you may laugh when you hear jesse ruffes declare "i'm bringing the pool to midservice", but know one thing: if there's anything that jr is going to joke about, it's NOT bringing an inflatable pool halfway across bulgaria to be filled in a hotel bathroom and enjoyed by 6 or more of his closest friends.
yes folks, the 25th group of volunteers serving in bulgaria has completed its midservice training, administered in vratsa, our original home away from home. we were asked to examine ourselves and our service and what the potential is for the coming year, and while putting on very professional and optimistic faces, i would venture to guess that most of us were churning inside. be it because we are americans or for some other facet of our personalities, we went through those two days trying to show our best and not really addressing the things that continue to challenge us every day. this is what is still challenging me:
flippant kids, friends, acquaintances
what to eat for dinner tonight
leaving the village for a time and then adjusting when coming back
a serious lack of bacon
caffeine intake and the serious deterioration of tooth enamel
feeling effective
communication with people my age, thus, the turkish language
fleas
17 June 2010
i sat at the table in the cafe listening to yet another conversation of which i understood three sentences. i tried to make my flight swiftly and painlessly but ended up having to talk to the same stupid boys who also ask stupid questions and make stupid statements implying that they're going to pay me a house visit later. i finally escaped my the clutches of my not so caring friend and made it to where the path to my house meets the road, and i promptly slipped on the wet grass and fell directly into the eight inch rut between the concrete and the end of the walkway. i managed a quick "fuck", then let a few tears out. just lay here, i thought. at least now you have a reason to cry.
as i finally made it to the safety of my house and turned the key in the darkness i thought, how long do i have to feel this utterly incompetent? and after two years of consistently feeling inadequate, will i be a better person for having survived?
as i finally made it to the safety of my house and turned the key in the darkness i thought, how long do i have to feel this utterly incompetent? and after two years of consistently feeling inadequate, will i be a better person for having survived?
05 June 2010
goodbyes, hellos
Back in the winter an essay contest was held amongst the PC Bulgaria volunteers. The topic was migration, which sent me reeling back to my days at American U, specifically sitting in the small Honors room of the International Studies building. I was enrolled in an undergrad/grad seminar on the same topic. The grad students each had really in-depth theories and concepts, and I was so intimidated that I felt as if most of it flew over the top of my head. One girl was obsessed with biogenics and the ability to quantify things like fingerprints and the configuration of irises. We spent a lot of time talking about remittances. We covered economic hardship, war and political exile, we talked a lot about Cuba. In January when I received that prompt-- Immigration as it relates to Bulgaria-- I flashed back to that class and thought, why didn't you listen better??
I could never get a good grip on International theory, because I was always looking for the human side of it. In college I had friends from Slovakia who worked in Ocean City in the summers; I had worked with a few Guatemalan men at a pizza shop in high school. They were my idea of immigration. So when it came time to formulate some thesis for this contest, I wrote about what I understood- the people who have come in and out of my life as a result of international migratory patterns.
The essay was written in February, and after a few cold nights of sitting at my computer and reading and re-reading, it was finished. I tried to tone down my personal, i.e. fraternizing experiences, but the truth was I was writing about the boys in my village, who have ebbed and flowed back and forth between here and Paris, leaving me in their wake. When I met each of them they had already worked in France for several years, making their personal context more French. When the days came for them to leave, I was sad, but I knew it had to be. It was normal for them; it made sense.
Recently there have been rumours of when they will be coming home, for the summer holiday, or for Ramazan Bayram (Eid el-Fitr) in August, and the village has been lowly buzzing in anticipation. But the other day I got news that I simply was not expecting. One of our recent high school graduates will be leaving any day now to go to Paris and start working.
When I heard I was surprised and immediately saddened. This kid is the one you see rolling around the streets, always in the cafe, always ready to dance or make you laugh. He is my village. Now his time has come, and he must leave us all behind and start a new life far away. His departure means much more to me than any of the other boys. He is a baby taking his first few steps out into this world, alone. He has no idea what awaits him, but he has no choice but to move forward, which inevitably means moving away.
In case you're interested, here is my essay. I won the contest, by the way.
I could never get a good grip on International theory, because I was always looking for the human side of it. In college I had friends from Slovakia who worked in Ocean City in the summers; I had worked with a few Guatemalan men at a pizza shop in high school. They were my idea of immigration. So when it came time to formulate some thesis for this contest, I wrote about what I understood- the people who have come in and out of my life as a result of international migratory patterns.
The essay was written in February, and after a few cold nights of sitting at my computer and reading and re-reading, it was finished. I tried to tone down my personal, i.e. fraternizing experiences, but the truth was I was writing about the boys in my village, who have ebbed and flowed back and forth between here and Paris, leaving me in their wake. When I met each of them they had already worked in France for several years, making their personal context more French. When the days came for them to leave, I was sad, but I knew it had to be. It was normal for them; it made sense.
Recently there have been rumours of when they will be coming home, for the summer holiday, or for Ramazan Bayram (Eid el-Fitr) in August, and the village has been lowly buzzing in anticipation. But the other day I got news that I simply was not expecting. One of our recent high school graduates will be leaving any day now to go to Paris and start working.
