything. The old, because I'm the teacher and you're a student excuse is running pretty thin. We learned about the phrasal verbs take and put. You try explaining what "to take for granted" means. It's tough.
After third period, it is big break time. This means that the students have twenty minutes to go buy lunch or breakfast, smoke if they are so inclined, and get rather chilly in this cold weather. Fourth and Fifth period are mine to do what I wish, and I wish to inform ya'll about my day. I'll go back for 6th period, at 12:30, to once again, *just* teach 11B, group A, this time for two hours in a row. Luckily, Tuesday is not a ten period day for them, so they get to go home, and I get to rush over to the daycare/preschool center for a half hour with some rambuncious 5 year olds. A half hour is pretty much all the energy that I have for them. I get them *just* after nap and snack, lucky me.
So, that is about all for me, this week. Next week, I get to start teaching adult English lessons, so that will be an extra hour twice a week. Do you understand why I only teach four days a week? I need the extra day on the weekend to get my energy back.
Oh yes. The Cat is still here, and still cranky. Somehow, all of the toys I give him end up in the bathroom drain. I just don't understand it.
Also, I feel the need to celebrate a little. We finally have a final schedule, in the eight week of school, and for the fourth time. I'll see how long it lasts. Another reason to celebrate is the arrival of the Dnevknitsi. These are the books that teachers use to record absentences, grades, and any other relavant information. It was a tough month without these.
First off, I do not have a classroom. In fact, no one does. This means that I have to find my students, where ever they may be. This is helped a little by the fact that, most of the time, the students do have their own classroom. However, it is the other 30 % of the time that is the problem. Then, I have to wander around the school, sometimes all four stories of it, to find a classroom that is free to take over for that period.
Second, let me explain how this class thing works. Each student, instead of just being in 10th grade, for example, is in instead asigned a parralell to be in. This means that there is 10A, 10B, and 10V. (the Bulgarian Alphabet runs a little differently than ours.) Each paralell has their own classroom. But, within each class, there are different tracks for second languages. Thus, half of 10A might be learning English as a first foriegn language, the other half French, and therein the need for an extra classroom. What makes matters worse is the requirement for a second forgein language as well. Ick.
Now for the faculty. Teachers are only required to be at school for those periods they teach and the fifteen minutes before. With the way my schedule works most days, this means that I get to have about five cups of expresso while I'm waiting for my classes. Can we say caffine overload, we sure can.
So, now for the school day. There are about 7 class periods a day. I say about, because each day has a different schedule, and I'm not just talking day A and Day B here. I mean every day of the week has a different schedule. Each teacher has an assigned number of classes to teach in the week. For example, I have to teach two groups of 11B class seven hours a week, but 12B is only gifted with my presence for 3 times a week. Now is the fun part. Remember how there are only 7 periods schedulded a day, and I have to teach 14 periods of English for 11B? (Two groups*Seven hours=fourteen hours) I have only seven hours, total, schedled for those groups. This means that I get to schedule seven hours outside of the school day to teach these classes. Some days, those poor, poor girls have to be in class from 7:45am to 4:00pm, STUDYING.
Are you ready for an example? Let's take today. (I'm writing this during my "lunch break".) I teach first period on Tuesdays. I get to school at 7:30, with my cup of coffee, and sit around the teacher's lounge. When the second bell rings, I grab the dnevnek, and walk upstairs to my 11B, group A class. (We are presently *just* opening doors, or buying stuff. Lots of fun.) The bell rings, and I go back to the teacher's lounge. I wait the ten minutes for the next class to begin, then I go get coffee with the other teachers who don't have second period. The discussion is about a teacher who just got a new car, and consiquently, paid for the coffee. After forty-five minutes of this, I head back to the teacher's room, and correct some tests. Third period, which starts at 9:35, I teach 12B. They are without a doubt, the most challenging class ever. Not because it is hard to teach them, they justl like to ask why and I need a reason for everything. The old, because I'm the teacher and you're a student excuse is running pretty thin. We learned about the phrasal verbs take and put. You try explaining what "to take for granted" means. It's tough.
After third period, it is big break time. This means that the students have twenty minutes to go buy lunch or breakfast, smoke if they are so inclined, and get rather chilly in this cold weather. Fourth and Fifth period are mine to do what I wish, and I wish to inform ya'll about my day. I'll go back for 6th period, at 12:30, to once again, *just* teach 11B, group A, this time for two hours in a row. Luckily, Tuesday is not a ten period day for them, so they get to go home, and I get to rush over to the daycare/preschool center for a half hour with some rambuncious 5 year olds. A half hour is pretty much all the energy that I have for them. I get them *just* after nap and snack, lucky me.
So, that is about all for me, this week. Next week, I get to start teaching adult English lessons, so that will be an extra hour twice a week. Do you understand why I only teach four days a week? I need the extra day on the weekend to get my energy back.
Oh yes. The Cat is still here, and still cranky. Somehow, all of the toys I give him end up in the bathroom drain. I just don't understand it.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Today, the mystery of the missing drawer was solved, most satisfactorily, if one wishes to know.
If you are wondering why I was so concerned about a silly drawer that had gotten itself lost somewhere, it is because I only “own” two. And one of those is only accessible from 7:30 to 5 everyday, so it is not the most convenient for the placement and storage of one’s index cards, walkman, GSM charger, and so on. The drawer that got itself lost was the only one in my apartment, so it was rather vital.
How does one go about losing one’s drawers? Well….let’s not get to much into that, and we’ll stick to how my drawer got stolen.
First, I better say that this drawer is a rather shoddy piece of craftsmanship that I managed to break by tugging on it gently, as on is wont to do with drawers. First, it blew its lid, or whatever the front part of a drawer is called, then, sadly, the bottom fell out. As space is limited in my apartment, and out of an unwillingness to separate the drawer from the rest of the desk, I propped it up next to it. Then, I merrily went about my way to Sofia to hang out with some friends.
Here’s where the plot thickens. Prepare to gasp in outrage. When I came back, it was gone!
*GASP*!
Of course, I didn’t really notice that it was missing until about a week afterwards. I’m busy, what can I say? I know I’m heartless for failing to notice the plight of one sickly little drawer, but I accept it, you should too.
I finally figured out what had happened last week. About the same weekend that the drawer went missing, I had some repairmen over from school to fix the door that had locked me in and my leaky toilet. (No, you don’t want to know. It’s that disgusting.) I reckon that while the repairmen were they, they somehow stole my drawer! The outrage of it all! Drawer thieves, in this time of drawer-need!
Anyways, I asked around at school, and today, Alena, the repairman manager (There’s a title in Bulgarian that just doesn’t translate. This is close enough.) bought me my drawer, newly, at least to me. (The thing was covered in dust. It had probably been lying forgotten in some corner while I was anxiously searching high and low. Or at least at school.)
Yippie! I was once again at my quota of two drawers in Bulgaria. However, the problem was now that both of them were at school. As much as I hated the idea, I was going to have to walk my drawer home. How embarrassing!
But, I survived, and my walkman, my stationary, and yes, even my cell phone charger are once again safe and sound in their rightful drawer.
The moral of the story is to protect your drawers. You never know when you will need them.
If you are wondering why I was so concerned about a silly drawer that had gotten itself lost somewhere, it is because I only “own” two. And one of those is only accessible from 7:30 to 5 everyday, so it is not the most convenient for the placement and storage of one’s index cards, walkman, GSM charger, and so on. The drawer that got itself lost was the only one in my apartment, so it was rather vital.
How does one go about losing one’s drawers? Well….let’s not get to much into that, and we’ll stick to how my drawer got stolen.
First, I better say that this drawer is a rather shoddy piece of craftsmanship that I managed to break by tugging on it gently, as on is wont to do with drawers. First, it blew its lid, or whatever the front part of a drawer is called, then, sadly, the bottom fell out. As space is limited in my apartment, and out of an unwillingness to separate the drawer from the rest of the desk, I propped it up next to it. Then, I merrily went about my way to Sofia to hang out with some friends.
Here’s where the plot thickens. Prepare to gasp in outrage. When I came back, it was gone!
*GASP*!
Of course, I didn’t really notice that it was missing until about a week afterwards. I’m busy, what can I say? I know I’m heartless for failing to notice the plight of one sickly little drawer, but I accept it, you should too.
I finally figured out what had happened last week. About the same weekend that the drawer went missing, I had some repairmen over from school to fix the door that had locked me in and my leaky toilet. (No, you don’t want to know. It’s that disgusting.) I reckon that while the repairmen were they, they somehow stole my drawer! The outrage of it all! Drawer thieves, in this time of drawer-need!
Anyways, I asked around at school, and today, Alena, the repairman manager (There’s a title in Bulgarian that just doesn’t translate. This is close enough.) bought me my drawer, newly, at least to me. (The thing was covered in dust. It had probably been lying forgotten in some corner while I was anxiously searching high and low. Or at least at school.)
Yippie! I was once again at my quota of two drawers in Bulgaria. However, the problem was now that both of them were at school. As much as I hated the idea, I was going to have to walk my drawer home. How embarrassing!
But, I survived, and my walkman, my stationary, and yes, even my cell phone charger are once again safe and sound in their rightful drawer.
The moral of the story is to protect your drawers. You never know when you will need them.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
So, as I referred to in my previous entry, I now have a cat. Or, more acutretly, the cat lives in my apartment, and tries, but fails, to defend his territory against me.
I got this cat, not by going to a pet shop, or even to a humane society (the concept just doesn't exist here), but rather through a janitoress at school asking me if I wanted a kitten. When I said yes, she said she would deliver one at 4 on Monday, and then asked if I wanted a boy or a girl cat. Unsure of whether this was a joke or not, I said, boy cat. Much easier for a boy cat to become an it cat. Thus made, I made sure that I was indeed home at the appointed time, but just because.
