Glory Ho

Here we sit, Indian, okay Native-American style, on the couch, eyes shifting toward a floor that needs sweeping and unshaved limbs that plead for a good run to wake them up. With every sideways glance at the counter, I think I might see the cock-roaches making their way toward the still-open muesli, but then I remember, they like the dark. I’ve learned, you really can get used to anything, anyway. Whatever might be at eye level every day—sardines, crack, peeling paint—it’s just a matter of time before they cease to smell, shock or bother. This morning, when we opened the curtains, Michael said, it was a high school play sort of snow. Fast, heavy, right out of a box above the curtain, with packing-peanut size flakes. Total surprise.

But this is just another minor detail about foreign city life—because we don’t read Bulgarian particularly well and don’t own a television, we’re sometimes a bit clueless: newspapers, bills, those strange signs posted on the door to our apartment building. . .we can only hope it’s nothing to do with some evacuation. The other day some woman stopped by and gave us a key. It’s now in our little grey elephant bowl. We may never know its purpose.

But I digress. Point is, we miss some stuff. Like the fact that a blizzard with six inches of snow was coming.

It’s a pity for the holiday bazaar where my organization needs shoppers to come in and buy hemp-sewn angels and bright-paint-splattered cat pins, but just the kind of day I wanted. Christmas had crept into Sofia a little like dusk settles on farmhouse horizon: subtley and without much to offer when it’s finished. Thanksgiving was only a distant memory by the time it arrived, unlike America, where toward the end of November, every store sign is an ugly rainbow of brown, orange, red and green. Here, there are crooked trees with free, red, coca-cola stamped décor, scary talking Santas outside the casinos and candle-shaped lights, trying to achieve a gas-lamp style along the streets Vendors who usually peddled wallets, books and barrettes are now up to their cigarette-hugging lips in tinsel, garland, balls and lights. . I’ll admit, a tiny part of me misses Cherry Creek. And even though it’s tough to get in the mood when my mother’s sweet potatoes, the Sinopoli guacamole and Emily and Christine’s festive enthusiasm (remember our Christmas?) are thousands of miles away, it was a good day to buy a fake tree. A good day to decorate it. A good day to pretend that it’s pretty.

Yes, I’d been feeling pretty cynical about Christmas. Sad to be without family, but perhaps simply unenthused about the whole thing. And we’d been agonizing over our plans for at least a month. Thought it felt, somehow, wrong, and entirely too self-indulgent, we were aching to spend it mostly alone with only our books, laptops, movies, wine, food, and each other. No host family visit. No volunteer gift exchange. No Bulgarian. Just a day to ourselves and then a volunteer trip to the orphanage. We were, in fact, psyched about “skipping” Christmas and all the aiming to please that went along with it. Rejoicing about the release from gift obligations, travel and family stress. Jingling our bells in anticipation for a relaxing 24th and 25th day of December.

But, let’s be clear. The above might lead you to believe that I’ve had dysfunctional Christmases or that my family is a handful. Not so!

They’re great. And funny and flexible, warm, accommodating and generous. Any my Christmas memories are full of rich, creamy goodness with a little bickering and competition thrown in to keep you from hating us. My optimistic, flexible Mother could have written a book about how to make holidays, or even you-were-nominated-to-Student Council-days as comforting and encouraging as the Smuckers voice, the Home Valley Ranch countryside and a Kool-aid commercial all rolled into one. And yet, thankfully, she didn’t make you ill with her cheer. She abhorred bows and never hung any sort of country goose in the hallway. And I’ve yet to see anyone combine such a sense of grace with such a sense of speed. Never running out of steam or safety pins of black purses or lip liner or recipes for a last minute appetizer, she strived to balance the presents, pined for space in neighbor’s closets to avoid our snooping and was a master at creating memories. Her and my Dad’s gifts always made me feel loved, confident and bound for well-dressed success. And then there was our high-strung, semi-friendly sibling rivalry. Every year, my brothers and I received a new ornament—usually one chosen specifically for some current obsession—unicorns, matchbox cars, water sports, whatever. So, as my parents trimmed with garland, I mean, tinsel (one at a time!), we removed the Younkers box tops and hung our bits of sequins, porcelain, feathers and popsicle sticks from the pine needles. That’s when the battle for prominent tree placement began. The rub was that there was no rule against “moving” ornaments, hours, or even days after the ceremonial event. For example, the next night, I might find my sparkled spider web sagging on a limp branch, smashed against the back wall, with Dustin’s British phone booth, now in center position. And then, days later, he would search for his legendary red-coated Mickey Mouse, only to discover Mickey’s poor head tangled between a string of lights next to the trunk and my pink-ribboned heart of glass now near the top. Finally, on Christmas Eve, Philip would look up to gaze at his hanging hockey player, and see my name-engraved, gowned and crowned little girl, its brass tarnished from years of storage, dull but still reflective, in its place.

