Glory Ho

On Tuesday, I met Katie Hill, the British Ambassador’s wife for lunch, then trudged up Graffa to go see the post office ladies that I loathe so dearly. It’s part of Bulgaria that I cannot get past. Two times ago, I actually burst—as in a shoulders shaking, smeared envelope sort of drama—into tears at one of the little pen-that-doesn’t-work-on-an-old-string stations. And last time, after they told me in the rudest manner possible that I was at the wrong post office, in a flash of newfound American power, I seethed: Why???? Why do you have to be so mean?? even though I’m sure they couldn’t understand a word I said.

But sometimes it IS easy. And this was one of those times. Apart from the usual geriatric body breathing on the back of my hair during the five minute wait, today I flatlined in a good way.

On my way back to Traditzia, I took a little shortcut between Han Kroomb and Neofit Rilsky. It was a side street, but familiar territory. Just blocks from the gallery. Here in Sofia, cars are free to park on the sidewalk, which pushes walkers to the street. That’s where I was then, black hippie skirt swishing and brown paper package swinging in the 50 degree January weather.

I came upon haggard man #785 talking to haggard women #234 and #987. He in the street. Them on their block stoop. Two stray dogs circled and wagged.

Stray dogs are everywhere in Sofia. Sewn into the urban streetscape. However, unless I’m running, which can occasionally inspire them to chase me, they don’t even bother looking my way.

But this one did.

As I made my approach, his brown pools, as deep as a human’s, definitely eyed me. Like all third-world mutts, he had that television look: big enough to keep up, small enough to play with children. Face of a Jack Russell Terrier. Short hair. Ears that pop up in that funny way. Like a piece of chocolate: a little brown, a little black, a little white.

Our eyes lock briefly, just as you might with a boy across the bar.

But I’m not the attention-giving type. I don’t fawn much over creatures that I can’t have a glass of wine and a good conversation with. Nothing wrong with ‘em. Just not my style.

Then the moment was gone. Or at least it was for me. I had moved on.

But not the dog.

Mid-stride past his turf, he lunged at my outside thigh from behind, tearing my skirt and breaking the skin with his dirty teeth. I screamed. It hurt. But I was more scared and stunned than injured. The next minute was nothing but slow-mo. No one said a thing. No one made a move. Even the air had been silenced. The dog was gone.

I backed away, struggling to hold my bags. . .reaching and twisting to examine the wound. .I kept looking at the bystanders with an expression that said:

Did you see what just happened! The dog! He bit me! Did you see that?

And they kept staring back at me with a look that said:

Yes, we saw it. But we don’t know you and we’re not going to help you. You best be going now.

I quite literally stumbled away in a daze, wondering whether my thigh or my soul was bleeding more.

I wasn’t angry. I just felt betrayed. By Sofia. By the Bulgarians. By the street dog himself. The city had become so familiar, so easy, so safe to me over the past 15 months. And now, I knew, a little bit of that was gone.

But there was no reason to be surprised. Perhaps these people regularly witnessed a dog attack. Perhaps they’ve been punished for interfering before. Perhaps—No.

Perhaps nothing.

I’m not going to make excuses on this one. In every country in this world, there exist certain flaws. This is Bulgaria’s. The fact that elderly women and men, a demographic of society that regularly needs help themselves, cannot move to help an innocent dog-bite victim on a residential street is a flaw. I really have nothing else to say.

My yoga teacher said this morning, that according to buddhism, if you are not in the present, you are nowhere, lost in the past of the future. And in either case, you’re missing right now. This is nothing new, but I love to hear it again and again. It is, perhaps, no definitely, the most poignant and valuable lesson of my adult life.

And here’s my first in a series of tips about how to live your life int eh present.

For as long as I can remember, to calm myself in crisis situations, “Everything will be okay” has been my oh-so-creative mantra. It becomes a chant, at times.

Recently, Michael advised me that a better mantra might be: “Everything IS okay”.

Good point, eh?

Furthermore, as I recently rested my head on Michael’s shoulder, instead of saying “Everything is okay” I randomly said “Everything is spectacular.”

Which has a really nice ring to it, as well.

You never know what I might be teaching my colleagues these days. . .