So, 4 came, and sure enough, there was a knock on the door. But, because the apartment next door to me is undergoing some renovation involving knocking at odd hours of day and night, I ignored it at first. People here generally go for the doorbell first thing. This woman did not. Finally, I realize that my name is accompanying the knocking, and go to answer. There is an iron gate installed in front of my door, to prevent the rampant, wanton, non-existant robberies in my town from getting into my apartment. Rather than waiting for me to unlock this gate, the woman procedes to try to stuff this very frightened, very dirty male kitten through the bars. Naturally, the cat does not like this, and starts fighting. I run to get my keys, and actually get it unlocked, but the woman finds a different place to stuff the cat through, and I then had a very surly, very filthy, very scrawny kitten in my apartment.
Because I hadn't been completely certain that this woman was serious in her kitten giving, I didn't have a lot of kitten supplies on hand. I did however, have some cat food left over from my previous attempt at having a kitten (it jumped out the window, or got lost in some other, mysterious way, my second week of ownership), as well as flea shampoo, and some flea spray. I was really concerned about fleas. They really itch when one is bitten. I put the last two items to good use, and then I had a very scrawny, shaky, and skinny cat. I didn't know if he could handle solid food yet, so gave him a bowl full of milk and ran to get some real supplies.
Probably needless to say, the bath definatley did not help our relationship turn into a wonderful thing. He proceeded to hiss at me whenever our paths crossed. Since I live in a small apartment, this was often, or about whenever I went into the kitchen. In fact, after week 5 of our living together, he still does this. However, I would like to briefly touch upon some high, or at least interesting, points in our relationship.
*About a week after I got him, I managed to hang on to him long enough to rub his belly, which my friend Meghan swears will turn any cat into mush. After a while, he did, indeed, turn to mush, which meant that he started purring. After a moment or two of this, he starts hacking. I think that this was his first attempt at the business, and so he had to clear his throat. However, he still does this. Also, I find him in my plastic bag full of plastic bags. I think that I may have a thing for cats committing suicide in my apartment. It's rather sad.
*Week two: I came home from Sofia with a prize: A hunk of Swiss cheese. Divine. (There isn't even a word in Bulgarian for cheese. It's really sad. Swiss is a prize, worth defending.) Somehow, the cat got into this delightful treat, and ate about half of it. The cat then found itself thrown out of the apartment into the scary world of my breezeway. (And believe me, is it ever breezy!) He didn't seem to know what to do with his new found freedom, and began to cry. I relented, and gave him a stern talking to. He agreed not to eat my cheese, as long as I didn't leave it out.
*Week three: I ignore him. This worked really well. He started making other noises, besides the hissing. I was impressed that he was so vocal.
*Week four: We come to a truce. I can touch him only when he is sitting on top of the refrigorator. Although he hisses, he does not claw, bite or otherwise threaten personal harm. This turns into a nightly cuddle fest for about approximetly a half an hour, or until my bladder tells me it's time to move. As soon as I get up from my chair, he no longer recognizes me.
*Week five: I have trick or treating, which involves having people in my house. I think he's forgotten about it, but I'm still on the look out for Tigher-like consiquences. (Ask Katie if you don't understand that.)
Oh, and in case you were wondering, he is no longer bony, but still needs some beefing up. And his name for the moment is TC. As in "The Cat." I like being imaginative, don't you?
I got this cat, not by going to a pet shop, or even to a humane society (the concept just doesn't exist here), but rather through a janitoress at school asking me if I wanted a kitten. When I said yes, she said she would deliver one at 4 on Monday, and then asked if I wanted a boy or a girl cat. Unsure of whether this was a joke or not, I said, boy cat. Much easier for a boy cat to become an it cat. Thus made, I made sure that I was indeed home at the appointed time, but just because.
So, 4 came, and sure enough, there was a knock on the door. But, because the apartment next door to me is undergoing some renovation involving knocking at odd hours of day and night, I ignored it at first. People here generally go for the doorbell first thing. This woman did not. Finally, I realize that my name is accompanying the knocking, and go to answer. There is an iron gate installed in front of my door, to prevent the rampant, wanton, non-existant robberies in my town from getting into my apartment. Rather than waiting for me to unlock this gate, the woman procedes to try to stuff this very frightened, very dirty male kitten through the bars. Naturally, the cat does not like this, and starts fighting. I run to get my keys, and actually get it unlocked, but the woman finds a different place to stuff the cat through, and I then had a very surly, very filthy, very scrawny kitten in my apartment.
Because I hadn't been completely certain that this woman was serious in her kitten giving, I didn't have a lot of kitten supplies on hand. I did however, have some cat food left over from my previous attempt at having a kitten (it jumped out the window, or got lost in some other, mysterious way, my second week of ownership), as well as flea shampoo, and some flea spray. I was really concerned about fleas. They really itch when one is bitten. I put the last two items to good use, and then I had a very scrawny, shaky, and skinny cat. I didn't know if he could handle solid food yet, so gave him a bowl full of milk and ran to get some real supplies.
Probably needless to say, the bath definatley did not help our relationship turn into a wonderful thing. He proceeded to hiss at me whenever our paths crossed. Since I live in a small apartment, this was often, or about whenever I went into the kitchen. In fact, after week 5 of our living together, he still does this. However, I would like to briefly touch upon some high, or at least interesting, points in our relationship.
*About a week after I got him, I managed to hang on to him long enough to rub his belly, which my friend Meghan swears will turn any cat into mush. After a while, he did, indeed, turn to mush, which meant that he started purring. After a moment or two of this, he starts hacking. I think that this was his first attempt at the business, and so he had to clear his throat. However, he still does this. Also, I find him in my plastic bag full of plastic bags. I think that I may have a thing for cats committing suicide in my apartment. It's rather sad.
*Week two: I came home from Sofia with a prize: A hunk of Swiss cheese. Divine. (There isn't even a word in Bulgarian for cheese. It's really sad. Swiss is a prize, worth defending.) Somehow, the cat got into this delightful treat, and ate about half of it. The cat then found itself thrown out of the apartment into the scary world of my breezeway. (And believe me, is it ever breezy!) He didn't seem to know what to do with his new found freedom, and began to cry. I relented, and gave him a stern talking to. He agreed not to eat my cheese, as long as I didn't leave it out.
*Week three: I ignore him. This worked really well. He started making other noises, besides the hissing. I was impressed that he was so vocal.
*Week four: We come to a truce. I can touch him only when he is sitting on top of the refrigorator. Although he hisses, he does not claw, bite or otherwise threaten personal harm. This turns into a nightly cuddle fest for about approximetly a half an hour, or until my bladder tells me it's time to move. As soon as I get up from my chair, he no longer recognizes me.
*Week five: I have trick or treating, which involves having people in my house. I think he's forgotten about it, but I'm still on the look out for Tigher-like consiquences. (Ask Katie if you don't understand that.)
Oh, and in case you were wondering, he is no longer bony, but still needs some beefing up. And his name for the moment is TC. As in "The Cat." I like being imaginative, don't you?
Saturday, November 01, 2003
It is official. I have some of the sweetest students in the world. What, you require proof, you who do not believe? Well, here it is.
Being as this Friday was Halloween, I decided to fulfill one of the objectives of Peace Corps, and do some culture switiching. Bulgarians do not celebrate Halloween, but they have heard of it, due to the plethora of American Culture outlets, such as TRL and the whole "Halloween" series. I introduced my students to Trick or Treat.
I did this by bringing it up in class, going over some of your basic Halloween vocabulary, had a discussion about what is meant by "trick", as opposed to "treat", and invited them to practice their new found knowledge by their very own practice run, mainly my apartment, from 7 to 9 on Friday night. Although costumes were breifly mentioned in the discussion, I did not make them a requirement of my trick or treating.
So, I busily begin making preparations. Namely, making pumpkin cookies, hanging lame "Happy Halloween" signs on my door, and drawing a face on a baby pumpkin I had bought in the bazar. (The reason I didn't carve the pumpkin was that I did that last year. It took a week for the blisters to heal. Bulgarian pumpkins are tough to carve, especially little ones.) Then, I sat back in my chair with a good book, and awaited my very first, ever, trick or treaters.
I had to wait until quarter to 8, but it was worth it. Four of my girls from 11b class showed up, with one of their friends from another parallel. (More on that in a different entry; the school system here is rather different.) In all, I had a doctor, a geisha, a vampire, catwoman, and a gyspy (Yes, I know that it's not the most policially correct costume in the world, but we haven't gotten to the discrimination portion of the syllabus yet.), holding a CARVED jack-o-lantern, and a banner that read "Halloween". They also made me a very sweet card, and an original message inside. I was so impressed with them. They made me wipe a tear from my eye. They were even scary, at least according to my psycho cat, TC. They poliety ate a cookie, and took a piece of candy, and tried to drink the Kool-aid I made (I think that it wasn't sweet enough, they left about half a glass each behind). We chatted for a while, then, it was picture time. I kid you not. First I took one, then the gyspy, then catwoman, then the geisha, then the doctor, then the vampire. All of these were group pictures. Then, we moved over to the other side of the room, and began the process all over again. Then, we dragged my footstools over, and began another round. Finally, after about 15 pictures, the girls said, okay, now one with just you, the pumpkin, and the sign. Did I mention, we took pictures? Just a few.
After the photo session was over, I sat down and waited some more. After about 15 minutes, I could hear a herd of elephants tromping up the stairs. These elephants were so loud, I could tell that they were from my 12B class, otherwise known as Mariela, Gylnaz, Polia, Irena, George and Rasheed. I invited them inside, and they took off their shoes, and left them in the hallway. They were not in costume. The girls politely declined the cookies, and grabbed one piece of candy. George grabbed one piece of candy, and one cookie. Rasheed, on the other hand, had brought along a bag, and grabbed a handful of candy, and a cookie. I just wasn't selling those cookies, no matter what. I felt saddened. We chatted, and they left, to go about their merry, non-costumed, way.
And I was left with a mess, a jack-o-lantern, and a plateful of cookies.
Sometimes, it's hard to play trick or treat hostess. This wasn't one of them.
By the way, I haven't seen the cat since.