Then there was the Angel. We took turns every year. When I was young, I loved being lifted by my Dad to place her hard plastic hollow body, gold-sparkled wings, Princess Lea buns and cotton trim at the top of the tree. Due to all the arguing over whose turn it might be now, next year and in 2030, my Dad, always quick with a sharpie, began using file folder labels to record and project the angel events. And you might be surprised to realize how old we became before losing interest in this seemingly insignificant privilege. Perhaps we were subconsciously holding onto tradition.

But these rituals have a way of changing with the never-so-beautifully-flowing-as-in-that-hourglass sands of time. As we matured, and “coming home” began to include rental cars, dish warmers and spare room occupancy, tree night became an appointment not everyone could keep. Mom and Dad decorated. A little less. And, perhaps in place of the angel and ornament ceremony, my brothers played an annual practical joke. On me. At the bottom of my stocking on Christmas morning, I would find a roughly-cut wooden block, with black-markered insults scrawled all over its surface. The main message was always: “You suck! Love, Mom and Dad.” My brothers think this is endlessly hilarious and howl, quite scarily, each time I pull it out. (FYI: They are both in their 20s.)

Now, too there’s the Ugliest Ornament Gift Contest, started in 2003 by my brother, Dustin and his wife Christine. It’s a match between them and us. Granted, taste (or lack of) is subjective, but seriously, you should see some of these. . .

In addition, though I can’t speak for Michael’s memories, there’s enough warmth and fuzziness from tale after tale of his past holiday extravaganzas to crochet a big blanket; midnight mass (at their house!) nativity plays, Santa impersonations, clam linguini and lots of wine. And the Sinopoli clan has taken me in–I am now a member of their family as well. I’ve only known Peg for five years, but I loved her too and I will miss her.

But, it was about five years ago when I feel Christmas finally burst, resulting in so many missed sparkles across the post-holiday, vacuum-lined carpet. There was no tragedy. I just realized what a hassle it had become and how little payoff I received (remember, I don’t have kids yet). Gifts were harder and harder to buy. If it was my family’s “year to host” we absorbed understandable guilt from Michael’s clan and vice versa. I sensed neighborhood pressure to put up lights (then quickly transferred that to Michael) and at some point suffered from complete hostess-hell if I didn’t decorate—mistletoe, mantelpiece strategies, red dish towels and all (damn Pottery Barn catalogs). Christmases in Denver were always a festive, face-stuffing and footloose party (love the dancing!). And I’m grateful that I inherited such a closeknit group of individuals. But those events always left me missing home. Visits to my own family were full of shopping, late night conversations, cheese on chips and movie-quoting, but always too long. There was me, interested in keeping both my husband and my parents happy, and, therefore, jumping to fill conversation silences; my mother practicing the exact same behavior (where do you think I got it?); and Michael and my Dad, perfectly content, chewing or staring into the distance, oblivious or bewildered by our fuss. And then, more guilt and anxiety (all my own doing, by the way,). Did I stop by to see Grandma? What about the other Grandma? How is the nose-ring going over? Have they seen the tattoo? (kidding) Where were my ornaments placed on the tree???

