Won't You Be My Neighbor

It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?...

It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood,
A neighborly day for a beauty.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?...

I've always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.

So, let's make the most of this beautiful day.
Since we're together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?
Won't you please,
Won't you please?
Please won't you be my neighbor?


This is a story about our neighbor....

Our current apartment is equipped with storage facilities down in the basement. My first venture down to the storage units was in August, a few days after our arrival, and all I could really think about was how these "cells" would be perfect for the Gimp from Pulp Fiction, or perhaps something Hannibal Lecter might use. Our apartment unit is #26, but when I went to unit #26 it was already in use. Our key for storage, however, fit the lock for storage unit #28. One problem - the handle for #28 was broken. Thinking that all of these units corresponded to our apartments, occupied primarily by the teachers from ACS, I didn't think it would be a big deal if I put all of our empty suitcases into unit #27. I placed our eight suitcases into the cell and locked it up. That was in August.

Last weekend, when we returned home from a weekend in Varna, I went down to the storage unit for a second time. I had three bins to add to our cell. I unlocked the first door, which leads down to the dungeon, but when I approached the storage unit I could tell something was different, but was unsure due to the length of time it had been since I had been down there. The lock, pictured above, was not our lock. None of my keys worked for that lock. I thought that perhaps I was wrong. Maybe we were in #26, although deep down I felt like I knew that #27 was indeed ours. No luck with #26. I tried my key in all of the masterlocks - no luck. I returned to #27 and noticed something else quite odd. Somebody had placed a sticker under the number: a skull and crossbones. Uh oh, I thought, this is serious. This is a sign, definitely a sign, and not a good one. I grabbed one of the bins, jumped on top, and looked through the eight inch gap found above the door. Empty. No suitcases. My new blue, Tommy Hilfigger roller - gone. Kate's supersized, black Samsonite - gone. Everything gone.

This was not good.

I rushed back to the apartment with the three bins, walked into the house, and yelled at Kate, "None of our stuff is there. There's a sticker on our unit with a skull and crossbones. No joke." She was in disbelief, and wanted to confirm the info. We both went back down, this time equipped with a neighbor's headlamp, to take a look. We searched every unit, peering into the space above the door, in search of our things. We looked in about fifteen cells and found nothing of ours. Somebody has stolen all of our bags. We were devestated. We were upset. We needed to figure this out.

We returned upstairs to our aparment and began telling our neighbor/colleagues about what we had found (or did not find). They were as incredulous as we were. After venting a bit with our peeps, we decided to call our landlord Galia. We informed her of the situation (she speaks English, as does her husband) and she told us she would come immediately.

As we were pacing about our apartment waiting, the doorbell (sounds of birds chirping, no joke) sounded. At the door was our neighbor, Shelly, with an unknown Bulgarian man - a good neighbor. He spoke a little bit of English and went on to tell us about a note that had been posted on the front door of our building the week before. It was written in Bulgarian and said something along the lines of "If you have put your stuff into storage #27, come to apartment #40 to discuss the situation." Being complete novices in the Bulgarian language, we never even took one look at any notices on the front door. However, it was our first big clue and gave us a little bit of hope.

Thirty minutes later Galia and her husband were at the door. They first took a look at our keys and asked why we weren't in #28. I told her about the switch from #28 to #27, and her husband exclaimed, in an English steeped in his thick Bulgarian accent, "This is not good." He paused, I held my breath, and then he muttered, "You have made a big mistake." This is never a good thing to hear, especially when you are in a foreign country.

All four of us went down to investigate further. As we stood in front of the cells, both #28 and #27, some Bulgarian was spoken between husband and wife. After a few minutes of confusion, Galia looked to us and said, "Okay, I know owner of this storage. We all go now to see if he is home."

Her husband added, "I hope he has not sold or throw out your luggage." Expecting the worst, and with little hope of getting our bags back, we went over to building #1 of our apartment complex. The four of us packed ourselves into the tiny elevator and made our way up to the top floor. Galia knocked on the front door as Kate and I both sat back, a little scared to be honest, ready to meet our good neighbor.