Being as this Friday was Halloween, I decided to fulfill one of the objectives of Peace Corps, and do some culture switiching. Bulgarians do not celebrate Halloween, but they have heard of it, due to the plethora of American Culture outlets, such as TRL and the whole "Halloween" series. I introduced my students to Trick or Treat.
I did this by bringing it up in class, going over some of your basic Halloween vocabulary, had a discussion about what is meant by "trick", as opposed to "treat", and invited them to practice their new found knowledge by their very own practice run, mainly my apartment, from 7 to 9 on Friday night. Although costumes were breifly mentioned in the discussion, I did not make them a requirement of my trick or treating.
So, I busily begin making preparations. Namely, making pumpkin cookies, hanging lame "Happy Halloween" signs on my door, and drawing a face on a baby pumpkin I had bought in the bazar. (The reason I didn't carve the pumpkin was that I did that last year. It took a week for the blisters to heal. Bulgarian pumpkins are tough to carve, especially little ones.) Then, I sat back in my chair with a good book, and awaited my very first, ever, trick or treaters.
I had to wait until quarter to 8, but it was worth it. Four of my girls from 11b class showed up, with one of their friends from another parallel. (More on that in a different entry; the school system here is rather different.) In all, I had a doctor, a geisha, a vampire, catwoman, and a gyspy (Yes, I know that it's not the most policially correct costume in the world, but we haven't gotten to the discrimination portion of the syllabus yet.), holding a CARVED jack-o-lantern, and a banner that read "Halloween". They also made me a very sweet card, and an original message inside. I was so impressed with them. They made me wipe a tear from my eye. They were even scary, at least according to my psycho cat, TC. They poliety ate a cookie, and took a piece of candy, and tried to drink the Kool-aid I made (I think that it wasn't sweet enough, they left about half a glass each behind). We chatted for a while, then, it was picture time. I kid you not. First I took one, then the gyspy, then catwoman, then the geisha, then the doctor, then the vampire. All of these were group pictures. Then, we moved over to the other side of the room, and began the process all over again. Then, we dragged my footstools over, and began another round. Finally, after about 15 pictures, the girls said, okay, now one with just you, the pumpkin, and the sign. Did I mention, we took pictures? Just a few.
After the photo session was over, I sat down and waited some more. After about 15 minutes, I could hear a herd of elephants tromping up the stairs. These elephants were so loud, I could tell that they were from my 12B class, otherwise known as Mariela, Gylnaz, Polia, Irena, George and Rasheed. I invited them inside, and they took off their shoes, and left them in the hallway. They were not in costume. The girls politely declined the cookies, and grabbed one piece of candy. George grabbed one piece of candy, and one cookie. Rasheed, on the other hand, had brought along a bag, and grabbed a handful of candy, and a cookie. I just wasn't selling those cookies, no matter what. I felt saddened. We chatted, and they left, to go about their merry, non-costumed, way.
And I was left with a mess, a jack-o-lantern, and a plateful of cookies.
Sometimes, it's hard to play trick or treat hostess. This wasn't one of them.
By the way, I haven't seen the cat since.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
The Boiler Epic
First off, I simply must tell you all about my bathroom. It is one room, and when you hear about European water closets, I can’t imagine anything closer than this. It has a toilet, a shower head, a little sink (think cereal box big. Or small. Your choice.), and a boiler, all crammed into a room smaller than the size of a bathroom stall at school. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. Make that the size of the smallest handicapped stall you’ve ever been in. There you go. Now you are properly prepared for the following tale of woe.
Way, way back in April, I had a slight problem with my boiler. Mainly, it had a hole in its lining that caused it to leak everywhere, making a waterfall that was waist high, and under many rusty pipes. It wasn’t very convenient for showering, so I made do with water heated on my two burner stove. Since April here was still rather cold, it was a cold and smelly couple of weeks. Finally, after much reminding, broken appointments, a used boiler that mysteriously kept getting further and further away from my town was installed in my tiny bathroom. Of course, judging by number of dents, smears of stuff, and rust stains, I believe that it was dragged behind a donkey cart through the tobacco fields and down the cobblestone center of town. It doesn’t add much to my already disgusting bathroom.
So, pretty much everything was great for several weeks. I no longer competed with my students for the B.O. award, and I could have warm hands while washing my dishes. Of course, when the janitors from school had installed the boiler, they hadn’t quite tightened one of the pipes all the way. This resulted in a slight drip that went away when the heater wasn’t actually turned on, but made the floor rather wet at night. I solved this problem by placing an empty yogurt container under it. But, as time went on, this wasn’t enough. I still ended up getting my feet wet before the shower was actually turned on. Then, it started leaking during the day, when the boiler was off, as well. My response to this latest onset was to turn the water off during the day as well. Eventually, I got another visit from my friendly neighborhood janitor, and the problem went back to the yogurt cup. Every half hour. Now, in addition to the drip, there was a little version of Old Faithful, right in my bathroom. Needless to say, I did not consider myself lucky. Instead, I was rather wet, and in my pajamas. Once again, my weird problem solving skills went into effect, and with the help of a laundry bucket and a shoe string, I tamed the spurt. I also let my vice director know about the problem, again. Hopefully, this means that she will get tired of my constant complaints about the “running river in my bathroom”. Of course, this sounds much sillier in my Bulgarian.
Luckily, there is a new manager of the repairman at school, who happens to be the girlfriend of the director’s nephew, but also a close friend of my counterpart. This means that I know who to complain to and get faster results. I only had to wait two more days. Alana, (that’s the manager’s name), and one of the repairman came, only to discover that they had bought a pipe that had “male parts,” whereas my boiler required piping with “female parts”. It involved quite a discussion, and believe me, I was pretty close to giggling, because it sounded silly as well as risqué. Anyways, Alana was dispatched to purchase a “female” piece of pipe, and I went to make coffee, which with my two burner stove is quite a process. And, wouldn’t you know it, but the boiler was done before the coffee was even warm. But, even though they left a huge, rusty mess in the middle of my bathroom floor, and I had to scrape coffee grounds out of my china cups, I now am back to the one yogurt cup a week drip. I can live with that. Maybe.
First off, I simply must tell you all about my bathroom. It is one room, and when you hear about European water closets, I can’t imagine anything closer than this. It has a toilet, a shower head, a little sink (think cereal box big. Or small. Your choice.), and a boiler, all crammed into a room smaller than the size of a bathroom stall at school. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. Make that the size of the smallest handicapped stall you’ve ever been in. There you go. Now you are properly prepared for the following tale of woe.
Way, way back in April, I had a slight problem with my boiler. Mainly, it had a hole in its lining that caused it to leak everywhere, making a waterfall that was waist high, and under many rusty pipes. It wasn’t very convenient for showering, so I made do with water heated on my two burner stove. Since April here was still rather cold, it was a cold and smelly couple of weeks. Finally, after much reminding, broken appointments, a used boiler that mysteriously kept getting further and further away from my town was installed in my tiny bathroom. Of course, judging by number of dents, smears of stuff, and rust stains, I believe that it was dragged behind a donkey cart through the tobacco fields and down the cobblestone center of town. It doesn’t add much to my already disgusting bathroom.
So, pretty much everything was great for several weeks. I no longer competed with my students for the B.O. award, and I could have warm hands while washing my dishes. Of course, when the janitors from school had installed the boiler, they hadn’t quite tightened one of the pipes all the way. This resulted in a slight drip that went away when the heater wasn’t actually turned on, but made the floor rather wet at night. I solved this problem by placing an empty yogurt container under it. But, as time went on, this wasn’t enough. I still ended up getting my feet wet before the shower was actually turned on. Then, it started leaking during the day, when the boiler was off, as well. My response to this latest onset was to turn the water off during the day as well. Eventually, I got another visit from my friendly neighborhood janitor, and the problem went back to the yogurt cup. Every half hour. Now, in addition to the drip, there was a little version of Old Faithful, right in my bathroom. Needless to say, I did not consider myself lucky. Instead, I was rather wet, and in my pajamas. Once again, my weird problem solving skills went into effect, and with the help of a laundry bucket and a shoe string, I tamed the spurt. I also let my vice director know about the problem, again. Hopefully, this means that she will get tired of my constant complaints about the “running river in my bathroom”. Of course, this sounds much sillier in my Bulgarian.
Luckily, there is a new manager of the repairman at school, who happens to be the girlfriend of the director’s nephew, but also a close friend of my counterpart. This means that I know who to complain to and get faster results. I only had to wait two more days. Alana, (that’s the manager’s name), and one of the repairman came, only to discover that they had bought a pipe that had “male parts,” whereas my boiler required piping with “female parts”. It involved quite a discussion, and believe me, I was pretty close to giggling, because it sounded silly as well as risqué. Anyways, Alana was dispatched to purchase a “female” piece of pipe, and I went to make coffee, which with my two burner stove is quite a process. And, wouldn’t you know it, but the boiler was done before the coffee was even warm. But, even though they left a huge, rusty mess in the middle of my bathroom floor, and I had to scrape coffee grounds out of my china cups, I now am back to the one yogurt cup a week drip. I can live with that. Maybe.
Saturday, October 11, 2003
Bill Paying
Today I paid my bills. While for most of you, this may conjure up images of a fairly uncomplicated, though stressful errand of maybe a half an hour, for me, it is something quite different. It involves much more foot work than simply to and from the mailbox. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mailbox in my town. Hmm.
First off, this was one of those months that I had my water read. This means that at about 6 at night, a very nice old man knocks on my door, and says, in English, “Water, Miss.” How could I resist letting someone that sweet inside? He runs some water, looks at the little dial thingee, then leaves. Sometime later, sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, a little slip of paper will appear on my door knob telling me how much I owe. When this happens, me, my good walking shoes, and the slip, go way on the other side of town to the water office. It is just that. I walk up some stairs, find the right office, and say, hey, I’m the American. How much do I owe? That is literally all it takes. I don’t need my address, my name or anything. The accent and the American claim do it for me. Just a side note—my friend Greg came to town, but didn’t know where I lived. He simply asked for the American, again, without using my name, and he was given directions to my door. Easy as that. It’s a small town. This month the water bill was 5 leva. I live cheaply, water wise.