When I heard I was surprised and immediately saddened. This kid is the one you see rolling around the streets, always in the cafe, always ready to dance or make you laugh. He is my village. Now his time has come, and he must leave us all behind and start a new life far away. His departure means much more to me than any of the other boys. He is a baby taking his first few steps out into this world, alone. He has no idea what awaits him, but he has no choice but to move forward, which inevitably means moving away.
In case you're interested, here is my essay. I won the contest, by the way.
24 May 2010
what's in the sky?
Yesterday we were on a walk around the center, just me and two friends, and their little cousin who is only 6 and is learning Bulgarian. One of my friends points up to the sky and asks in Turkish,
"What's up there?"
"Allah." the little one answers, very sure of herself.
My friend more specifically points to the only thing in the sky, the moon, and says again,
"What is that?"
"Allah! Allah!" the little girl asserts, showing her persistence and conviction.
"Ay." says my friend, the Turkish word for moon.
"Ahhh." says the little one. "Ay."
"Ee kak e na Bulgarski?" she asks, what is it called in Bulgarian?
The little girl pauses for a second or two, thinks well and finally answers, "Bog"
Because she had continued to ask "What is that, in the sky?", the little girl had defaulted to what she knew was up there -- Allah, Bog -- God. Oh yeah, and also the moon.
"What's up there?"
"Allah." the little one answers, very sure of herself.
My friend more specifically points to the only thing in the sky, the moon, and says again,
"What is that?"
"Allah! Allah!" the little girl asserts, showing her persistence and conviction.
"Ay." says my friend, the Turkish word for moon.
"Ahhh." says the little one. "Ay."
"Ee kak e na Bulgarski?" she asks, what is it called in Bulgarian?
The little girl pauses for a second or two, thinks well and finally answers, "Bog"
Because she had continued to ask "What is that, in the sky?", the little girl had defaulted to what she knew was up there -- Allah, Bog -- God. Oh yeah, and also the moon.
11 May 2010
it's official -- it's summer. i know because today i saw a first for the season-the man's capri pant. it was my colleague, and he was standing in the center. as i walked by i surveyed his outfit, and my eyes got quite a pleasant shock when i saw the denim of his trousers stop precisely 4 inches above the ankle. and then there were the mandals, more commonly known as man sandals.
it seems it was only yesterday i was shoveling snow and crying as my able bodied young male friends drove their cars by me and smiled (or even dared to laugh; curse their laziness!) and now with one nice day and the unveiling of many a bare arm and ankle, i am all at once reminded of Bulgarian Summer. today i got out my own pairs of shorts from their hiding place under my bed, and may have danced around the room when i put on my hotpants at they actually fit! a year ago, i was dying of heat exhaustion on a daily basis, covered in fleas, and gaining kilos by the minute thanks to the consistent chorus of my host mother and baba. YASH! YASH! EAT! EAT!
EAT ANOTHER DONUT!
so yeah, life really has come full circle. sometime in the next day or two a group of 80 million (but seriously, around 80) new volunteers will be landing in the Sofia airport just as scared and dumbfounded as i was a year ago. they will be transported to the same mountain resort to start their training, and by all the luck in the universe I will be there to regale them with stories of what to expect in training, in Bulgaria, and in their lives for the next two years. here's my first observation, piece of advice for them:
Bulgarian men seem to hate taking their shirts off. it gets HOT in BG, like clothes sticking to skin hot, but in general if a male here overheats he makes the effort to lift his shirt OVER his belly. just above the belly. sometimes if you are lucky, you make spot one who also lifts it over his chest, but not his head. SOMETIMES, if you have been extra good and the universe wants to reward you, you will see ONE ARM out of its sleeve while the shirt rests on the opposite shoulder. BUT VERY RARELY will you ever see a BG dude ACTUALLY TAKE THE ENTIRE SHIRT OFF.
Summer 2010.
it seems it was only yesterday i was shoveling snow and crying as my able bodied young male friends drove their cars by me and smiled (or even dared to laugh; curse their laziness!) and now with one nice day and the unveiling of many a bare arm and ankle, i am all at once reminded of Bulgarian Summer. today i got out my own pairs of shorts from their hiding place under my bed, and may have danced around the room when i put on my hotpants at they actually fit! a year ago, i was dying of heat exhaustion on a daily basis, covered in fleas, and gaining kilos by the minute thanks to the consistent chorus of my host mother and baba. YASH! YASH! EAT! EAT!
EAT ANOTHER DONUT!
so yeah, life really has come full circle. sometime in the next day or two a group of 80 million (but seriously, around 80) new volunteers will be landing in the Sofia airport just as scared and dumbfounded as i was a year ago. they will be transported to the same mountain resort to start their training, and by all the luck in the universe I will be there to regale them with stories of what to expect in training, in Bulgaria, and in their lives for the next two years. here's my first observation, piece of advice for them:
Bulgarian men seem to hate taking their shirts off. it gets HOT in BG, like clothes sticking to skin hot, but in general if a male here overheats he makes the effort to lift his shirt OVER his belly. just above the belly. sometimes if you are lucky, you make spot one who also lifts it over his chest, but not his head. SOMETIMES, if you have been extra good and the universe wants to reward you, you will see ONE ARM out of its sleeve while the shirt rests on the opposite shoulder. BUT VERY RARELY will you ever see a BG dude ACTUALLY TAKE THE ENTIRE SHIRT OFF.
Summer 2010.
09 May 2010
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