GRANDMA MARTA -- БАБА МАРТА

Picture by Toni Ti

 GRANDMA MARTA  (Баба Марта)

  

The history of Grandma Marta, or "Granny March" (in English), or Баба Марта (in Bulgarian) is a centuries-old one. In Bulgaria, there is a special holiday dedicated to her. The first of March is Grandma Marta's Day. However, since this is a purely Bulgarian holiday, I will kindly ask you to learn a few Bulgarian words. "Baba Marta." You pronounce "baba" the same way you pronounce "mama." Marta is Marta.

So, on Baba Marta's Day, Bulgarians celebrate the end of winter and the beginning of spring. They give each other martenitsi. This is a more difficult word to pronounce. I will not teach you this one. Although, I have to say, some Americans are really 'natural' as far as Slavic languages are concerned. 

The red and white figures, dolls, tassels, bracelets, interwoven threads represent some of the endless varieties of the folklore art of martenitsi one can find around this time in Bulgaria. The symbolism involved in them is health, happiness, protection from the evil spirits around. In a different story, the white is connected with snow, while red is the symbol of birth, new life. The winter ends, new life begins... 

The streets are flooded with vendors selling martenitsi these days; everyone covers as big of an area, as allowed by "the laws". You can wear them as bracelets, hang some on your car mirrors; decorate your house, place them and enjoy them anywhere you want. You can give some to friends, family, co-workers... No strings attached. "I am happy. Maybe, my little red and white token will make you happy, too! You do not need to remember to give me one next year!" The tradition is to attach them to your clothes, but no rules apply as far as martenitsi these days.

Picture by Toni Ti

I have not told your enough about this mystical Baba Marta. According to the legends, she was a grouchy, grumpy old woman, constantly bickering with her brothers. She changes her mood from one day to the next -- the same way the weather changes in the month of March. You never know what the weather will be tomorrow. You get up on the wrong side of the bed and next thing you know -- it is snowing outside. You put your winter jacket on, you look outside -- the sun is shining, you need to put a T-shirt on. She is portrayed as an old woman who gets angry easily. There are so many stories about her; she resembles characters in other European folklore, too. 

Through the years, I have not learned much about Baba Marta. I can't even make my own martenitsi. What I know with absolute certainty is that children love this holiday a lot. It is so much fun to welcome Baba Marta. 

You also have to remember, you wear your martenitsi until you are absolutely sure Spring is here -- the trees are blossoming, the global warming is no longer a threat for spring. 

My husband likes to joke that I can play the role of Baba Marta easily. I may be the real thing, only a younger one. True or not, he knows winter can come easily tonight. 

HAPPY BABA MARTA, FOLKS!!!

Picture by who else but Baba Marta!!!!!

FRIENDSHIP and DISEASE --part 2

FRIENDSHIP and DISEASE -- part 2

Pic courtesy of Ralitza Tchiorniy

This blog post is about the friends I have and about those I have lost as a result of being sick.

One beautiful day in May, I got sick. This day turned into weeks, months, years. My denial of the disease turned slowly into acceptance and realization of the good and bad the disease brought to me. Instead of reading all my beautifully written papers from the past, I finally put an implant in my head with the sign: "This was the past! Enjoy it! The good thing is that there is now!"

Some people show interest in learning about diseases for the sake of getting information. Another group is more worried, "What if it happens to me tomorrow?" The happy-go-lucky ones are 110% sure, "It will never happen to me!"

One day in May, a viral brain infection hit me. It left scars behind, but it also left me to deal with them. From hiding, to openly talking about seizures, psychological side effects, communication, feelings.... And friends. This is the road of the survivor.

You can lose friends due to all kind of diseases. Sadly, you may not even know exactly what caused their death. There may be many people around you with seizures, too. They function perfectly well, they take, or do not need medications. But, there is a group of unlucky 1/3 of the people with seizure disorders, whose seizures cannot be managed. With time, the types, the treatment techniques and side effects change.

