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.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)