I pay my water, then, as in times past, I truck it back to the town center to the post office. No, I’m not going to mail any thing, I’m here to pay my electric and phone bills. In the post office. Which, since the last time I was there, has undergone constructions. There is pile of boards and other random stuff piled outside, and there are many men in jumpsuits sanding, plastering, and having coffee. All in a day’s work. For the past 10 months, whenever I had to pay my electricity bill, I have to wait in a line that has no boundaries and give my address to the clerk. She shuffles through the rubber-banded slips and mumbles my total. I ask her to repeat herself. She shoves the slip through the window, and taps angrily at the total. I pass my leva under the window, collect my properly stamped piece of paper, and continue on my merry way. This time, however, because of the construction, I was informed that I can no longer pay my bill there. Instead, I have to walk to the electricity building on the other side of town, and pay with the new, improved, but much slower computerized system. But, because I am an American, and therefore not allowed to own property, my name does not come up in the computer. This calls for a trip to the municipality building, where I ask for an old receipt (more on why they have my old receipts later), instead witness angry Bulgarian being shouted into the telephone, then being told the problem has been cleared up, and having to go back. This results in more line waiting, albeit in a more organized fashion, and the electricity going out. Yes, I know. Irony in its fullest. Finally, I get to the front, where the guy remembers my name, and prints out my bill for 21 leva. I pay, get the receipt and go.
So, we’ve got my water and my electric paid. My phone bill is a snap, I just go over to the phone counter, I the post office, give my phone number, they tell me how much, I give money, and get my stamped receipt. Sometimes I have to sign something, but I’m really not too sure what’s that about. Then, it’s time for the rent. This means I have to walk to yet another building, where I climb up to the third story. Once there, I head to the first office, where I wait, joke around with the office workers there, until someone remembers how the computers work. Then, the lease agreement is printed up, with the total of 9.35 leva, and me and one of the secretaries sign it. Then, I go to the room down the hall, which oddly enough is labeled “Information”, where the nice lady tacks on a 1 lev “American Tax”, and I pay.
Phew. You would think that we are done here, now wouldn’t you? Ha. You be wrong. Part of my agreement with the municipality and Peace Corps is that I only have to pay for my phone bill. My apartment, electric, and water all have to be paid by the school/municipality. What this means is that basically, all of the running around I just did was to give money away that I am going to get back right now. Well, except for the phone money. This is why I was collecting all of those little stamped pieces of paper. At the end of the day, I take them all to yet another building, where I place them on a table, and wait for a mysterious benevolent man to approve these little slips of paper. They hadn’t been approved enough, these slips really need some self-esteem building. This usually requires quit a bit of waiting, as this man disappears regularly for coffee, trips to the bank, and who knows exactly where. Finally, he waves his magic pen, and I’m able to fulfill my role as a slip collector.
I think that I need some coffee.
Today I paid my bills. While for most of you, this may conjure up images of a fairly uncomplicated, though stressful errand of maybe a half an hour, for me, it is something quite different. It involves much more foot work than simply to and from the mailbox. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mailbox in my town. Hmm.
First off, this was one of those months that I had my water read. This means that at about 6 at night, a very nice old man knocks on my door, and says, in English, “Water, Miss.” How could I resist letting someone that sweet inside? He runs some water, looks at the little dial thingee, then leaves. Sometime later, sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, a little slip of paper will appear on my door knob telling me how much I owe. When this happens, me, my good walking shoes, and the slip, go way on the other side of town to the water office. It is just that. I walk up some stairs, find the right office, and say, hey, I’m the American. How much do I owe? That is literally all it takes. I don’t need my address, my name or anything. The accent and the American claim do it for me. Just a side note—my friend Greg came to town, but didn’t know where I lived. He simply asked for the American, again, without using my name, and he was given directions to my door. Easy as that. It’s a small town. This month the water bill was 5 leva. I live cheaply, water wise.
I pay my water, then, as in times past, I truck it back to the town center to the post office. No, I’m not going to mail any thing, I’m here to pay my electric and phone bills. In the post office. Which, since the last time I was there, has undergone constructions. There is pile of boards and other random stuff piled outside, and there are many men in jumpsuits sanding, plastering, and having coffee. All in a day’s work. For the past 10 months, whenever I had to pay my electricity bill, I have to wait in a line that has no boundaries and give my address to the clerk. She shuffles through the rubber-banded slips and mumbles my total. I ask her to repeat herself. She shoves the slip through the window, and taps angrily at the total. I pass my leva under the window, collect my properly stamped piece of paper, and continue on my merry way. This time, however, because of the construction, I was informed that I can no longer pay my bill there. Instead, I have to walk to the electricity building on the other side of town, and pay with the new, improved, but much slower computerized system. But, because I am an American, and therefore not allowed to own property, my name does not come up in the computer. This calls for a trip to the municipality building, where I ask for an old receipt (more on why they have my old receipts later), instead witness angry Bulgarian being shouted into the telephone, then being told the problem has been cleared up, and having to go back. This results in more line waiting, albeit in a more organized fashion, and the electricity going out. Yes, I know. Irony in its fullest. Finally, I get to the front, where the guy remembers my name, and prints out my bill for 21 leva. I pay, get the receipt and go.
So, we’ve got my water and my electric paid. My phone bill is a snap, I just go over to the phone counter, I the post office, give my phone number, they tell me how much, I give money, and get my stamped receipt. Sometimes I have to sign something, but I’m really not too sure what’s that about. Then, it’s time for the rent. This means I have to walk to yet another building, where I climb up to the third story. Once there, I head to the first office, where I wait, joke around with the office workers there, until someone remembers how the computers work. Then, the lease agreement is printed up, with the total of 9.35 leva, and me and one of the secretaries sign it. Then, I go to the room down the hall, which oddly enough is labeled “Information”, where the nice lady tacks on a 1 lev “American Tax”, and I pay.
Phew. You would think that we are done here, now wouldn’t you? Ha. You be wrong. Part of my agreement with the municipality and Peace Corps is that I only have to pay for my phone bill. My apartment, electric, and water all have to be paid by the school/municipality. What this means is that basically, all of the running around I just did was to give money away that I am going to get back right now. Well, except for the phone money. This is why I was collecting all of those little stamped pieces of paper. At the end of the day, I take them all to yet another building, where I place them on a table, and wait for a mysterious benevolent man to approve these little slips of paper. They hadn’t been approved enough, these slips really need some self-esteem building. This usually requires quit a bit of waiting, as this man disappears regularly for coffee, trips to the bank, and who knows exactly where. Finally, he waves his magic pen, and I’m able to fulfill my role as a slip collector.
I think that I need some coffee.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
That Usual Conversation
So, as practically any Peace Corps Volunteer in Bulgaria can tell you, there is basically one conversation that is to be had, at least for the first five times that you met someone. It may vary, but rarely is anything added. I’ve had this conversation with train conductors, taxi drivers, babas in the marketplace, colleagues, my Bulgarian dentist, waiters, waitresses, hopeful cat sources, and random Syrian guys waiting for me at possible cat sources. Just to name a few. Here’s how it goes. Me will be myself, OBP will be the other Bulgarian person.
OBP: So, where are you from?
Me: Well, I’m from America.
OBP: Really? I have a cousin in New York. Do you know him?
Me: No, actually, I don’t. I’m from Wisconsin.
OBP: Where is that?
Me: It’s the state north of Chicago.
OBP: Oh, Chicago. Do you know Hristo ______, the football player?
Me: I don’t really follow soccer. Sorry.
OBP: Why are you in Bulgaria?
Me: I’m an English teacher in Krumovgrad.
OBP: Krumovgrad? That is a small town. Do you like it?
Me: Yes, I do. It’s quiet, and small, and pretty.
OBP: Do you like Bulgaria?
Me: Yes. It’s nice. The people are nice.
OBP: Bulgaria is better than America, isn’t it?
Me: Well, some parts are better. Other parts I like about America.
OBP: Do you have a husband?
Me: No, I’m here by myself.
OBP: You’re alone?! You need to find a nice Bulgarian boy to take back to the states with you.
Me: Um, okay. I’m looking.
OBP: Okay. Do you have a mother and father?
Me: Yes, I have a mother and a father. They live in the States.
OBP: How long have you been here?
Me: For about a year.
OBP: How much longer will you be here?
Me: About another year.
OBP: Oh, that’s a long time. Have you been back to America?
Me: No, I haven’t. The tickets are very expensive.
OBP: Yes, that’s true. What do your parents do?
Me: They’re teachers like me.
OBP: You’re a teacher? Which grades do you teach?
Me: 10, 11, and 12.
OBP: Oh, the big ones. Do they listen?
Me: When they want to.
OBP: (Gales of laughter. Never knew I was this witty.) Do you drink rakiya? (rakiya is the nail polish remover they like to think is drinkable.)
Me: No, I don’t.
OBP: Wine?
Me: Yes, I drink wine.
OBP: Red or white?
Me: I like both.
OBP: Bulgaria makes the best wine. Who do you work for?
Me: I work with an organization called Peace Corps.
OBP: Who pays you?
Me: Peace Corps.
OBP: Do you get paid in dollars or leva?
Me: Leva.
OBP: Bulgaria is a very poor country.
Me: Yes, I know. It’s very sad.
So that’s the conversation that I have at least twice a month. I feel that I’m just about due for another round, so I might be adding some parts that I forgot. In fact, I’ll probably be having it when you’re reading it! Doesn’t that make you feel like you are watching a made for TV movie? I just bet it does.
So, as practically any Peace Corps Volunteer in Bulgaria can tell you, there is basically one conversation that is to be had, at least for the first five times that you met someone. It may vary, but rarely is anything added. I’ve had this conversation with train conductors, taxi drivers, babas in the marketplace, colleagues, my Bulgarian dentist, waiters, waitresses, hopeful cat sources, and random Syrian guys waiting for me at possible cat sources. Just to name a few. Here’s how it goes. Me will be myself, OBP will be the other Bulgarian person.
OBP: So, where are you from?