Ignorance always remains the most difficult to fight and cure.

My story is not unique. I am one of the one third. My writing is as good as it gets with the amount of  medications I have to take in order to live. Sometimes, I ask my daughter to edit. She edited my memoir "Seize the Seizures" a number of times. In my blog, I just do my best.

With social media, the number of friends skyrockets. I take being a friend to someone much more seriously. I pick them one by one. Forgiving those who hurt me because of my disease-related deficiencies is a must. They just do not know what in God's name they are doing.

In my life with the disease, I have observed several types of friends. The friends who depart gradually, tip-toeing away from me. I call them in my memoir the "fill-in-the-gap" friends. We spend some time together. I listen to their problems more than they listen to mine, give support, and joke. I never see their friends. At some point I realize, I have been taken for a ride, but not to Starbucks. I am simply "laid off" as a friend. "Just not a good fit." This is how a business will word it. "There has been restructuring in the Friends Department."

There is another group of "Miss you" friends. They do not come to see you, or go out with you." We should get together soon!" Sounds sweet, can bring even tears. But the distance between our houses is a couple of hours. Maybe, there was a tornado, thunderstorms I slept through, raging fires, The Chesapeake Bay Bridge collapsed. Yes, that is it. "Soon" was stopped because of these unpreventable, natural events.

There is also a group of "direct offenders." They will explain with disgust how most of the "disabled people" they know are mean and needy. One cannot understand them. My advice will be: google their disease. If he is constantly ending up in your house, help him find his way home. He is lost today, you may be lost tomorrow. No one can understand you better, than the one who has already been lost.

BUT, in this world of hours, there are REAL FRIENDS. You do not need them every day, they may be busy with work, kids, grandkids, parents. I do not need to discuss anything with them. THEY KNOW.

I am fortunate to have real friends. The High School ones are very precious to me. After being in a medically induced coma, I spent time figuring out what my life was and what it is now. In the coma, the brain shuts off everything horrific in order to heal itself. The brain is smart!!! How do you live without knowing who you were? I was hungry to learn all that my friends remember. They remembered too much: I was good at math and English; I was a nerd, but had my life on the side; I was writing good love letters; I was paying close attention to what teachers were wearing -- old-fashioned clothes or stylish ones. Another one said I was smiling a lot. Not very easy-going, one said. Snappy and feisty on occasion.

While writing my memoir, everyone I knew plus some new schoolmates I got in contact with later, were getting 40-50 e-mails with questions. They never said, "I told you already." With patience, they described the same stories over and over again. Why, what, who, when, where were flying back to them. Some answers were totally irrelevant to my condition, but they answered because I asked.

When you love someone, you have a difficulty having a meaningful conversation. You stare at each other with a locked mouth. At least, this is what I think.

I went on vacation to Bulgaria. I met my friends for minutes. My timing was not planned well. The minutes were filled with kisses, touching faces, crying. I swallowed these seconds, they are in my throat even now.

I have lived long enough in U.S.A. to develop many friendships. But there are two I cherish the most. It does not matter how I met them. The connection between us is like between Winnie the Pooh and Piglet.

"Piglet sidled up Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered.

"Yes,Piglet?"

"Nothing,", said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

A.A.Milne

 

Blog Disclaimer:  All content provided on this blog is for informational purposes only. The owner of this blog makes no representations as to the accuracy or completeness of any information on this site or found by following any link on this site. Some characters are fictitious or composite. The owner of this blog will not be liable for any errors or omissions in this information nor for the availability of this information. The owner will not be liable for any losses, injuries, or damages from the display or use of this information. Everything here is true, but it may not be entirely factual. In some cases I have compressed events; in others I have made two people into one. This terms and conditions are subject to change at anytime with or without notice.