Vocabulary: Recently, we’ve covered: kitschy, bronco, tacky, PMS, gazebo, warden, plaque, bell-bottoms, canker sore, “ticked off”, “fill me in” “white elephant” “almost had it licked!” “arm and a leg” and “bundle of joy”. Also words like “actually” and “basically”, which are pretty darn redundant and picked up solely, though likely subconsciously, to gain more airtime. You’d be surprised how unhelpful the dictionary can be in these situations. . .

History: Yesterday, my colleagues wanted to know what YMCA stood for. The lines of the song kept ringing in my head: You can get yourself clean, you can have a good meal. . . .YYYYMMMMCCAAA. . Young. . . Men’s. . .Club . .of America? No. Young Men’s Christian Association! Did you know that the YMCA was started in the mid 19th century in London to house men who were living on the streets? Maybe you did, but me, all I could think of was swimming, and Village People (which takes on a whole new meaning here).

Techno-etiquette: Emails without subjects! All cap formats! No company signature! Cell phones alive and singing during seminars! Too many exclamation points! Can you imagine!!! I’m planning a seminar on Techno-Etiquette, and I tell ya, that mobile phone issue is gonna be a bitch. I was once at a Peace Corps seminar, in the center, in the front row, with an audience full of forty people, and when my supervisor’s cell phone rang–Savage Garden’s most recent Top 10, I believe it was–I am not shitting you–she answered that phone and actually carried on a conversation, while I tried to melt into the floor.

Sexual Harassment: Recently, my colleague asked me to redecorate the office. I suggested inspirational quotes and photos, perhaps even one of the Habitat founder. But my colleagues, Ellie and Bobi, told me that during communist rule, there were gargantuan (okay they didn’t use that word) intimidating photos of the party leaders, designed to be “watching over” everyone, so they would prefer no big “leader” photo. Fair enough.

But then she added, off-handedly: Besides, we’re not supposed to mention the Habitat founder in marketing materials anymore. When I asked why, they didn’t know. Approximately 10.2 seconds later, I was reading a Washington Post article about the sexual harassment accusation toward Habitat Founder Millard Fuller and his consequential firing from the organization back in 2004. Quite the scandal, I guess it was (I apparently had my head buried in the private sector’s sandbox when this came out). But when I reported this news to my colleagues, using the phrase “sexual harassment”, they were horrified. I soon realized, too horrified.

That’s when I realized they think he did something much, much worse.

I then explained that these particular accusations were not about rape or sexual assault, but based on butt-pats, hugs and inappropriate behavior with more than one female employee. That sexual harassment had come to mean a wide variety of behavior–anything which made people uncomfortable, perhaps as much in the pit of their stomach as on their cheek.

But then, that’s not sexual harassment, they said, genuinely confused.

Without much thought, I then replied: Yes. It is. In America, that IS sexual harassment.

And once again, they were horrified.

Hmmmm…

At the Serbia-Bulgaria border, my belly hit the cold silver chrome of the bunk’s protective bar as the train donkey-sounded to a stop. I was sweating under a BDZ transportation blanket that somehow smelled of nothing. My mouth tasted of mealy apple. Where were my socks?

Train sleep is like road-tripping cross-country with a teenage driver in a truck with no muffler or hood. It might also help to think about Willy Wonka (Daddy I do not want a boat like that.) Sleep happens, but then, ten minutes later, you’re vaguely aware of being hurtled through space at the speed of light, then realize the meteor you’re riding has spotted a deer, iceberg or stoplight, and is forced to stop immediately.

I’m in the top bunk where it’s safest. Michael is below, ready to attack thieves, murderers and rapists.

Through the open window, I could see an L of Christmas lights slowly coming on, changing color and disappearing into themselves again through endless clouds of steam. Someone holding onto the holidays. The train’s gears coughed and fidgeted and squealed with age. It hadn’t wanted to stop either.

Then I could hear the sharp rap. Could see the flat-tops of the navy-blue hats. Could smell their cigarette smoke alive, eagerly exploring our stagnant space. Michael handed over our passports.

They grunted, nodded and were gone.

Then another man with a tiny computer. More grunts and nods. A finger lick and page through. A shifty face glance.

Then one more. Hatless with a little grey cartoon moustache. Swaying and slurring.

What? Did we have WHAT?

Did you say 8,000 Leva?

Well, no, we don’t. Do YOU have 8,000 leva?

Bastard.

******

I had to pee.