Me: Well, I’m from America.
OBP: Really? I have a cousin in New York. Do you know him?
Me: No, actually, I don’t. I’m from Wisconsin.
OBP: Where is that?
Me: It’s the state north of Chicago.
OBP: Oh, Chicago. Do you know Hristo ______, the football player?
Me: I don’t really follow soccer. Sorry.
OBP: Why are you in Bulgaria?
Me: I’m an English teacher in Krumovgrad.
OBP: Krumovgrad? That is a small town. Do you like it?
Me: Yes, I do. It’s quiet, and small, and pretty.
OBP: Do you like Bulgaria?
Me: Yes. It’s nice. The people are nice.
OBP: Bulgaria is better than America, isn’t it?
Me: Well, some parts are better. Other parts I like about America.
OBP: Do you have a husband?
Me: No, I’m here by myself.
OBP: You’re alone?! You need to find a nice Bulgarian boy to take back to the states with you.
Me: Um, okay. I’m looking.
OBP: Okay. Do you have a mother and father?
Me: Yes, I have a mother and a father. They live in the States.
OBP: How long have you been here?
Me: For about a year.
OBP: How much longer will you be here?
Me: About another year.
OBP: Oh, that’s a long time. Have you been back to America?
Me: No, I haven’t. The tickets are very expensive.
OBP: Yes, that’s true. What do your parents do?
Me: They’re teachers like me.
OBP: You’re a teacher? Which grades do you teach?
Me: 10, 11, and 12.
OBP: Oh, the big ones. Do they listen?
Me: When they want to.
OBP: (Gales of laughter. Never knew I was this witty.) Do you drink rakiya? (rakiya is the nail polish remover they like to think is drinkable.)
Me: No, I don’t.
OBP: Wine?
Me: Yes, I drink wine.
OBP: Red or white?
Me: I like both.
OBP: Bulgaria makes the best wine. Who do you work for?
Me: I work with an organization called Peace Corps.
OBP: Who pays you?
Me: Peace Corps.
OBP: Do you get paid in dollars or leva?
Me: Leva.
OBP: Bulgaria is a very poor country.
Me: Yes, I know. It’s very sad.
So that’s the conversation that I have at least twice a month. I feel that I’m just about due for another round, so I might be adding some parts that I forgot. In fact, I’ll probably be having it when you’re reading it! Doesn’t that make you feel like you are watching a made for TV movie? I just bet it does.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Well, the weather here has finally stopped being ridiculously hot, and it definitely feels like fall is on its way. Which means that the streets are filled with the noise of chain saws as my neighbors cut wood for their furnaces and the smell of burning peppers, as they prepare their winter supplies. I decided that I was going to put away some food for winter, because after surviving last winter on naval oranges and bendy carrots, it wasn’t going to happen again. Remembering how good my host families’ pickles were last winter, I decided to try to make my own.
Now, with that decision in mind, it should be fairly easy to follow through, right? Well, here everything is a little bit more of an adventure than it should be.
First, I had to get jars. Luckily, through the prior experience of just living and shopping here, I knew exactly where to go. My bazaar, which has everything from baby pickles freshly netted to used auto parts, from window hangings to homemade butter, from clothes to cow bells, from jars to school supplies. (forget Wal-mart, go to the bazaar. They’ll get you set up with your notebooks, pens, and everything else you may desire.) However, this wonder of a traveling department store is only on Fridays. So, I waited until the day when my town’s population swells from 7,000 to 10,000, and the Mosque across the street from my apartment broadcasted the Call to Prayer for the Muslim holy day to venture to get my jars.
The first place I tried in the bazaar didn’t have any. They only sold jars that would be ridiculous in my dorm-sized refrigerator, much less for a lone pickle-eater. Neither did the next place. I wandered among the music stall, the candy stall, the furniture stall, greeting my students, and hoping that I would find some. Finally, I wandered to some stores that I had noticed selling some odds and ends, but I never could really figure out. Sure enough, they had jars, just right for pickles. In fact, they were used, had pictures of pickles on them, and bright green lids. As they were sitting outside, I gathered them up, and went into the nearest store. And waited. And waited. And waited. No one came out to make me pay. In fact, several people wandered in and out, sometimes taking things, and no clerk ever made an appearance. I looked in the back, no one. After about 10 minutes of waiting, a man said something to me in Turkish, I replied in Bulgarian that I didn’t understand, and he answered in kind that I needed to go to the other store across the lane to check out. So, I did, and I got my jars. Then, I needed to haul my jars back to my apartment, which is on the other side of town, and up 5 flights of stairs.
So me, my jars and my tired legs and arms were in my apartment, but I still needed cucumbers. So, I made another foray into the bazaar. However, I had no idea how many went into a jar, or about how many were in a kilogram. Finally, I just pointed to a net-bag that looked about right, and asked how much it was. Right away, my vegetable lady guessed that I was going to be making pickles, and so helped me pick out dill and other necessary things that go into the pickle making process. I ended up with 6 kilos of 4 inch cucumbers, and 2 bunches of dill.
I had my jars, I had my vinegar, I had dill, and I had my pickles-to-be. I was set.
After I had lugged everything up to my apartment, I decided to get started. The directions said to boil the brine, pack the pickles into sterilized jars with dill, then pour the brine over the pickles. I looked at the pickle-less pickle jars I had bought. They didn’t look too sterilized. I got the jars sterilized, the brine boiled, (all on my 2-burner stove! and under an hour! Boy, was I impressed.) the pickles packed, and then, disaster. The lids that had come with the jars no longer had sealing power. They simply turned and turned, then turned some more. I had to rush out to get new lids, which meant trying to figure out where to buy them. A funny thing: one can get lids almost anywhere, but jars to those lids are scarce and limited. I found some plain white ones in the 3rd store I looked in, and returned to my pickling parlor, and proceeded to pickle away. I got to the 8th jar, and there were still cucumbers left. I don’t mean 2 or 4 or 10. I mean there are about 3 kilos of pickle wanna-bes sitting in my refrigerator. I could try to find more jars, but 16 jars of pickles seems a little extreme to me. I could just toss them, but I doubt the dumpster cats and dogs would eat them. Or, I could give them away.
Deciding on this last option, I went to the internet club, which is run by a married couple who also work at my school. I asked the husband if he could find a use for these cucumbers. He, in turn, offered me more jars. I told him that I had enough jars of pickles, he countered that 8 doesn’t seem like very many for all winter long. I told him that it was about 2 months worth, he thought it was more like 1 weeks worth. I reminded him that I lived alone, and he said that he would talk to his wife. This translates as, I will give you more jars, and you will be giving pickles as Christmas presents to other Peace Corps Volunteers.
Would you care for some pickles?
Now, with that decision in mind, it should be fairly easy to follow through, right? Well, here everything is a little bit more of an adventure than it should be.
First, I had to get jars. Luckily, through the prior experience of just living and shopping here, I knew exactly where to go. My bazaar, which has everything from baby pickles freshly netted to used auto parts, from window hangings to homemade butter, from clothes to cow bells, from jars to school supplies. (forget Wal-mart, go to the bazaar. They’ll get you set up with your notebooks, pens, and everything else you may desire.) However, this wonder of a traveling department store is only on Fridays. So, I waited until the day when my town’s population swells from 7,000 to 10,000, and the Mosque across the street from my apartment broadcasted the Call to Prayer for the Muslim holy day to venture to get my jars.
The first place I tried in the bazaar didn’t have any. They only sold jars that would be ridiculous in my dorm-sized refrigerator, much less for a lone pickle-eater. Neither did the next place. I wandered among the music stall, the candy stall, the furniture stall, greeting my students, and hoping that I would find some. Finally, I wandered to some stores that I had noticed selling some odds and ends, but I never could really figure out. Sure enough, they had jars, just right for pickles. In fact, they were used, had pictures of pickles on them, and bright green lids. As they were sitting outside, I gathered them up, and went into the nearest store. And waited. And waited. And waited. No one came out to make me pay. In fact, several people wandered in and out, sometimes taking things, and no clerk ever made an appearance. I looked in the back, no one. After about 10 minutes of waiting, a man said something to me in Turkish, I replied in Bulgarian that I didn’t understand, and he answered in kind that I needed to go to the other store across the lane to check out. So, I did, and I got my jars. Then, I needed to haul my jars back to my apartment, which is on the other side of town, and up 5 flights of stairs.
So me, my jars and my tired legs and arms were in my apartment, but I still needed cucumbers. So, I made another foray into the bazaar. However, I had no idea how many went into a jar, or about how many were in a kilogram. Finally, I just pointed to a net-bag that looked about right, and asked how much it was. Right away, my vegetable lady guessed that I was going to be making pickles, and so helped me pick out dill and other necessary things that go into the pickle making process. I ended up with 6 kilos of 4 inch cucumbers, and 2 bunches of dill.
I had my jars, I had my vinegar, I had dill, and I had my pickles-to-be. I was set.
After I had lugged everything up to my apartment, I decided to get started. The directions said to boil the brine, pack the pickles into sterilized jars with dill, then pour the brine over the pickles. I looked at the pickle-less pickle jars I had bought. They didn’t look too sterilized. I got the jars sterilized, the brine boiled, (all on my 2-burner stove! and under an hour! Boy, was I impressed.) the pickles packed, and then, disaster. The lids that had come with the jars no longer had sealing power. They simply turned and turned, then turned some more. I had to rush out to get new lids, which meant trying to figure out where to buy them. A funny thing: one can get lids almost anywhere, but jars to those lids are scarce and limited. I found some plain white ones in the 3rd store I looked in, and returned to my pickling parlor, and proceeded to pickle away. I got to the 8th jar, and there were still cucumbers left. I don’t mean 2 or 4 or 10. I mean there are about 3 kilos of pickle wanna-bes sitting in my refrigerator. I could try to find more jars, but 16 jars of pickles seems a little extreme to me. I could just toss them, but I doubt the dumpster cats and dogs would eat them. Or, I could give them away.