GO-ING, GOIN', GONE TO BULGARIA & BACK TO USA

GOING, GOIN', GONE TO BULGARIA & BACK 
TO USA 

Closing the chapter on a summer vacation is a tough thing to do. It is not because the sun will never shine brightly again. Fall is full of colors; winter is innocently white. 

Nature is pretty. If you take the time to look around, you will find screaming beauty. Even a family member, who never talks to you is beautiful. Maybe, you never told him he was beautiful. There must be a reason to become friends with someone on FB, too. Go back and remind yourself of this moment!

In my case, I am friends with Bulgaria. I am not referring to FB. I was born there. Even the customs officer knew it by looking at my first and middle name. My last name is American. My husband is American.

Let's start the story with Bulgaria. 

As far as my native country, I will be frank with you -- I do not read the Bulgarian newspapers, follow the news on Bulgarian TV, or attend any events bringing together the immigrants in USA. I have my reasons for it -- I try to stay away from what may create a misconception and reinforce some preconceived notions in my head. I want to keep my memories solely of the Nature and my people.

This time, just like before, my trip was not well planned, my health does not allow it. It never listens to me. 

After crossing the ocean, my husband and I made a stop in Vienna. The rest of my family lives there. 

It does not do justice to Bulgaria to be compared with one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. Besides, the story is not about Vienna. Vienna is music, culture, art, architecture, coffee and pastries (excuse me, Schnitzel)... and much more. 

If I have to choose a city to live in Europe, it will be Vienna. 

I have a big part of my heart there. I do not have the German language down, but I have always been a good student. 

The Ferris Wheel ( my all times favorite)

Whether I like the name (expat), or a visitor, or a tourist, I am one of those. I was goin' to Bulgaria. 

Upon arrival there, I experienced something totally personal.  One can call it a 'reverse culture shock'.  I go so rarely, for such a short period of time, I have to draw my conclusions about the country from a 6 day visit. I just walk on the yellow pavers and think what I did 20 years ago. Were the pavers different, or I was different. I reminisce about everything and nothing specific. A bird can make me cry, the bird on the next tree may look the same, but it will make me smile. This 'reverse culture shock' goes farther and farther as reminiscencing over the past continues.

In the country you were born, feeling "gone" is not nostalgia,  It is a date with the surreal. Have you experienced a dream, which gives you a smile and tears? I have many of those. I open one of my eyes, look around and run back into my sleep.

At the beginning, going back to Bulgaria resembled that dream. We arrived late, went to the hotel and woke up early. I put on a white dress. I wanted to look beautiful for my morning meeting with Bulgaria. We had just a few hours before driving to the Black Sea. 

We always see The Bulgarian Orthodox Church first. It never sleeps. It always waits there for me; it smells the same; it feels the same. Every time we visit the country we end up with tons of pictures from it and paintings of it from unknown artists sitting at the market closeby. 

It was Sunday; everything was closed [but the churches] and the  currency exchange place. I could not go back to the dream. The Home of God and the currency exchange place woke me up. There were many tears, but I also got a picture in a white dress. That was it.

It was time to be with family, have some nice food and travel to the beach town. 

I wrote two blog posts from my vacation. "Tasty and Testy in Bulgaria" and "The Girl & the Rufa Fish." They are both to be found on colemanwriting.blogspot.com. Those two posts are among my favorite; What upset me, shocked me, made me smile and brought joy to my heart is in there.... 

As they say in the big books, this represents different stages of my 'reverse culture shock'. 

Years from now, I will laugh and frown upon what I wrote.  

When I was living in Bulgaria I was not a close friend with the breathtaking Bulgarian mountains. I was not a mountaineer. Maybe, I never had a good friend to take me to the mountains and introduce me to them. I had one, who made going to the mountains a sprint, not a slow pace enjoyment. I truly regret not finding a real friend for mountain hikes. 

Just look at the mountain pictures of a young Bulgarian photographer --  Maya. I missed on all this beauty.

