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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)