Deciding on this last option, I went to the internet club, which is run by a married couple who also work at my school. I asked the husband if he could find a use for these cucumbers. He, in turn, offered me more jars. I told him that I had enough jars of pickles, he countered that 8 doesn’t seem like very many for all winter long. I told him that it was about 2 months worth, he thought it was more like 1 weeks worth. I reminded him that I lived alone, and he said that he would talk to his wife. This translates as, I will give you more jars, and you will be giving pickles as Christmas presents to other Peace Corps Volunteers.
Would you care for some pickles?
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
So, as my last entry said, Monday was the first day of school here. So, this Monday, we had off, because it just so happens that was the Bulgarian Independence day from the Ottoman Empire. So, my friends Meghan and Alyse and I decided to meet each other for a bit of sightseeing on the last long weekend of the year until Christmas Vacation. We decided to go to Bourgas, which is a town on the Black Sea, in the south. This was a great idea, especially since I had been there before, although it was in November, and had a fairly good idea about how to get there from my town, which is very truly, in the middle of no where. Smack dab and all.
My plan of attack was simple. I would catch the 7:00 bus to Stara Zagora, which is pretty much due north of me, and the closest “big” city to mine and the target, then hopefully catch a bus that was driving from Sofia to the resort town. I got on the first bus okay, and had a fairly good nap until we pulled into Stara Z. at 10:30. Just as we reached the bus station, the bus driver shouts to the rest of the bus, asking if anyone was headed towards Bourgas. I, of course, say yes, jump up, grab my stuff, and run to the bus that was driving out of the station. I just made it. However, having been on the bus for three and a half hours already, I needed to use the bathroom, as well as having a very serious craving for something sugary. Wasn’t going to happen. At least I was on the right bus, headed in the right direction, and had a seat all to myself.
I did get to admire the scenery, as we were driving through the Thracian Plain, where the majority of Bulgaria’s grapes are grown, and it was harvest time. Finally, about a half hour outside of Bourgas, we pull over to one of the many roadside cafes, to grab a bite to eat, and I quickly ran inside to make use of the facilities. In fact, I was so quick, I was third in a line of 10. I was very proud. Then, I was even luckier: they had both snickers and kit kats. It was pure chocolaty bliss.
Back on the bus. I put an end to my bus traveling finally (or so I thought) after about 6 hours of being on a bus. I had a major case of flat butt. Anyways, I met up with Alyse and Meghan, who had gotten there the night before. (They live on train lines, the lucky so-and-sos.) They had decided that we were going to spend the day in Nessebar, a town about 30 km out of Bourgas. So back on the bus it was, but for the manageable period of 30 minutes.
We literally arrived in Nessebar with the Germans. German tourists that is. They were everywhere. We had a pair of especially cute ones following us around for a while. I hadn’t seen so many since I was in Germany. Nessebar was cute, but very geared towards tourists. There was even a sign that said, “Sorry, we are open.” We did try to correct them, but were told, well, maybe it’s not like that in AMERICAN English, but it was correct. We took pictures.
Nessebar is a tourist destination primarily because of its 11 ruins of Churches, one of which has a design of swastikas in the brickwork—not because of any anti-Semitism (the church was built in the 1330s, and symbolizes the sun and constant change). The churches were cool, but even better was the sea. It was blue, with patterns of algae and rocks that made it absolutely stunning. We walked around for a while, then caught a bus back to Bourgas, where we had a room with three beds at a baba’s house (a baba is a Bulgarian grandmother, but is used as a respectful form of address for any much older, usually batty, woman.) and had an early night.
On Sunday, we got up bright and early, at least for me. It really sucks traveling with two early birds, but coffee is cheap and plentiful. We took yet another bus to Sozopol, which is on the other side of the bay from Nessebar. It was much prettier, if only because there weren’t stands selling junk in front of all of the cool buildings. It also had a great beach, with lots of plastic-like seaweed free places. We three donned our European beachwear, and headed out to swim in the very polluted sea, and then to lay on the beach one last time. While soaking up our rays, we met some guys from our group in Peace Corps, and a really nice American girl, so we decided to get together for drinks once the sun wasn’t so good for tanning, or even staying warm. This meant that we didn’t get back to the baba’s house until 2:30, when we had decided we wanted to catch the earliest bus back to Bourgas as possible, which was at 6. We did pretty well, although we ended up taking the one at 6:30 instead.
So, this is where the real fun begins. Meghan decided to take the bus back with me, because all the buses to Sofia stopped in Stara Z. Alyse was lucky and got a bus that left at 7:30. Meghan and I, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky. There was one at 7:10, which never showed. We tried to get tickets for the one at 8, but the ticket lady told us we needed to buy them on the bus. We wait for the bus, and when it comes, everyone has a ticket, but us, and there is only one free spot open, which another kid grabbed. We wait around, hoping that the bus to Prague would go through somewhere convenient, but, of course, it doesn’t. I look in my guide book, which says there is another bus station, but it only has buses to one town. We decide to ask anyways, and found out that a bus to Stara Zagora would leave in 15 minutes at the other bus station. Of course, we are on the other side of town, and the cabbies in a tourist town such as Bourgas are notoriously scams. We start asking around. Finally, one offers 2 lev, (Other offers were 10 lev, 5 lev, and 3 lev. And we were asking in Bulgarian!) so we rush in, get to the bus station, find 1 bus, and ask if it goes to where we needed to go. It didn’t, but the busman’s aide was nice and told us to find the bus to Plovdiv. As there were no other buses, we wandered back inside and looked at the very complicated schedule. We couldn’t find Plovdiv, so we asked at the information. We were told that one was leaving shortly, so we run out of the station, across several sectors of bus station, to where a new bus had shown up. Luckily, there were 2 seats, so I got a ticket to Stara Zagora, and Meghan got one to Sofia. We piled in, and promptly fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, we were pulling over at a roadside café, just outside of Stara Z. It was the only stop in that city, so I started walking. Meghan slept on. As I was walking, I noticed the bus that had left Bourgas at 8, which apparently had broken down, with all of it’s occupants stranded at this overpriced pit stop. I walk a ways into town, when a city bus pulls up. I get on it, get let off at the center, then walk the rest of the way into the bus station, where I waited maybe an hour for the bus. I fulfilled my good deed of the day, by returning the luggage left behind by a distracted mother of two very hungry boys. Then, I got on the bus, and slept, the whole way long to little Krumovgrad, or at least until my feet were bombarded by organically grown apples.
All in all, a very good weekend.
My plan of attack was simple. I would catch the 7:00 bus to Stara Zagora, which is pretty much due north of me, and the closest “big” city to mine and the target, then hopefully catch a bus that was driving from Sofia to the resort town. I got on the first bus okay, and had a fairly good nap until we pulled into Stara Z. at 10:30. Just as we reached the bus station, the bus driver shouts to the rest of the bus, asking if anyone was headed towards Bourgas. I, of course, say yes, jump up, grab my stuff, and run to the bus that was driving out of the station. I just made it. However, having been on the bus for three and a half hours already, I needed to use the bathroom, as well as having a very serious craving for something sugary. Wasn’t going to happen. At least I was on the right bus, headed in the right direction, and had a seat all to myself.
I did get to admire the scenery, as we were driving through the Thracian Plain, where the majority of Bulgaria’s grapes are grown, and it was harvest time. Finally, about a half hour outside of Bourgas, we pull over to one of the many roadside cafes, to grab a bite to eat, and I quickly ran inside to make use of the facilities. In fact, I was so quick, I was third in a line of 10. I was very proud. Then, I was even luckier: they had both snickers and kit kats. It was pure chocolaty bliss.
Back on the bus. I put an end to my bus traveling finally (or so I thought) after about 6 hours of being on a bus. I had a major case of flat butt. Anyways, I met up with Alyse and Meghan, who had gotten there the night before. (They live on train lines, the lucky so-and-sos.) They had decided that we were going to spend the day in Nessebar, a town about 30 km out of Bourgas. So back on the bus it was, but for the manageable period of 30 minutes.
We literally arrived in Nessebar with the Germans. German tourists that is. They were everywhere. We had a pair of especially cute ones following us around for a while. I hadn’t seen so many since I was in Germany. Nessebar was cute, but very geared towards tourists. There was even a sign that said, “Sorry, we are open.” We did try to correct them, but were told, well, maybe it’s not like that in AMERICAN English, but it was correct. We took pictures.
Nessebar is a tourist destination primarily because of its 11 ruins of Churches, one of which has a design of swastikas in the brickwork—not because of any anti-Semitism (the church was built in the 1330s, and symbolizes the sun and constant change). The churches were cool, but even better was the sea. It was blue, with patterns of algae and rocks that made it absolutely stunning. We walked around for a while, then caught a bus back to Bourgas, where we had a room with three beds at a baba’s house (a baba is a Bulgarian grandmother, but is used as a respectful form of address for any much older, usually batty, woman.) and had an early night.
On Sunday, we got up bright and early, at least for me. It really sucks traveling with two early birds, but coffee is cheap and plentiful. We took yet another bus to Sozopol, which is on the other side of the bay from Nessebar. It was much prettier, if only because there weren’t stands selling junk in front of all of the cool buildings. It also had a great beach, with lots of plastic-like seaweed free places. We three donned our European beachwear, and headed out to swim in the very polluted sea, and then to lay on the beach one last time. While soaking up our rays, we met some guys from our group in Peace Corps, and a really nice American girl, so we decided to get together for drinks once the sun wasn’t so good for tanning, or even staying warm. This meant that we didn’t get back to the baba’s house until 2:30, when we had decided we wanted to catch the earliest bus back to Bourgas as possible, which was at 6. We did pretty well, although we ended up taking the one at 6:30 instead.