It is never too late to go back and explore, hang out with the mountains.

I live in USA. My husband was born in Colorado. He is not simply American; he loves nature; he loves mountains; he works and teaches about nature. If asked what he can't live without, he will choose me, I know it, but I will be in the tree crown. This is an envious place to be, isn't it? 

Is there someone born in Colorado, who does not love mountains? If there is one, help him! If anyone who sees them and does not 'awe' at the view, help him!

I looked back at my family albums only to realize that I appear on every picture in the mountains. Next time, I will make sure there are more mountains without me.

Our time in Bulgaria ended after 6 days. We flew back to Vienna and, finally, to USA. Tired but exulted, we did a frantic car race to pic up our third member of the family - Tiger Boy. We all felt like we have not seen each other for years. "Where have you been? I wish we were all together."

This experience makes me wonder, "where is home?" Is it where I an born? Is it where I have a family and friends? Is it where I have a house? To me, there is only one answer. 

Home is where LOVE is. If one has not found LOVE yet, he should keep looking. It comes in all shapes and forms, any season, any place, any time. You may not be able to have a house, but in your heart you have more than enough space for LOVE. This is your "Stairway to Heaven"

 

TASTY & TESTY SUMMER TRIP TO BULGARIA

 TASTY & TESTY TRIP TO BULGARIA

Going back to Bulgaria once in a while is about getting in a world I have left many years ago. I keep coming back to see if the sea is deeper, the mountains are higher, the people are as hospitable as they were before. Did the trials and errors of the politicians and economy have changed them? I kept my eyes wide open. I did not want to miss a thing.

I will not write a tour guide, or a beautiful story of the country, often neglected by foreigners, who favor the bordering countries -- Turkey or Greece. The Internet has plenty of them all. "This is Bulgaria" trailer on YouTube takes you masterfully into this tiny country in Eastern Europe and leaves you in one minute wondering how in the world you did not know about it. 

I am born and raised in Bulgaria. I visited her this summer along with my American husband and my family, residing in other parts of Europe. 

We all admired the beauty of the land, the little villages with churches; some were more preserved than the houses around; the pleasant Mediterranean climate, the beaches and the Black Sea. My husband was very excited about the trip (his second one.) It was supposed to be a laid-back, relaxing vacation, lying at the beach with family, eating nice food, engaging in the endless Bulgarian conversations. No plans, no pressure. 

My husband knows the food in Bulgaria is fresh and he will eat a LOT of it... I don't blame him. Americans love to eat. Without good food, the vacation is never complete. 
 
The first meal did not disappoint. It was sooo delicious, all countries' representatives at the table gave it a "hands down."  We called it "Bulgarian version of the Mexican fajitas." 

In my opinion, it was 10 times better. It had an abundance of vegetables -- eggplants, squash, onions, potatoes, garlic, peppers. Meat was represented by pork and chicken. Many spices, herbs, flavors... It was cooked in a deep cast iron pan -- slowly, very slowly, to allow each ingredient to have enough play time with the others.
 

I already said the blog post is about "tasty and testy." We already had the tasty. The testy, annoying, making you scream part was the customer service. 

My husband was the only one at the table not speaking Bulgarian. The rest were multi-language speakers.  Sometimes, among Bulgarians, I get away with not translating everything to him. Not this time. When I translate with one sentence a long conversation, it is clear to him, I am skipping what he is not supposed to know. So, I translated every word the waiter in a restaurant said to us. The commotion, the facial expression spoke for themselves. In response to our question about the wait time, he answered,"Do you expect me to go to the kitchen and cook for you?"

Just like that! Testy, uuuhhh. In a split second, the kitchen magic was gone. Our jaws dropped. 

We are both foodies. In the restaurant world we live, we have not witnessed anything like that. But, the good food compensated for the bad customer service. The waiter "took the cake."