There was something sinister about the train bathrooms. It wasn’t the filth or even the fact that you could see the ground going by as you glanced into the toilet. It was just that, well, they’re the perfect horror movie bathroom.

Perfectly equipped and just white enough to feel realistic. Dim and dirty enough to foreshadow the worst. Filled with everything a sadistic scene requires. Floor just big enough for a body. Small square mirror, perfectly positioned to see both yourself and a person coming through the door behind you. A simple lock. A window, representing potential escape, yet certain death. A crack-apartment light bulb color, which dims and brightens with the train’s speed. A steady, rumbling, with the occasional grind and rock.

I could easily freak myself out with irrational, claustrophobic-like panic. Ridiculous, I’m aware. But this was nothing new.

Back at home in our Blair Witch basement, where the crawl space is undoubtedly filled with decaying bodies from some early 20th century homicide one minute I’d be peeling my purple v-neck out of the washer, the next I was running up the stairs, trying to get past the gaps where something could grab my ankle. Then there was getting into my Jeep at 5:30 in the morning to leave for the gym. Still dark out. Old garage. All I could ever think was who might be in my backseat and what they were about to do to me. Growing up, even in our modern home, a 2 AM bathroom trip was unthinkable. I could never muster the courage to walk by the laundry room.

I have watched many horror movies in my life and my imagination is this dark dungeon of possibilitym recalling murderer’s faces, lighting schemes and attack strategies with photographic clarity. Patty McCormick as an evil child. Sybil’s mother out in the barn. Mia Farrow in the phone booth. Jamie Lee Curtis hobbling along the hospital floor. The blue-dressed twins in the hotel hallway. All those naughty teenagers camping at Crystal Lake. I loved them all.

Somehow, these memories never altered my sense of adventure. Due to endless feature films about ordinary people, I believe that if I were to experience tragedy, it would be in my own home, as a daughter, a babysitter, a student. I guess the directors knew what they were doing. They made movies feel like they could happen to anyone.

But when I met Michael, he refused to participate–and I wouldn’t watch them alone. Slowly, like the last ocean waves of Jaws, they faded out of my life. But you know the formula. If you don’t bury it, it’s not dead. In 2004, I saw “Monster” with a friend at the Mayan. Fascinating, well-done and disturbing. Then, one day, not long after, weary of a “Monster” scene I couldn’t get out of my head after an unnerving early morning run involving an overfriendly, but harmless Wash Park gardener, I decided that these films weren’t worth it. I turned the corner for good. What a relief that no one was waiting there to kill me.

And as I’ve become more life savvy, I realized that along with a sometimes sensible level of caution, these movies have also warped my sense of world safety. What do you know. . .serial killers aren’t common. Camping is a relatively safe weekend endeavor. Most individuals are not building a woman suit.

But I realized the media also had something to do with it, too. After Johnny Gosh and Adam in the 80s and I Know My First Name is Steven in the 90’s, I thought kids were abducted from shopping malls (and by lunatics, not their jealous other parent) every day. After Tammy Zywicki, I was afraid to stop on the side of Interstate 80. After Keri Swenson, jogging through any tree-lined trail, even during daylight, seemed like a bad idea.

Bad things do happen. But certainly not that often. And certainly not only to upper middle class, fairly attractive white girls and boys on the honor roll, as television seemed to tell me.

Now, as we travel around the world, angels, rather than demons, seem to land everywhere. Not everyone is good. There are plenty of people who want our stuff, like that smarmy police officer who asked us for 8,000 Leva.

But crossing the line into violence is much more rare.

It’s an old cliche to follow your instincts. One I often found confusing. How do I tell the difference between my my gut and my paranoia? But if I begin with a level, relaxed head, I will recognize that intuition when it surfaces. This, rather than exaggerated precautions, will probably be what saves my life.

That or Michael

Any way you move the letters around, I like the sound of it.

A few years ago, Michael and I gave his sister, Meagan, a present and spirited soul, a yoga studio gift certificate for her birthday. A few months ago, she lent Michael and I a yoga book from Baron Baptiste, life-long yoga master. Our gift had come full circle.

I’ve toyed with yoga before. Signed up for a class or two. Survived panic attacks during Bikram. But it’s always been more of a task than an experience. A line item in my planner. An event which required a careful clothing choice. An easier way to exercise than the run I am always avoiding.

