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…