It was a complete relief to see a  totally different type of service in a small village restaurant. What we did not find in the big city, we found it in the village. We saw the true, down to earth, friendly people, unscathed by any filth in life. They did not care who is from where. They smiled... They showed all they are capable to cook and it stood up in our minds. Everyone back in USA heard stories about the village, the hospitality and the smiles.

The Black Sea resorts offer in many areas the "Everything Included" business model. Extended eating hours, bars, restaurants. Variety was there, but cooking for hundreds of people coming at the same time always affects the taste and abundance of the most popular dishes. I could never get up early enough to get all the fruits I like, nor did I get the signature sweet bread. At least, I boast about making it around Easter in USA. However, all the kids were happy; they did not ask for variety.

Keeping it real, there is food and drinks all the time, clean pools next to the hotels, work-out areas, entertainments for children and adults -- tennis, children shows, saunas, massages,  aerobics. The Sea itself presents a memorable view. 

We snuck out one day to see a small little town close by. The old part with the souvenirs and handmade crocheted table cloths, the rose oil and rose beauty creams filled my bag. Excellent presents. All my friends smell like Bulgarian roses now. 

The cobble streets took us to a fantastic little restaurant. My husband got the fish of his dreams - turbot, the famous Bulgarian salad, and fresh mussels. It is all captured in the pictures below.

We had 3 hours of food blitz. I wish it was more. We met a young man, who served us. He was very serious at the beginning, but once he learned I was Bulgarian, he warmed up. He told us that every day they serve fish, whose road from the net to being cooked and served is very short. "Come again in the evening. There is music playing. I will save you a table!" He offered. We wish we could.

I am trying to save the real testy for last. It was again customer service, who made us think of not going to the same hotel again. It must have been our bad luck. 

It really weighs heavy on my heart. Americans say "nothing hurts like the truth." I debated a lot if I should be the one to criticize constructively, or I should be like most of the other expats in USA -- soaking in nostalgia, enjoying every visit without being bothered by the sand in my shoes.

I choose to stay true to myself.

It is not unusual to have problems with Internet connection in most European hotels. We had to find this special corner in the room or in the common areas, where the signal is strong enough to connect with my husband's office. Both of our phones could not be used at the same time. I gave up my rights in favor of the work my husband did. He needed to be in touch with  his office and did real work during vacation.

One day, the internet was down in any location of the hotel. We went to the reception area to explain the problem. The answer from the front desk was, "This is not my fault!"; "This is not my responsibility." After my husband asked for the manager, he was told that the manager was in a meeting. There was no "I am sorry, Sir. We are working on it. I apologize for inconveniencing you." An hour later, I tried to use my Bulgarian language. The manager was around this time

I have no clue how I kept my composure.  Maybe, living in USA really changed me.... The internet was back on shortly, but my husband did not get any "sorry."

You may argue, that this is not a big deal. The big deal [to me] is the lack of regret and respect for the customer.

The sign you see to the left of the paragraph was put on my fridge upon my return. It reflected the predominant business attitude. 

Then, I took it down and replaced it with a beautiful picture of the Black Sea.  

One hotel will not put a stain on the restaurant and cleaning crew trying to earn a living there. Tourism provides the major employment in the area. These people did quietly and diligently their jobs. 

We Thank All of Them.

Blog Disclaimer: Some characters appearing in this blog are fictitious or composite. Any resemblance to real situations and real people are purely coincidental. The owner will not be liable for any errors or omissions nor for the availability of this information. The owner will not be liable for any losses, injuries, or damages from the display or use of this information.

 

THE GIRL & THE RUFA FISH

THE GIRL & THE RUFA FISH

This a story about a girl I met at a rufa fish treatment spa.

While vacationing on the Black Sea in Bulgaria, I chanced upon a spot where rufa fish are used to feed on the dead cells on your feet. Two water tanks with warm water are filled with little fish, hundreds of them. They feed on the dead cells and exfoliate your feet. 