The man who opened the door fit right into the stereotypical image of an Eastern European male - big and stalky, shaved head, shirt unbuttoned two buttons too many, and a thick silver chain around his neck - and he didn't hesitate to give us the once over along with a little smirk. He knew who we were. Galia explained the situation, they exchanged some words, and then Galia gave a great sigh, which to me meant that our stuff was here, or somewhere. He looked over to us once again and played a quick game of charades - he made two fists and gave the motion of hands holding bolt cutters and cutting a lock. Then he smiled. Then he told us to meet him down in the garage.

Heck, I didn't even know we had a garage.

Relieved, we went down to the garage. I guess a select few with the means have a space in the underground garage. Of course, our newfound neighbor/friend has his BMW parked down there. And, I figured, this was where we would find our stuff. He appeared after some time, opened up his garage unit, revealing our eight bags. He looked over to us, then to Galia and her husband, and said that he had read our tags with all of our information, including apartment number and school phone number, but he thought it better not to contact us. In fact, he said, "I wanted to punish these people."

He wanted to punish us? What the #%$&!?! Who is this guy. What a nice neighborly thing to do. He sure taught us our lesson.

So, let's get this straight. One day our neighbor comes down to his storage unit to find it locked with a Masterlock. He takes
one look, doesn't like what he sees, and decides that he will snap this masterlock easily with his handy pair of bolt cutters that he keeps in his apartment for cases such as this. He could have called Galia and let her know that one of her tenants has his space...Naw, that is silly. It is much better to break the lock and then take all eight bags out and carry them over to the garage. Then I will put up a sticker to warn off any other would be storage stealers. Also, I will post a message on the door to inform the poor bastards that if they want there stuff back they better come begging, crawling on hands and knees, to apartment #40. When these little peons do show up, I will laugh in their face, tell them how simple it was to break open their lock, and let them know that they have just been taught a lesson by the Bulgarian Godfather - never mess with my storage unit.

Well, I must say that this was quite the experience. It was nice to finally meet one of our neighbors. I have always wanted a neighbor just like this, although another tune keeps running through my head: "A crazy Bulgarian gangster is a person in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, a crazy Bulgarian gangster is a person in your neighborhood, a person that you see each day."

I sure hope not.

Random Pictures From Varna

Varna Communism (circa 1970)













Varna Capitalism (circa 1994)














A shiny dome.













All stray dogs are tagged.













AIG Death?













Eastern European Classics



















What Child?!?













Chicken anyone?

What's My Name???

Here is a little bit of "Gin and Juice" from the start of Snoop's show...



This is the scene I came in after buying six beers for the crew (cost = 15 leva = 11 bucks): the Bulgarians go absolutely bananas for Snoop as he "Jumps Around" with the Bulgarian flag and a jersey of Bulgarian soccer star, currently starting for Man U, Dimitar Berbatov. Watch towards the end of the clip for the best shot, otherwise it just seems like filmatic chaos.

Falling

So last week was our last official week of vacation. It was 95 degrees, and life was good. This week, we started school. Suddenly, it was as if mother nature packed up and went down to Santorini for the winter. We are now on day four of rain and 43 degree weather, and I am just wondering if they coined the name "fall" to describe what I am feeling. Here's hoping for what they call a "gypsy summer" here in Bulgaria--which is the same as our "Indian summer" in the States.

At any rate, the icon posted above is the one that weather.com has plastered on our screen for the next 10 day outlook. This icon also looms above Varna, which is a little town on the Black Sea where we are headed this weekend. You see, this weekend is a three-day holiday weekend, and going to the beach seemed like a fantastic idea...a week ago...during summer vaction...while wearing tank tops...and knowing that the winter sweaters were still in boxes behind the bed.