So, to state the painfully obvious, we’re in a pretty strange position this year. We get to skip the stress, but we’ll be missing the glories, too. And I think that creates justification for doing our own thing.

However, if you happen to be in America, here’s my advice:

Let go of the guilt. Remember the good times. Be grateful. Take care of your parents. Laugh, live, talk, visit, endure and just be, if nothing else, with your family or friends. Lower your expectations. Keep it short and sweet. Appreciate America. Please yourself. Please a couple of others. Do a good deed. Call it a day. Scare away the guilt with a nearby ugly ornament and start being the master of your own holiday destiny.

* * * * * * * * * *
As it turns out, since I began writing this blog, our plans have changed. A little. On Christmas Eve, we will make Bulgarian banitza, watch movies, read out loud and cook up some Indian lamb saag. Ahhhh. Then, on Christmas day, we were invited by a Traditzia Board member, (the wife of a British diplomat,) to her home, for a nice walk through their nearby woods, a few glasses of wine and some mincemeat pie before our orphanage outing.

Merry Christmas—here’s to Mom, Dad, Dust, Christine and Phil. Thanks for making my Christmas memories amazing. Love you all so very much and I wouldn’t be *here* without you.

My Grandmother, died at about 11:30 PM December 21nd, Denver time. My Mom sent Andrea and I the following email, about an hour later:

“Grandma passed away at 11:30 PM Dec 21st, she was having trouble breathing and just stopped. She will be spending Christmas with Grandpa and her sister and Uncle Billy. I am sure it will be a wonderful one. I left her about 10:30, Janice and Teri spent the night, they were all settled in and Grandma was sleeping so I kissed her goodnight and told her I loved her and left them. Janice woke shortly and did not hear her breathing any more, woke Teri and they called the nurse. We will be making arrangements tomorrow. Paul will be here on Sat along with Rebecca and Luke. Joe and Jake are in Texas with Simone. I love you both.”

My Grandma was the Matriarch of The Sinopoli Clan (TSC). TSC consists of my grandparents nine children, in addition to their spouses and their children. BOOKS could be written about TSC – suffice to say now that it’s a spirited family group which has swelled to about 30 laughing, crying, angry, generous, infuriating, funny, passionate people. With very few exceptions, the family hasn’t strayed far from the Denver metro area, and with very few exceptions, they are wonderful cooks. Historically the whole group has gathered for all the major holidays (Bronco play-off games count). But for my ENTIRE life, Christmas Eve has been the high point of celebration, tradition and belonging – not to mention eating and drinking. Our family priest, Father Banigan used to conduct a complete mass, including music and communion; one year, we had a nativity play, with three acts; of course Santa Claus ALWAYS came and ALL the grandchildren HAD to sit on Santa’s lap for a few pictures, and a bit of humiliation.

Margaret Sinopoli and the late Louis Sinopoli were the raison d’etre of these celebrations, and for Grandma to pass so soon before Christmas Eve this year amplifies the symbolic significants of her passing – for now their children will have to carry on without them. The decendants of Margaret and Louis have long ago become the household care-givers – but symbolically, we now look up to find the roof missing.

I will remember my Grandma for her clever sense of humor; for her lovely singing voice, and for her chuckling Irish accent which endured despite living more than 60 years in the United States. Although she is known by others as having a strong and sometimes firey personality, I’ll remember her best by her perpetual good nature – even when proclaiming “It’s bloody cold outside! When does it get warm?!”

Goodbye Grandma, I love you, and I’ll miss you.

PRELUDE
There’s something about secrets that truly feeds the ego. When one becomes a player or even mute participant in sometimes sordid, private details—anything from a pregnancy to a pirated operation—the human head expands to allow the size of such privilege and trust. We instantly feel we belong to the inner circle. Further, we now wield the power to make our own selection about with whom we should share.

I had been looking for this place called “candlebar” since we arrived in Sofia, hearing endless stories about the mysterious knock-requirement, lack of electricity and signless entrance. “I guess people say you have to be drunk to find it. . . “ our last sleepover guest said with a an apologetic frown, while others claimed it was near the book bazaar.