So, this is where the real fun begins. Meghan decided to take the bus back with me, because all the buses to Sofia stopped in Stara Z. Alyse was lucky and got a bus that left at 7:30. Meghan and I, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky. There was one at 7:10, which never showed. We tried to get tickets for the one at 8, but the ticket lady told us we needed to buy them on the bus. We wait for the bus, and when it comes, everyone has a ticket, but us, and there is only one free spot open, which another kid grabbed. We wait around, hoping that the bus to Prague would go through somewhere convenient, but, of course, it doesn’t. I look in my guide book, which says there is another bus station, but it only has buses to one town. We decide to ask anyways, and found out that a bus to Stara Zagora would leave in 15 minutes at the other bus station. Of course, we are on the other side of town, and the cabbies in a tourist town such as Bourgas are notoriously scams. We start asking around. Finally, one offers 2 lev, (Other offers were 10 lev, 5 lev, and 3 lev. And we were asking in Bulgarian!) so we rush in, get to the bus station, find 1 bus, and ask if it goes to where we needed to go. It didn’t, but the busman’s aide was nice and told us to find the bus to Plovdiv. As there were no other buses, we wandered back inside and looked at the very complicated schedule. We couldn’t find Plovdiv, so we asked at the information. We were told that one was leaving shortly, so we run out of the station, across several sectors of bus station, to where a new bus had shown up. Luckily, there were 2 seats, so I got a ticket to Stara Zagora, and Meghan got one to Sofia. We piled in, and promptly fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, we were pulling over at a roadside café, just outside of Stara Z. It was the only stop in that city, so I started walking. Meghan slept on. As I was walking, I noticed the bus that had left Bourgas at 8, which apparently had broken down, with all of it’s occupants stranded at this overpriced pit stop. I walk a ways into town, when a city bus pulls up. I get on it, get let off at the center, then walk the rest of the way into the bus station, where I waited maybe an hour for the bus. I fulfilled my good deed of the day, by returning the luggage left behind by a distracted mother of two very hungry boys. Then, I got on the bus, and slept, the whole way long to little Krumovgrad, or at least until my feet were bombarded by organically grown apples.
All in all, a very good weekend.
So, as my last entry said, Monday was the first day of school here. So, this Monday, we had off, because it just so happens that was the Bulgarian Independence day from the Ottoman Empire. So, my friends Meghan and Alyse and I decided to meet each other for a bit of sightseeing on the last long weekend of the year until Christmas Vacation. We decided to go to Bourgas, which is a town on the Black Sea, in the south. This was a great idea, especially since I had been there before, although it was in November, and had a fairly good idea about how to get there from my town, which is very truly, in the middle of no where. Smack dab and all.
My plan of attack was simple. I would catch the 7:00 bus to Stara Zagora, which is pretty much due north of me, and the closest “big” city to mine and the target, then hopefully catch a bus that was driving from Sofia to the resort town. I got on the first bus okay, and had a fairly good nap until we pulled into Stara Z. at 10:30. Just as we reached the bus station, the bus driver shouts to the rest of the bus, asking if anyone was headed towards Bourgas. I, of course, say yes, jump up, grab my stuff, and run to the bus that was driving out of the station. I just made it. However, having been on the bus for three and a half hours already, I needed to use the bathroom, as well as having a very serious craving for something sugary. Wasn’t going to happen. At least I was on the right bus, headed in the right direction, and had a seat all to myself.
I did get to admire the scenery, as we were driving through the Thracian Plain, where the majority of Bulgaria’s grapes are grown, and it was harvest time. Finally, about a half hour outside of Bourgas, we pull over to one of the many roadside cafes, to grab a bite to eat, and I quickly ran inside to make use of the facilities. In fact, I was so quick, I was third in a line of 10. I was very proud. Then, I was even luckier: they had both snickers and kit kats. It was pure chocolaty bliss.
Back on the bus. I put an end to my bus traveling finally (or so I thought) after about 6 hours of being on a bus. I had a major case of flat butt. Anyways, I met up with Alyse and Meghan, who had gotten there the night before. (They live on train lines, the lucky so-and-sos.) They had decided that we were going to spend the day in Nessebar, a town about 30 km out of Bourgas. So back on the bus it was, but for the manageable period of 30 minutes.
We literally arrived in Nessebar with the Germans. German tourists that is. They were everywhere. We had a pair of especially cute ones following us around for a while. I hadn’t seen so many since I was in Germany. Nessebar was cute, but very geared towards tourists. There was even a sign that said, “Sorry, we are open.” We did try to correct them, but were told, well, maybe it’s not like that in AMERICAN English, but it was correct. We took pictures.
Nessebar is a tourist destination primarily because of its 11 ruins of Churches, one of which has a design of swastikas in the brickwork—not because of any anti-Semitism (the church was built in the 1330s, and symbolizes the sun and constant change). The churches were cool, but even better was the sea. It was blue, with patterns of algae and rocks that made it absolutely stunning. We walked around for a while, then caught a bus back to Bourgas, where we had a room with three beds at a baba’s house (a baba is a Bulgarian grandmother, but is used as a respectful form of address for any much older, usually batty, woman.) and had an early night.
On Sunday, we got up bright and early, at least for me. It really sucks traveling with two early birds, but coffee is cheap and plentiful. We took yet another bus to Sozopol, which is on the other side of the bay from Nessebar. It was much prettier, if only because there weren’t stands selling junk in front of all of the cool buildings. It also had a great beach, with lots of plastic-like seaweed free places. We three donned our European beachwear, and headed out to swim in the very polluted sea, and then to lay on the beach one last time. While soaking up our rays, we met some guys from our group in Peace Corps, and a really nice American girl, so we decided to get together for drinks once the sun wasn’t so good for tanning, or even staying warm. This meant that we didn’t get back to the baba’s house until 2:30, when we had decided we wanted to catch the earliest bus back to Bourgas as possible, which was at 6. We did pretty well, although we ended up taking the one at 6:30 instead.
So, this is where the real fun begins. Meghan decided to take the bus back with me, because all the buses to Sofia stopped in Stara Z. Alyse was lucky and got a bus that left at 7:30. Meghan and I, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky. There was one at 7:10, which never showed. We tried to get tickets for the one at 8, but the ticket lady told us we needed to buy them on the bus. We wait for the bus, and when it comes, everyone has a ticket, but us, and there is only one free spot open, which another kid grabbed. We wait around, hoping that the bus to Prague would go through somewhere convenient, but, of course, it doesn’t. I look in my guide book, which says there is another bus station, but it only has buses to one town. We decide to ask anyways, and found out that a bus to Stara Zagora would leave in 15 minutes at the other bus station. Of course, we are on the other side of town, and the cabbies in a tourist town such as Bourgas are notoriously scams. We start asking around. Finally, one offers 2 lev, (Other offers were 10 lev, 5 lev, and 3 lev. And we were asking in Bulgarian!) so we rush in, get to the bus station, find 1 bus, and ask if it goes to where we needed to go. It didn’t, but the busman’s aide was nice and told us to find the bus to Plovdiv. As there were no other buses, we wandered back inside and looked at the very complicated schedule. We couldn’t find Plovdiv, so we asked at the information. We were told that one was leaving shortly, so we run out of the station, across several sectors of bus station, to where a new bus had shown up. Luckily, there were 2 seats, so I got a ticket to Stara Zagora, and Meghan got one to Sofia. We piled in, and promptly fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, we were pulling over at a roadside café, just outside of Stara Z. It was the only stop in that city, so I started walking. Meghan slept on. As I was walking, I noticed the bus that had left Bourgas at 8, which apparently had broken down, with all of it’s occupants stranded at this overpriced pit stop. I walk a ways into town, when a city bus pulls up. I get on it, get let off at the center, then walk the rest of the way into the bus station, where I waited maybe an hour for the bus. I fulfilled my good deed of the day, by returning the luggage left behind by a distracted mother of two very hungry boys. Then, I got on the bus, and slept, the whole way long to little Krumovgrad, or at least until my feet were bombarded by organically grown apples.
All in all, a very good weekend.
My plan of attack was simple. I would catch the 7:00 bus to Stara Zagora, which is pretty much due north of me, and the closest “big” city to mine and the target, then hopefully catch a bus that was driving from Sofia to the resort town. I got on the first bus okay, and had a fairly good nap until we pulled into Stara Z. at 10:30. Just as we reached the bus station, the bus driver shouts to the rest of the bus, asking if anyone was headed towards Bourgas. I, of course, say yes, jump up, grab my stuff, and run to the bus that was driving out of the station. I just made it. However, having been on the bus for three and a half hours already, I needed to use the bathroom, as well as having a very serious craving for something sugary. Wasn’t going to happen. At least I was on the right bus, headed in the right direction, and had a seat all to myself.
I did get to admire the scenery, as we were driving through the Thracian Plain, where the majority of Bulgaria’s grapes are grown, and it was harvest time. Finally, about a half hour outside of Bourgas, we pull over to one of the many roadside cafes, to grab a bite to eat, and I quickly ran inside to make use of the facilities. In fact, I was so quick, I was third in a line of 10. I was very proud. Then, I was even luckier: they had both snickers and kit kats. It was pure chocolaty bliss.
Back on the bus. I put an end to my bus traveling finally (or so I thought) after about 6 hours of being on a bus. I had a major case of flat butt. Anyways, I met up with Alyse and Meghan, who had gotten there the night before. (They live on train lines, the lucky so-and-sos.) They had decided that we were going to spend the day in Nessebar, a town about 30 km out of Bourgas. So back on the bus it was, but for the manageable period of 30 minutes.
We literally arrived in Nessebar with the Germans. German tourists that is. They were everywhere. We had a pair of especially cute ones following us around for a while. I hadn’t seen so many since I was in Germany. Nessebar was cute, but very geared towards tourists. There was even a sign that said, “Sorry, we are open.” We did try to correct them, but were told, well, maybe it’s not like that in AMERICAN English, but it was correct. We took pictures.
Nessebar is a tourist destination primarily because of its 11 ruins of Churches, one of which has a design of swastikas in the brickwork—not because of any anti-Semitism (the church was built in the 1330s, and symbolizes the sun and constant change). The churches were cool, but even better was the sea. It was blue, with patterns of algae and rocks that made it absolutely stunning. We walked around for a while, then caught a bus back to Bourgas, where we had a room with three beds at a baba’s house (a baba is a Bulgarian grandmother, but is used as a respectful form of address for any much older, usually batty, woman.) and had an early night.