Stressful, too. Where should I stand? Am I taking up too much space? I will never get my leg as straight as hers. That halter top is a-dor-a-ble. I wonder if it’s from Anthropologie. That girl with the eyebrow ring, don’t I know her? Yes, she was in my Master Program. And so on.

Do. Do. Do. Think. Think. Think It’s hard for me to stop.

This time has been different. I’m still Andrea, of course. Rereading chapters, giving self-tutorials and structuring my practice. I cannot go completely limp. I need something concrete to hold on to. And physically, it’s hard. Very. Hard.

But this time, I’m practicing alone with only my mat, my muscles and my mind.

This time, along with the instructions for Downward Dog, which inspires strength, sustainability and plenty of sweat, Baron slips in a little prose for the pose. Make a meditation in motion, he recites. Look high to the heavens, he insists. Open your shoulders to the sky and create space between your ears.

My gaze, unlike my expression during Taebo class, where I appear capable of scalping someone, should be soft and strong. The flow, from one move to the next, unlike my hurried, jolted life, should be slow and fluid. My breath is best, during both yoga and crisis, if complete and steady. I balance by bringing my hands together in prayer. I rest, when tired, by lowering into child’s pose. I lead, when ready, with an open hand.

As I learn yoga, I am learning life.

I listen to my body. I listen to my breath. I listen to this rare and inspiring sermon—one I could never find at church.

Just listen.

So, when we arrived in Bulgaria last year, there were these vodka ads. They were everywhere. And though we had no television and never picked up a Bulgarian newspaper or magazine, they were darn hard not to notice. (Please scroll down for a quick look)

I’d be walking along Vitosha, minding my own non-pornographic business when a blonde guy–roughly the size of King Kong—wearing angel-wings and a wife-beater, would be there, grinning down at me, as he peeked into a public bathroom stall where people were NOT going to the bathroom. Then I’d be waiting in line for the bathroom and on a postcard stand, another angel—female this time—would be leaning across a car hood, a tic tac toe of mysterious white powder in front of her and a blow job in progress behind her.

I admit I found them, well, intriguing, if not all that subtle. What a healthy sexual awakening Bulgarians must be having after after an exhaustive all-nighter of communist rule, I thought. That such ads were allowed across the side of a bus or a building was definitely shocking. In the U.S., of course, there would be committees and panels and press conferences full of parents, including a hastily-formed NGO called Mothers Against Sex Angels (MASA) and eventual legislation.

And while I don’t even have kids yet, it does beg the question:

If I had an 8-year old, would I prefer this billboard be broadcasted or banished?

What do you think?

It was kind of like a war zone. Think. . .Apocalypse Now. BlackHawk Down. Saving Private Ryan. Just less blood and more spectators.

The pop and woosh and crack and screams were all confusingly wrapped in peaceful, drifting smoke. Street dividers wobbled. Knees crumpled, searching for a fuse. Crowds scattered like cockroaches crawling from the light. Bus stop shelters cracked under teenage weight. Girls winced and ducked. Children screamed and cried. Perpetrators laughed with genuine delight.

There was a dark and marble sky with horses, obelisks and soldiers while a cherry and blueberry marmalade of Christmas lights covered it all. The street below just a black field of finished parties and scarfed snipers. Policemen walked and talked but seemed to serve no other purpose.

This was Belgrade, Serbia, New Year’s Eve, 2007.

Irony sat with a smirk, peering down from the shoulders of not-so-long-ago repaired administration buildings. After a 76-day NATO air raid just 8 (that’s right years ago, all because of that criminal Milosevic, they say, you find the sounds of explosion amusing?

We concurred. Since our primary association with Serbia was genocide and war, we should have expected anarchy. But to see Mr. Anarchy lighting an M-80 with a big smile on his face was startling.

However. . .it was also a hell of a good time.

Greg, Katie, Trevor, Michael and I had headed toward Republic Square after a homemade dinner at home, but even that guy we saw on the way—the one with the bloody head—didn’t really prepare us for what we found.