So, while hookah browsing at a friendly middle-eastern themed boutique full of miniature buddhas, moonstones and imported textile handbags, I decided to ask a local. And conversations, with friendly bilingual Bulgarians usually go something like this:

Andrea speaks Bulgarian
Bulgarian stranger answers in Bulgarian so fast that Andrea can’t understand.
Andrea displays confused face and confesses that she’s clueless.
Stranger goes back to English.
Andrea, still up for the challenge, attempts Bulgarian again.
Bulgarian stranger goes back to Bulgarian, slower, but not slow enough, hopeful in his new American acquaintance.
Andrea once again, is forced to confess her lack of comprehension.
Bulgarian goes back to English. . . . .and the cycle continues.

But what a nice guy. He came out on the sidewalk and gave us easy directions—it was just around the corner.

ACT I
With pasta in our bellies and politics on our mind, Boudreaux, Matt, Bill and I engage in a post-dinner search around 10:30. . .we find Ugo, look right, see a black dog, . .crawl under the graffiti’d wall, (okay so there was no graffiti’d wall) enter through the grand English-inspired gate and come upon what looks to be an apartment door, with various buttons and name plates. Hmm. It felt wrong, just how it was supposed to feel (fun!). But what could I do? I rang the buzzer. Almost immediately, we hear a sound, push, and in we fall. . .toward a candlelit stairway and then a wall-size mural of a nude woman with a few yellow pears in her hands. . .up we continue, a daberden is exchanged, and then we oh-so-curiously peer from room to room, each interrupted squatter, necker, drinker or conversationalist looking up at us as though we might have been Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut. The ceiling was high. The cushions were low. The paintings were childlike, yet erotic and the whispering was almost rhythmic.. Michael and Matt went off in search of a substance. (and found some absinthe) while Bill grabbed a guitar and I picked up a Madagascar photo book from a nearby shelf. We sat, listening to Bulgarian voices, American music and a few English conversations, too. The only window I saw framed dark branches with indirect moonlight, helping me to imagine we’d found a cottage deep in a Balkan forest. I was drinking delightful herbal tea with a convenient warming mug-tops and so I sipped and gazed and inhaled and listened to the crackle of my clove. Turns out absinthe is a highly potent, black-licorice tasting liquid often drank by hallucinating poets of the 60s (and a few bohemians at Montmartre at the turn of the century as well). Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong decade, but that’s another blog. Apparently they outlawed one of the five ingredients awhile back, so now it’s left with a much softer mind-altering mix–perfect for Michael’s taste. I didn’t think he would ever get up from that bloody red cushion. But eventually, our friends grew restless. Matt wanted to meet a Bulgarian friend, Kamelia at candlebar. But wait, weren’t we AT “candlebar”? It had occurred to me that there weren’t enough candles here, but frankly, it just didn’t seem likely that we’d stumbled onto two knock-required miastos in one night and on the same street! And this trippy little tour had been a sufficient distraction.

INTERMISSION
So we met Kamelia just a block away and headed toward the Zion sign, where there was a many-layered door of leftover-scrap wood and distressed two by fours—a square entrance that had surely been driven through before this final construction. We could hear the party, just beyond the door. Could sense the life on the other side of this wall.

So, was there a secret knock?
Wouldn’t that make sense?
Was I just thinking of Stand By Me?
But we just knocked—a regular sort of hard, three-rap style.
And we knocked again.
And we jumped around trying to warm up in the square, makeshift shelter that, in a small town, might be called a porch. Here in the city, next to glass doors,, café umbrellas and apartment stairways, though, the awkward frame, (taken from what woodpile, exactly?) was oddly out of place.
We waited maybe a full 35 seconds.

Then, the object of our stares finally creaked (really creaked) open and a customer let us in.