Saturday Morning in Downtown Sofia

We bought some flowers from this woman (you only buy in odd numbers; even numbers signify a death) and some fresh fruit from some of the stalls seen in Kate's pic. Raspberries and blueberries are abundant and delicious.

A very nice morning after the first rain.

Some downtown apartment buildings.

Some typical Eastern European/Communist sculpture with the Russian Church in the background.

Posters advertising Snoop's visit next Thursday.

Graffiti is everywhere here in Sofia.

The American College of Sofia

Here are some interesting things about our school:

• It is the oldest American school outside of the United States. It was founded, as you can see in the picture, in 1860.
  
• However, in the 1940's, after Russia gained control of most of Eastern Europe at the conclusion of the second world war, the school was closed. It did not reopen until 1992.
  
• During the communist era, ACS became the primary operational base for the Bulgarian KGB.
• The offices in the English Dept. were rumored to be the soundproof chambers used for interogations and, perhaps, a little splash of torture.
• When the school reopened in the early 90's, the government only gave back about 1/2 of the original campus. The remaining land was kept by the government and is still currently being used as Bulgarian police training grounds/police academy.
• In the woods and fields across from my classroom the Bulgarian police will run live drills using guns filled with blanks.
  
• In an abandoned, unfinished building next to campus, one that stands 8 or 10 stories high, the police practice hostage situations and can often be seen repelling down the side of the structure.

Here is a picture of my classroom from the inside. Notice the columns outside the windows.



And here is one from the outside; I am on the second floor.



Not bad, huh?

Some more interesting facts about our school:

• The Bulgarians are smart - average SAT scores are about 1400 our of 1600. (McKenna says that is probably a higher score than most of you earned :) )
  
• When the school reopened in 1992, about 3,000 Bulgarians showed up to take the entrance exam: only about 80 were accepted.
  
• This year, 600 kids showed up for 140 spots.
  
• These are all kids about to enter the 8th grade; the 8th grade year here is an intensive English only year.
  
• Students who score the highest on the entrance exam, and demonstrate financial need, earn partial scholarships to the school.
  
• This year, five kids were awarded full scholarships for their entire ACS career - all five years - based upon their scores and financial need.
  
• ACS is considered the best school in Bulgaria.
  
• Our school colors are Purple and White.

Here are some more pics of the campus:


This is the space behind the main buildings. In the distance are the campus housing villas.


Here is the central meeting point for students on the campus.


A garden dedicated to a student who passed away a few years ago.

Wanted: New Women's Ice Hockey Head Coach and, perhaps, Whole Team

Well, I guess I was wrong when I came to Bulgaria thinking that they have a strong ice hockey tradition. After a drubbing at the hands of the Slovakians, I think the Bulgarian Olympic Committee will need to look into some possible changes for their women's team. I, for one, will be demanding some changes at the top and will not stop until some heads roll.

Let's examine some remarkable statistics:

• 82 goals scored by Slovakia
• 0 goals scored by Bulgaria
• 1 goal every 44 seconds of playtime (82 goals in a 60 minute game)
• 139 shots for the Slovakians
• 0 shots for the Bulgarians (how can you not shoot once in a game?)
• the Bulgarian team scored 1 lone goal in four games
• they gave up 192 goals during those four games

It's about time that women's hockey institutes a mercy rule. How do players feel after losing 82-0?

Branch
read the whole article here:
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/more/09/09/bulgaria.hockey.ap/index.html

A Room With, Ugh, View

You have to hand it to the communists - they really had an eye for great architecture and design. Check out our lovely neighborhood:














Although, now that I think about it, these are not that much different from track housing and strip malls found in the US. I think they all must use the same paint color. Shoot, maybe the good ol' USofA is under the evil influence of communism after all.

We were set up with brand new apartments; well, at least inside they are new. It seems that since the government took care of everything while wearing the communist veil, the Bulgarian citizens have never really embraced any notion of community or neighborhood. Very little care is given
to what is outside of these complexes.
