I am not an adventurous type woman. But when I saw something unusual like that, I jumped at the chance.

The place was not terribly busy; it was around noontime.

Photo courtesy of artztsamui/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Then, I met the young girl. Rosy cheeks, long brown hair, clear bright eyes. She asked me if I had any lotion on my feet and directed me to the water faucet nearby. I came back clean and the fun began -- for the fish, for me , and the girl. She set the timer and sat across from me. 

Our twenty minutes together was all we needed to get to know each other in our own special way.

The questions and answers were flying in both directions. She was a natural-born journalist. She had the passion and the wide eyes.

While she stayed with me, she kept her eyes closely on what was going on in the shop. The books were in order; the payments were in order; the smile never left her face. 

New customers came. Since there was no sign about the requirement to have the feet clean from any lotion, it became obvious the foreign customers did not understand what she asked them to do. She was quick on her feet -- she put me to work. Good thing I did not say to the clients "Wash your damn feet. The fish are crying!" I wanted to, but I was not the boss :)

After we took care of the newcomers, she was back, dangling her feet and writing in her memory notebook all she asked -- where we live, how far it is, when did I go to the USA, why, what do I do, what does my husband do. She told me about her family, her love for reading, learning English. 

Once she was done with this, she sized me up real well. She said, "Keep you sunglasses on. You look much better with them!" My response was, "You mean much younger." She smiled. 

The girl went on to tell me something no one mentioned to me in Bulgaria. Everyone complimented my Bulgarian.

"You know, your Bulgarian is very different." She spread her arms in the air, like the wings of a bird. 

I had to help her. "Give me an example!" 

"You do not say 'I am going,' you say it like 'I am gooooo-ing.'"

She said it like a little actress. I had to agree that may be my Bulgarian had become  a little "dramatic."

Once she was done with me, she moved on to asking my husband questions. I told her he was American. She guessed he taught English. I explained his occupation, which she liked. 

My husband was watching on the side the conversation between us -- the two chatterbox children. He jumped in,  shaking the girl's hand and introducing himself. She shook his hand. She was touched by the attention. The red cheeks were red from the sun, but the eyes were not lying. 

My time with the rufa and the girl was up. I gave her a hug and we said good bye to each other.

I will certainly forget a lot from the Black Sea vacation, but I will not forget the girl and the rufa fish. 



Blog Disclaimer: Some characters appearing in this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to real situations and real people are purely coincidental. The owner will not be liable for any errors or omissions nor for the availability of this information. The owner will not be liable for any losses, injuries, or damages from the display or use of this information.

LOOK, STORKS!

LOOK, STORKS!

Fresh picture taken by G. Coleman

I had not seen any storks  since I immigrated from Bulgaria to USA 22 years ago. One of my older blog posts was about wearing a martenitsa -- a pure Bulgarian tradition. True to the tradition, I also have martenitsa hanging on a tree in my little yard. Spring came, then summer started... It is way past the time to take off the martenitsa from the birch tree. There is no doubt what so ever winter is gone... It is 80 degrees out. True, but the martenitsa is peaking sadly from behind the leaves and reminding me of being a child many years ago. I am waiting to see a stork....

Then, a miracle occurred. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Stork during our trip in Bulgaria. Upon my return to USA, I gleefully took the old martenitsa down. On next March first, a new one will be hanging on the tree, along with the new expectations for love, happiness and health for all of us.

In many mythologies the stork is a symbol of prosperity, fertility, commitment in marriage. It is not just a big bird; it is a creature of significance for everyone's life. 

There are many storks in Bulgaria this summer (I was told). I met The Storks on the way to the Black Sea. Standing in all their glory in their big nest, completely unperturbed by the cars driving on the highway. 

I never thought there was a chance to meet The Storks right there, on top of an electrical pole. "Here you are! Sitting all pretty, while I have been waiting for you in USA. Hi, there!"  