On Sunday, we got up bright and early, at least for me. It really sucks traveling with two early birds, but coffee is cheap and plentiful. We took yet another bus to Sozopol, which is on the other side of the bay from Nessebar. It was much prettier, if only because there weren’t stands selling junk in front of all of the cool buildings. It also had a great beach, with lots of plastic-like seaweed free places. We three donned our European beachwear, and headed out to swim in the very polluted sea, and then to lay on the beach one last time. While soaking up our rays, we met some guys from our group in Peace Corps, and a really nice American girl, so we decided to get together for drinks once the sun wasn’t so good for tanning, or even staying warm. This meant that we didn’t get back to the baba’s house until 2:30, when we had decided we wanted to catch the earliest bus back to Bourgas as possible, which was at 6. We did pretty well, although we ended up taking the one at 6:30 instead.
So, this is where the real fun begins. Meghan decided to take the bus back with me, because all the buses to Sofia stopped in Stara Z. Alyse was lucky and got a bus that left at 7:30. Meghan and I, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky. There was one at 7:10, which never showed. We tried to get tickets for the one at 8, but the ticket lady told us we needed to buy them on the bus. We wait for the bus, and when it comes, everyone has a ticket, but us, and there is only one free spot open, which another kid grabbed. We wait around, hoping that the bus to Prague would go through somewhere convenient, but, of course, it doesn’t. I look in my guide book, which says there is another bus station, but it only has buses to one town. We decide to ask anyways, and found out that a bus to Stara Zagora would leave in 15 minutes at the other bus station. Of course, we are on the other side of town, and the cabbies in a tourist town such as Bourgas are notoriously scams. We start asking around. Finally, one offers 2 lev, (Other offers were 10 lev, 5 lev, and 3 lev. And we were asking in Bulgarian!) so we rush in, get to the bus station, find 1 bus, and ask if it goes to where we needed to go. It didn’t, but the busman’s aide was nice and told us to find the bus to Plovdiv. As there were no other buses, we wandered back inside and looked at the very complicated schedule. We couldn’t find Plovdiv, so we asked at the information. We were told that one was leaving shortly, so we run out of the station, across several sectors of bus station, to where a new bus had shown up. Luckily, there were 2 seats, so I got a ticket to Stara Zagora, and Meghan got one to Sofia. We piled in, and promptly fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, we were pulling over at a roadside café, just outside of Stara Z. It was the only stop in that city, so I started walking. Meghan slept on. As I was walking, I noticed the bus that had left Bourgas at 8, which apparently had broken down, with all of it’s occupants stranded at this overpriced pit stop. I walk a ways into town, when a city bus pulls up. I get on it, get let off at the center, then walk the rest of the way into the bus station, where I waited maybe an hour for the bus. I fulfilled my good deed of the day, by returning the luggage left behind by a distracted mother of two very hungry boys. Then, I got on the bus, and slept, the whole way long to little Krumovgrad, or at least until my feet were bombarded by organically grown apples.
All in all, a very good weekend.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Beginning of school festivities
Yesterday was the first day of school all around the country. It is a lot different than the usual festivities that go on in the US, so this might be interesting for you.
First off, my school, SOY Vasil Levski (a guy whose death in 1876 gave the revolutionaries the martyr they needed to throw the yoke of Turkish oppression off.), is a big, gray concrete building of 4 stories, built as a U surrounding a courtyard filled with roses and a bust of Levski. It is for grades 5 through 12, with a swimming pool that works about 3 weeks a year. A Bulgarian flag was draped out of one of the windows, and a picture of the patron was hung up as well.
The teachers were told to be at school at 8:30 sharp, so of course, when I got there at 8:30 sharp, no one was there. Everyone else slowly trickled in around 8:45, and then we sat around, wishing each other a happy first day of school. At 9:00, my counterpart Stanimira and I went outside to stand around in the cold, watching the students meet up with their friends and make their way to the courtyard. The younger students were dressed in suits and ties, or in tights and nice dresses and carrying flowers picked from their parents’ gardens to present to their teachers. The older students were dressed in jeans and shirts, or in mini skirts and fringed shirts, carrying their cell phones and looking bored. Just like the first day back home.
In the courtyard, the students lined up according to class, with the first graders standing closest to base of the U, the second, third and forth graders lining up next to the gymnasium, and then fifth through twelve grades lining across the opening to make a box. The ceremony started finally at about 10 o’clock, when the headmaster, the retired teachers in the district (there were 5), and the vice headmaster marched in. One of the gym teachers played the master of ceremonies, and started the flag marching. The color guard is made up of three twelfth grade students, two girls and a boy, dressed in black pants or skirts and white blouses. The boy carries the red Krumovgrad flag, which is trimmed with golden fringe. As the flag passed the different grades, the students were instructed by the MC to let out a “hurray”. Of course, the younger kids were much more enthusiastic about this, with it fading out near the end. Once the corps had made it’s circuit, the MC introduced the vice-headmaster, who introduced the retired teachers. These teachers were then presented with flowers by the younger children, which was very sweet. The flowers were all different colors and types, and as they were received, the former teachers hugged and kissed the givers. After this, the headmaster gave a speech, but since he had grown back his moustache, it was very hard to understand him, both for me and the others assembled. Then a group of little girls was lead out to sing, but strangely enough, the microphone was placed in front of the music, which could easily be heard without it, but the girls couldn’t be heard beyond a few tra-la-las here and there. Another Bulgarian flag was then raised on the flag pole, and the twelfth graders were asked to walk to escort the first graders to their school. Each older student walked two little ones across the courtyard, with the masses following them.
After this, the students were dismissed to their classrooms, where their class teachers would take attendance, and give out rules for the year. Also, the schedule for the first two days was given out, so the students could be some what prepared. I’m a little shaky on this, because I’m not a class teacher, so this is all by way of report from Stanimira. I got to sit once more in the Teacher’s room and wait until 12:00, when the teachers could be dismissed. This I did by leaving to go to a café and drink several cups of coffee with some other English teachers, one of whom might teach at Levski, or might teach at the other school in town, which is primarily for those boys who wish to become bus or truck drivers. He just doesn’t know yet.
As for my schedule, I am supposed to be teaching a total of 19 hours in three different classes, with seven different groups. However, for Tuesday and Wednesday, I have exactly one hour of class. It should be very interesting. I’ll keep it up dated so that you will be able to know exactly how interesting it is.
In the meantime, I need to acquire a fly swatter, as those pesky beasts have replaced the cockroaches as choice invaders of my apartment.
Yesterday was the first day of school all around the country. It is a lot different than the usual festivities that go on in the US, so this might be interesting for you.
First off, my school, SOY Vasil Levski (a guy whose death in 1876 gave the revolutionaries the martyr they needed to throw the yoke of Turkish oppression off.), is a big, gray concrete building of 4 stories, built as a U surrounding a courtyard filled with roses and a bust of Levski. It is for grades 5 through 12, with a swimming pool that works about 3 weeks a year. A Bulgarian flag was draped out of one of the windows, and a picture of the patron was hung up as well.
The teachers were told to be at school at 8:30 sharp, so of course, when I got there at 8:30 sharp, no one was there. Everyone else slowly trickled in around 8:45, and then we sat around, wishing each other a happy first day of school. At 9:00, my counterpart Stanimira and I went outside to stand around in the cold, watching the students meet up with their friends and make their way to the courtyard. The younger students were dressed in suits and ties, or in tights and nice dresses and carrying flowers picked from their parents’ gardens to present to their teachers. The older students were dressed in jeans and shirts, or in mini skirts and fringed shirts, carrying their cell phones and looking bored. Just like the first day back home.
In the courtyard, the students lined up according to class, with the first graders standing closest to base of the U, the second, third and forth graders lining up next to the gymnasium, and then fifth through twelve grades lining across the opening to make a box. The ceremony started finally at about 10 o’clock, when the headmaster, the retired teachers in the district (there were 5), and the vice headmaster marched in. One of the gym teachers played the master of ceremonies, and started the flag marching. The color guard is made up of three twelfth grade students, two girls and a boy, dressed in black pants or skirts and white blouses. The boy carries the red Krumovgrad flag, which is trimmed with golden fringe. As the flag passed the different grades, the students were instructed by the MC to let out a “hurray”. Of course, the younger kids were much more enthusiastic about this, with it fading out near the end. Once the corps had made it’s circuit, the MC introduced the vice-headmaster, who introduced the retired teachers. These teachers were then presented with flowers by the younger children, which was very sweet. The flowers were all different colors and types, and as they were received, the former teachers hugged and kissed the givers. After this, the headmaster gave a speech, but since he had grown back his moustache, it was very hard to understand him, both for me and the others assembled. Then a group of little girls was lead out to sing, but strangely enough, the microphone was placed in front of the music, which could easily be heard without it, but the girls couldn’t be heard beyond a few tra-la-las here and there. Another Bulgarian flag was then raised on the flag pole, and the twelfth graders were asked to walk to escort the first graders to their school. Each older student walked two little ones across the courtyard, with the masses following them.
After this, the students were dismissed to their classrooms, where their class teachers would take attendance, and give out rules for the year. Also, the schedule for the first two days was given out, so the students could be some what prepared. I’m a little shaky on this, because I’m not a class teacher, so this is all by way of report from Stanimira. I got to sit once more in the Teacher’s room and wait until 12:00, when the teachers could be dismissed. This I did by leaving to go to a café and drink several cups of coffee with some other English teachers, one of whom might teach at Levski, or might teach at the other school in town, which is primarily for those boys who wish to become bus or truck drivers. He just doesn’t know yet.
As for my schedule, I am supposed to be teaching a total of 19 hours in three different classes, with seven different groups. However, for Tuesday and Wednesday, I have exactly one hour of class. It should be very interesting. I’ll keep it up dated so that you will be able to know exactly how interesting it is.
In the meantime, I need to acquire a fly swatter, as those pesky beasts have replaced the cockroaches as choice invaders of my apartment.
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