ACT II
And there we were in the actual “candlebar.” Eyes and fire lit the high ceilinged room, and the wicks on every wooden stool, floorboard, counter and wall (as well as the liquor) must fuel the burn. It was more of a barn than a bar. And it had history. This very space was the original publishing house of one the first communist newspapers in Bulgaria. And no sooner did I rest my wine glass on a wax-encrusted table, than I noticed a communist-red relic, the sketched outline of a Gorbachev-looking head and a half-faded block Cyrillic message, resting on the wall-lined shelf. The trendy truth, is that I’d shopped for items that were manufactured to look that old and symbolic.

A corner bar, loft-included layout and open staircase made it feel like a Highlands Ranch house great room or a studio in downtown Seattle. I can see you. You can see me. (Without the stainless steel appliances and Plush Pottery Barn textures.) But I suppose this visibility carried a controlling kind of connotation, too. I tried to imagine the communists, digging into my memories of pop culture. I thought of the Soviet Union, the ending of the cold war, Wind of Change by the Scorpions and that movie Gorky Park, which I had never seen. I was just starting high school when the Berlin wall fell. What did I know about communism? All I could really visualize were suited men with fur caps like the Russian’s bodyguards in Rocky 4. I tried to picture them all rushing around like a great campaign volunteers, operating antiquated printing presses and believing, with 4:00 AM kind of fortitude, in their cause. I made a mental note to pick up the popular historic novel about Bulgaria’s pre-democratic times. I needed to know more.

We stayed at “candlebar” until around 3:00, when our yawning (but certainly no overhead lights) pushed us out the door–our exit, of course, much quieter than our arrival.

And so, tonight, Sofia got a little sexier, we became more of a local. . .a member of some, mysterious, urban, Eastern European secret society. And that felt good.

So I know, I know. You’re thinking: Salsa is a Latin American thing. Perhaps Peurto Rican? Maybe it comes from Cuba, the Dominican Republic or Columbia? And you, Andrea, are volunteering in Bulgaria. Truth is, this similar-to-Mambo, side to side, eigh-count dance came from all these places. But New York first came up with the nickname.

The word “salsa” in any context (Mexican garnish or Pachanga), means to “spice things up.”

But rest assured that since we’re in Bulgaria, a land of virtually spice-less food, it’s all about the dance. Salsa lessons are very popular, as they were in the United States a few years back. For around four leva (about $2.50) you can feel sexy with about 35 other fresh, young twenty-somethings (oh my god I am not a twenty something) as you watch the hottest body of all count to ten up on stage.

It was in a back-alley, between-buildings, up the sign-less stairs sort of place—I never would have found it on my own. The Lincolns, Toni, Svetlina and a visiting volunteer, Jesse, were leading. Smelling of sweat and feeling red all over (or maybe it was just the flushed faces), it was packed with line after line of smiling girls and guys, most of them in heels, unabashedly ready, it seemed, to attempt salsa. Of course, everything was taught in Bulgarian. Except for the counting, which was in Spanish. But as I twisted and slid and jazz-squared my way through the hour, I realized that despite his incessant instructions, watching and emulating was enough. Everyone moves their hips in a pretty similar language. And there’s no doubt that my multiple viewings of Dirty Dancing was positively crucial to my progress.

The best part as that it felt so much like America! People were unafraid to look the fool. Nervous, but happy sideways glances and “we’re in this together” looks all around. That enormously satisfying feeling most often experienced amid a public spectacle when you suddenly bond with the stranger on your left.

There, was, in the room, a sense of community. You see, one of the major components missing from the adult culture here are “clubs”. I’m not talking about post-midnight sweaty dance spaces, but common interest groups. So think about it (take a deep breath) no book clubs, running clubs, scrapbook clubs, baby clubs, dinner clubs, writing clubs, chess clubs, sewing clubs, biking clubs, climbing clubs, car clubs, investment clubs, card clubs, poker clubs and you get the point. I could spin the same diatribe on neighborhood councils, junior leagues, press clubs and professional associations. They’re pretty rare.

In America, we like to gather, share ideas, debate and playfully smother our opinions all over our fellow friends, enemies (and relatives!). Our society, schools, professions, and neighborhoods encourage us to “get together” all the time. These institutions wisely know that group-play as such leads to self-evolution and societal progress. And we do, or rather, I did.