Suddenly, Monday's driving to the Black Sea got very exciting. Even with a guide like my brother-in-law, who is a real history buff and story teller, there was not much to catch the eye. There were not even enough bad drivers. He saw The Storks first. I was more excited that the 9-year old in the car. The car stopped; pictures were taken. Not only did I see storks, I remembered how important they were in my childhood. What does Santa do? Santa brings presents. The stork brought the neighbors' boy. There is no place for comparison.

Pic courtesy of njaj/Digitalphotos.com

When you think about it, it is not a bad cop out for parents to use the stork as a sub for serious conversations about love and babies and sex. Even nowadays, there are celebration cards with a stork when a baby is born in a family. 

After we passed The Storks the conversation started in my head. I had to look into their life more when back in USA. 

The long legs, black and white wings, long necks, and bills, making a strange clattering noise.... My relative focused on what he thought I had to remember first: "The storks build big nests and return to the same nest every year." He continued, "they are monogamous; they do not change nests or partners." 

Well, this may, or may not be completely true, per Wikipedia, but I will trust my relative. He cannot be convinced that "may" is sufficient proof for birds infidelity after migration.  

How can storks play such an important role in mythology if they do not possess the value to be faithful to their partner? If I discover this, I will fire them in a minute. There are many birds waiting to take their important job.

I will finish this post with an Aasop's fable, which my babysitter used to read to me as a child. It was one of my favorite. She was a good reader, too. I still enjoy it. 

There is moral to every story....

SOCCER, MY FATHER & I

   SOCCER, MY FATHER & I

Sketch by Frank Bryan

This post was started a month ago. My vacation in Bulgaria brought back memories of the days when my parents were still alive. Every time you go back to your native country someone, something somewhere will emerge in your brain as fresh as the Black Sea fish we ate at the local restaurants. 

I always felt, I did not know my father well. He was not much of a talker at the time I was growing up. Back in the communist days, both members of the family worked; yet the burden was primarily on the women to raise the kids and do the house work. Dad was not an exception. He really knew how to weasel out of house resonsibilities. Yes, he was a bit lazy as far as house work. His work time ended at the hospital. The rest was all on my Mom's shoulders. 

He never allowed himself to look as the guy on the picture -- carrying 2 watermelons on the way home. There were no cars these days. Carrying a juicy, 10 lbs. each heavy watermelons was not a simple task for my Mom, but she did it. An officer cannot be humiliated to walk with watermelons on the street. No, no... He was given a break, because he always provided a dramatic picture of how he would look in the eyes of people with the watermelons.

It was a different story as far as sports were concerned. Attire did not matter. The most popular sport in Europe is soccer. My father loved soccer. He made me love soccer, too. It was not easy for me. As a young girl and later -- a teenager, soccer was not the first thing on my mind. But then, I fell in love with the game, the crowd, the noise, the excitement ... We went to all the games together. The little girl was there with her father no matter what. Dad did not just loved the game. He was ready to jump and help the team doctor at any second if some injury happened. In his mind he believed such a moment would come... The doctor in him did not let go even for a second. When there were head injuries, he would say in his sarcastic manner, "if this guy has several more concussions in the future, do not expect him to be exceptionally bright after he finishes his sports career." It is hard to say if he was right. Even nowadays, no one openly admits a concussion. 

Yes, I was seriously into soccer until I came to USA, where professional soccer was not popular. I want to brag about the Bulgarian soccer since it is part of my past, but since the World Cup in USA in 1994, when Bulgaria reached the semi-finals, there isn't much to brag about.  World Cup 1994 was the biggest success of the Bulgarian soccer. OK, eventually we ended up fourth, but we still have the history to remind us of the "Golden Generation" of Stoichkov (who scored 6 goals during the cup games.

Since then... I have nothing very impressive to report about soccer. I will blame it on the very tough qualifying groups for the Bulgarian team, bad luck and [who knows] big, huge, gigantic, to kill an elephant concussions.  

