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WHAT LANGUAGE WAS THIS?
To live in an area between Annapolis and the Chesapeake Bay, while the Capital of the United States, Washington, D.C. is at less than an hour driving distance, is not a bad living location. During the day, I often take a walk, not a power walk, an enjoyment walk. Occasionally, a little deer will jump on the road and stare at me. Then hide in the woods fully aware that if I fall, he will be responsible for any medical bills. I follow a trail, which I consider "mine." Plenty of fully equipped bike riders and joggers with gadgets from head to toe pass by me. I am trying to ignore them, but the loud "Coming to your left!" "Coming to your right!" always confuses me. With my disease, it takes time to figure out who and where is the voice coming from.
One day, as I was walking happily, I reached the crossroad, where I usually make a right turn. The path becomes very narrow with tree branches touching your head. As I was making the turn, I saw a man in his 20's running on "my path." The way my brain cells connected was: "He is supposed to move to the left and give me some extra space. Otherwise, we will bump into each other. He chose not to give the lady (me) the right of way. It does not take long to make me angry. I can make even my medications angry. The second he passed by me, I said in Bulgarian a word, a bad, bad word. I have no clue how this word found its way into my mouth. Surely, it is not a word a lady will use under any circumstances. I must have said this word loud. The guy stopped and sat down in a strange position. He stayed like this for a few seconds, like trying to protect himself, then turned around and said: "You must be from Bulgaria?" I smiled. He smiled. I sat down. Then we both laughed, just like that, in the middle of the tiny path, ignoring all the "nice" American words coming in our direction.
One day, as I was walking happily, I reached the crossroad, where I usually make a right turn. The path becomes very narrow with tree branches touching your head. As I was making the turn, I saw a man in his 20's running on "my path." The way my brain cells connected was: "He is supposed to move to the left and give me some extra space. Otherwise, we will bump into each other. He chose not to give the lady (me) the right of way. It does not take long to make me angry. I can make even my medications angry. The second he passed by me, I said in Bulgarian a word, a bad, bad word. I have no clue how this word found its way into my mouth. Surely, it is not a word a lady will use under any circumstances. I must have said this word loud. The guy stopped and sat down in a strange position. He stayed like this for a few seconds, like trying to protect himself, then turned around and said: "You must be from Bulgaria?" I smiled. He smiled. I sat down. Then we both laughed, just like that, in the middle of the tiny path, ignoring all the "nice" American words coming in our direction.
How can one expect to meet a Bulgarian boy on a tiny trail far from a big city? And how can a lady have such a potty mouth?
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| Picture by Frank Bryan |
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