The facades are more often than not crumbling, the paint has faded (you can see the contrast of our newly painted buildings with some of the older buildings), trash is thrown everywhere, and areas of some green are left unkempt instead of being small areas of grass and open field for the community to gather. These things, once upon a time, were left to the government. Nobody believes that he/she should take some action to change this.













We are about a ten minute cab ride to the city center, which is lovely, and about a thirty-five minute walk/twenty-five minute bus ride to the ACS campus. There are a couple of mini-malls near our house, a nice little gym with great clay tennis courts, and numerous little hole-in-the wall bars that we will one day stop in for a cold Zagorka - the national beer.

Although our apartment is a typical European capital city apartment - smallish, living room and kitchen combo - we have made it feel like home. We have put up many of our mementos from both Paraguayan and Roman travels, set up a yoga room, and established our work spaces. However, we have not been able to get Gringo, the cat, to enjoy being an indoor cat. He yells and screams constantly. We try to take him outside, but the multitude of wild dogs (yes, it's true - they are just about everywhere) and steady stream of traffic makes it difficult. We will see how this small battle - cat vs. man/woman - turns out. I have a feeling he might win.

4AO (ciao written, more or less, in Bulgarian)

Snoop Dogginski

I am not going to lie. I was more than a little ecstatic to learn that Snoop Dogginski is touring through Bulgaria. Get ready. It’s Thursday September 18th, and we’ve got tickets! Clearly there will be more on this later….

A Fairytale Beginning

After taking a quick seven hour trip to the Greece city of Thessaloniki where we met with the Bulgarian consulate for our work visas, our group veered off the beaten Bulgarian path—so to speak—to stay in the town of Ognyanovo. This town is known specifically for the naturally healing hot springs. We were on an official school assignment to lounge in hot springs and relax before returning to Sofia and starting a busy new year. You can file this experience into the “Why I like ACS so much” chapter of this blog, which, perhaps, other international educators will also subcategorize it into the “What international teachers say during the honeymoon phase of a new country” folder.

At any rate, our tour leader picked a hotel where she had stayed about 15 (although I really think it was 35) years ago—she was truly excited about sharing this experience with us, and this was the first time that the new teachers would try this town as a way of ending the school “new teachers get their work visas” trip.

As we sped down the winding road towards our lodging, we, the new teachers, eagerly peered out the van window gaping at this gorgeous chateaux which stood—dare I say winking at us—in the distance. I think I even cracked a smile and mouthed the words, “sweet!” because it was: (http://www.hotelpetreliiski.info/).

Of course our van sped right past the Spa Hotel Petreliiski and turned along a more ominous, dodgy road, which spit us out at the Hotel—well, I don’t even know the name of it because I did not grab a card. For lack of a better word, from here on out I will refer to this “hotel” as “AOSR dorm” because for those of you who had the pleasure of seeing—or even living in—that shithole, this building is the “AOSR dorm’s” long-lost, Bulgarian twin-sister.

I wasn’t sure how to react to this hotel since we were on a school trip, and, except for the 3.70 EURO Starbucks café latte I had in Greece (I know, I know…), I had not spent a Leva of my own money since we left Sofia (pronounced SO-fia). In other words, you can’t really complain about a free trip, so feign excitement when you pull up to a crappy hotel. With a huge smile on my face, I mentally wondered what the Headmaster himself was thinking about our lodgings. One quick scan of his face, and I was assured that he too wished we were staying down the road at the Spa Hotel Petreliiski (I am still not convinced that he didn’t slip away while we were swimming at the pool). I chuckled to hear our Bulgarian tour leader proclaim with dismay: “It appears they have not done renovations since the last time I visited. So, I am thinking: “here I am back in Europe and once again trapped in the “AOSR dorm,” when suddenly something magical happened….