Picture courtesy of khunaspix/Digitalphotos.net

      
                                          

I AM SORRY?

"I AM SORRY?"

For the those who want to be in the know, as my daughter, Toni Ti would say, it is time to give some funny cultural examples. One of them is the "I am sorry!"

I have been using this picture by Frank Bryan several times now. It does not show a simple misunderstanding between a woman and a man. It shows a very important cultural difference. Nodding your head in Bulgaria stands for "NO", while shaking it for "YES." There is no need to explain how embarrassed one can find him/herself if this is not understood in advance. There are a couple of scenarios which you already think about, don't you? Coming to America one has to practice this nodding and shaking a lot. One of the first thing I said as a baby was "YES" and "NO." I was not the "aww" baby. I always had my "yes" and "no." How can I get rid of this habit overnight? 

The best example I have for "I am sorry!"  is this one: It happened while I was at the graduate school in USA. I was pleasant and chatty - trying to learn about the new place I was living at as much as possible. I approached one guy from the program. We started a simple conversation about our families, kids. He told me he was already working. I had a serious problem understanding what he was talking about. But one sentence really shocked me. I thought he said he worked for the Federal Bureau of Presents (FBP). 

I knew there is no Federal Santa, but it sounded soo nice. I repeated, "I am sorry? Where did you say you work?" He gave me the same answer. I did not ask more questions, but the mere illusion of America having a Federal Bureau of Presents was exhilarating. 

I researched at home what FBP stood for. Umm, it was not presents, it was prisons. Close enough. 

I continue to have an issue with this "I am sorry". It is one of my language diseases. The issue is that I know when to use "I am sorry"; it just does not feel right. I can use it when I do not hear what the other person is saying, or I do not recognize the word being used. Very often, the word I do not recognize, rhymes with the word being used. Word recognition is a bummer. If I was a rap song writer, that would have been phenomenal.

This language problem is common. It deserves special attention. Here is the story to illustrate it. My husband and I will always remember a visit to a National park in Colorado. We were having lunch at a nice restaurant with his brother. The waitress came and asked [what sounded to me] as "Super salad for the lady?" It was not even the time of "Seinfeld," when Elaine would ask for a "big salad." Looked like everyone was waiting for my answer. Without any hesitation my answer was, "Oh, no, I'll just have a regular salad!" "Soup or salad?" - this was what the girl was asking. Until today - 20 years later, I will ask for a regular salad. The "regular salad" is "the house salad" today.

The restaurants in America are a real pain in the butt as far as giving you enough time to dine, not to eat. Do not register with this pencil #2 that the people on table #25 just came in. The table will be available not earlier than 2.5 hours after their arrival time. This is what all restaurants in the local area have to be aware of, when they see the Colemans coming.

My picture with the supersalad

There is also a mandatory expression to be used at restaurants when you stop eating for a second. "Are you still working, ma'm?" They just can't wait to take your plate away. You have to wiggle with your fork, make some childish movements in your plate to keep it in front of you. Otherwise, it is gone.

The word "working" is in fact what bothers me the most. One day, being frustrated to the utmost, I said with subtle confidence, "I am not working, I am dining." My American spouse accepted this philosophy very fast. Now, he goes first, "No, no, I am not working. I am drinking ma bourbon."

The next difficult part of a restaurant etiquette is taking the leftovers home. The "doggy bag" is a must. If you don't get a bag/box, it may be perceived as if you did not like the food. On the other hand, if you forget the box in your car, your car will never forget the sweet and sour chicken you put there that night.

"I am sorry" is used when you have done something, which the other party does not approve of, or you have not done something the other party will approve of. This is how I see it. The only meaningful "I am sorry" to me is when something "bad" has happened to someone. Loss of a family member, a child, a friend. ...Even then "I am sorry" will not do it. 

A big hug and silence will do so much more. ...

This is just my opinion. ...