So what’s the story? Are Bulgarians anti-social creatures? Why don’t they more often organize these get togethers? I don’t know for sure. Perhaps due to the oppressive, fear-inducing, communism of the past, (meetings in the home may have created suspicions of clandestine activity) as well as the European general disregard for schedules, they just tend to go about gathering in a less formal manner. In place of schedules, dues, nominated positions, Christmas party or committees, there are wildly-flowing, late-starting, competition-free meetings and conversations over cappuccino at the corner. In the U.S., we work more hours, host more dinner parties and always seem to be late for the next meeting. Perhaps were a bit too uptight?

The question, then, becomes: Is societal progress and personal growth possible without some structure? Yes, I think so, but structure certainly speeds up the process and increases efficiency. And you know America: speed and efficiency are top priorities. Why? Because this allows us to do more. And more, at least when you’re talking about knowledge, professional progress or intellectual growth, (not sweaters or subarus,) to me, is actually better.

So I guess salsa lessons are a start. It’s not exactly a common interest group. Someone’s making money and there’s no public (or private) exchange between myself and the other participants. But maybe, if we can listen, smile and move together, in a weekly scheduled format, there’s hope for more.

Surprisingly, I have to remind my American friends and family that Bulgarian’s don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Bulgarian’s aren’t bad people; they just don’t care about the pilgrims and the Indians as much as we do. Andrea and I spent Thanksgiving with only American volunteers, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

About 15 of us met at a Bulgarian ski town called Chepelare, where one very lucky volunteer from our group has been placed. The group was composed of “B16s” and “B18s” – the numbers designate the Peace Corps “class” we belong to. The two tribes didn’t know each other very well, but this is no big deal, when you’re living in Bulgaria, our commonalities are obviously enormous.

One of the B16 is the champion warrior of his tribe, because of how he managed to provide the main course for our Thanksgiving dinner. There was no Turkey for this Bulgarian Thanksgiving – as you can’t find those enormous, full-breasted, American butterballs here. Turkey’s here are chicken-puny. Don’t worry though; small turkeys were not to spoil our Thanksgiving this year. The B16 warrior (let’s call him Dave) won a LAMB in a bet, and along with the other B16s arranged to have it slaughtered, gutted, and roasted for our feast.

Dave has a great Peace Corps assignment. He is responsible for attracting tourists to his mountain town, and gets to snowboard and ride his mountain bike all the time. Dave won the lamb from a Bulgarian who wagered that his super-jeep could descend a steep mountain road faster than Dave could descend it on his mountain bike. The Bulgarian with the super-jeep was WRONG. Good for my first Peace Corps Thanksgiving. Bad for the lamb.

The B16 didn’t exactly march triumphantly into Chepolare, the sacrificed lamb held high. During the journey, they drank like heathens while some Bulgarians did the butchering. So when the two tribes merged, one of those tribes was feeling “merry”. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that merry people can be pretty annoying to sober people. I used to work at “Sing Sing”, a piano bar in Denver which specialized in getting people good and puking merry, so I’m an expert about such things. It was like two sets of in-laws at a shotgun wedding reception.

However, after the cooking commenced, and after the B16s got a good nap in, the tribes finally merged. We made some excellent arrangements with a local restaurant – for a reasonable price we were allowed to use the huge kitchen and the picturesque dinner room, including a huge fireplace and a bear skin hanging from the wall. We had plenty of wine, stuffing, mashed potatoes, chicken, pumpkin pie and of course the lamb! We ate, we danced, we were Thankful, and we were satisfied. It’s important to note that the B18s were no angels this Thanksgiving; a merry time was had by all, in the privacy of our own dining room.

All’s well that ends well. And it did end well. We even had those magical day-after-Thanksgiving-left-overs. Sorry Anna for eating all the pumpkin pie.

Please check out the Images section for some visuals. The first 15 or so are from the afore described Thanksgiving.

Doskoro,

Boudreaux