Once upon a time, Branch and Kate decided to talk a little walk before dinner into the neighboring town. Actually, I think you call something like this a village. I begin this tale with the ubiquitous “once upon a time” because, as you well know, all good fairytales begin in such a vein. And, although we only walked down the craggy driveway and up the hill, it still felt like we had stepped back in time and popped out in a European village circa 1750—give or take a few hundred years. It was then that I understand what the Brothers Grimm must have experienced when they began writing their tales. In fact, one of the first characters whom we met, quite quickly in this story, was the witch—and I wish I was joking. But as you can see from this picture, she was there in all her garb and quite literally stirring a smoldering cauldron on the side of the street.

Allegedly this is how Bulgarians traditionally make tomato sauce, or at least this is what she told another new teacher when she sold him a jar of her bubbly potion the next day. She also mentioned (I should note that he speaks Bulgarian) that the jar should sit in his cupboard until winter—otherwise it would not be ready. Tomato sauce, or magic potion? I’m not going to test my luck.

The second witch whom we met was dressed similarly to the first only she sported a wart the size of a small child on her neck. This witch—perhaps she was the good witch?—stopped to have a conversation with us…a quite difficult task considering that, at this point, we knew how to say “Yes, no, thank-you, and good afternoon” in Bulgarian. Rather than being deterred by our lack of chattiness, she decided to give us our first official Bulgarian lesson—the kind where you speak really loudly and really slowly towards the foreigner (note: this is usually done by a US tourist to a European)—but in this case, she shouted some Bulgarian at us and then tried to sell us her tomatoes.

Judging by her hand gestures, I am pretty sure that she was assuring us that her tomatoes were the best in town and certainly much better than those sprouting off the vines in the garden of the house down the lane. Giving us a quick look up-and-down, she became absolutely convinced that we were rich. She indicated this idea by saying “America” and then rubbing her fat thumb along her wrinkled fingers, which, as it turns out, is the universal sign for “your loaded.” We assured her that we had no money on us (we did not), which only made her speak louder and slower. It was good spirited, however, she did a lot of laughing, as did we. Unfortunately we did not get a picture, so you will just have to imagine her as you do the other Bulgarian witches whom you often think of when reading your nightly fairytales.

Moving along the road into the village, I was struck by the grapes and gardens that adorned the houses and swung from trellises over the road. I am not talking about your local Whole Foods grapes—no, these were scrumptious, succulous, mouth-watering, lip-smacking, dew-covered, bursting with flavor, glistening-in-the-sun, 'Oh I heard it through the grapevine' grapes that made me want to reach out and pop one

into my mouth — when suddenly I remembered the very unfortunately Baker’s wife, who had a similar craving during her pregnancy, and after swiping a little taste of her neighbors fruit, she found out that her neighbor was actually a witch, she had to give up her baby, the baby was locked in a tall, tall tower—and this is all to say that—the risks seemed to outweigh the prize; and so, we kept walking.


We walked by groups of old men who were gathered along various porches and storefronts. They stared at us as if we were aliens, and I noticed that a few children curiously began following us down the street. Had I had my flute, I’m quite sure that I could have led them away…but we kept walking…

We turned the corner only to find that the statement “until the cows come home” is actually more of a literal farming technique in small European villages rather than a New York City hyperbole. We gaped as 20 cows with utters so full they could barely waddle were walking up the street following a young shepherd. While standing at the crossroad, one cow (who knew that female cows also have huge horns!) came heading straight for us. Logically, we ducked off the road to the sidewalk. Yet, she too came towards us on the sidewalk. Luckily, she was a slow moving girl, and we were able to fake her out (Branch really put up a nice screen)—but I still wonder if that shepherd knows he lost one of his cows to the luxurious Spa Hotel Petreliiski.

It was a short walk. We had to be home for dinner. It was getting dark. We had no breadcrumbs in our pockets. So I guess the quite obvious moral of this story is: what happens in Bulgaria stays in Bulgaria.

Oh, and of course, and they lived happily ever after…

First Pics...

Tobacco leaves drying.

Grapes hanging in the gardens of a small town.

Signs of color near our apartment.

The ubiquitous, yet delicious, shopska salad.

Woman selling flowers outside Sofia church.