There was a smiley Serbian ogre with a missing tooth selling beer and sausages. Katie even gave him a kiss on the cheek. We turned circles every few minutes so as not to miss a beautiful new explosion. On my way to the bathroom, a gothic giant swerving in a drunk circle covered my mouth with his hand from behind, then swooped me down for a dip and a kiss before I screamed and ran. A sublimely happy Slovenian girl introduced herself and all of her friends, then we drank rakija with hot tea and delicious pizza. The guys chatted up Slovenians, Bosnians and Albanians who’d come to here for the cheap beer and relaxed rules. Roman candles burned, black cats always landed on (someone’s) feet, jumping jacks clapped and spun. There was music somewhere, but you couldn’t hear it. And the countdown? At some point, we knew. Hugs for you, whoever you are.

Serbia is like the rich kid in high school whose parents were always out of town. Everyone, even the students at neighboring schools, knew he threw the best parties. And they all showed up when he did. Balkanites could have more easily headed for Budapest, Vienna or Prague, each with so much charm to choose from. But Michael just noted that that the disadvantage of security is expensive and boring. There’s something very exciting about chaos. And chaos was apparently what Belgrade did best.

And why not. They’ve been reigned by no less than five empires over their sordid history. And then there’s the mess of border disputes, member-nation discussions and referendums around Serbia, Montenegro, Yugoslavia and the Former Republic of God Knows Who that I no longer even pretend to fully understand.

By 2:30, we’d had enough and headed back to our old European flat on Vlajkoviceva (pronounced vl-EYE-kovi-CHE-va) a couple blocks from the Sava church. The spiral staircase in that building was dreamy. It was like having a long slow sip of French wine every time I made the climb past hallway gardens, window-seat-landings and railing-locked bicycles. Past massive double doors, each pursing their wooden lips to hide art deco apartments. Ours was like a brown paper package tied up with strings. Full of art, light, square plates, antique chairs and a singer-sewing machine kitchen table. There was even a teeny tiny dishwasher, which seemed ridiculous. (In fact, all dishwashers seem ridiculous now.)

And then, there was the 200 Euro lamp shade that Trevor shattered. While he was sober.

We left on the train the next night.

But it seems we didn’t stay long enough. In accordance with Serbian Orthodox Church, which uses Julius Caesar’s outdated calendar, Christmas falls on January 7th, which makes January 13th the beginning of another New Year. And traditionally, this day is about stirring trouble. Even more trouble, including flying glass, fistfights and gun-drawing. One journalist called it a “a fiercely Serbian, fiercely wild thing.”

I guess we could go back. . .

I’m warning you, this first part is cheesy.

On Christmas Eve, we hosted South Dakota Toni and Bulgarian Bobi over for a little holiday hootenany. Michael soaked, boiled and mashed beans for burritos. He made sweet and sour for margaritas and mashed hard, unripened avocado’s into guacamole. I combined eggs, sugar, vanilla and cream for egg nog. I went through an old Oprah magazine and cut out quotes and illustrations and letters to spell Merry Christmas on the wall. I hung fifty-stotinki strings of garland across the table and over the lamp. We exchanged gifts. One a piece. I wrapped everything using a glue stick. We were listening to Baby, It’s Cold Outside, a Rat Pack special. We even had a tiny little tree, our first ever.

In short, none of the things we would have done in Denver.

And I loved it.

(Okay, you can put down the crackers now.)

So why Mexican? Well, besides the fact that if I had to choose one snack for the rest of my life it would be chips, salsa and sour cream, Mexico and Bulgaria are actually somewhat similar. Not exactly twins, but perhaps sparring cousins from the same red, green and white striped dysfunctional family. Both are developing countries with high corruption and rich neighbors who vacation at their resorts. Both have a history of long-term occupation, fairly recent independence and are now quasi-functioning democracies with identity issues. Most relevant to our party, finally, is that Bulgarians and Mexicans are fond of the same food.

Tomatoes and peppers are a huge part of both national cuisines. In Bulgaria, bean soup and bean salad are staples. Refried beans, pinto beans, jumping beans, need I continue? Then there’s corn. Here, it’s all over pizza and served between bread as a deli sandwich. Mexican cornbread is lengendary. Of course, Mexican food is much better, mainly due to cumin, coriander, chili pepper and cilantro.

See? There is always a connection—a way to wrap it all up in a big burrito and make it taste good.

Thanks to my Mom’s, Lori’s, Emily’s and Erin’s supply of American-made ingredients. We couldn’t do it without you.

I watched my Christmas classic last night. You know the one. Bedford Falls. Zuzu’s petals. Jimmy Stewart. Donna Reed, before she got her own show. Even Grandma Walton makes an appearance decades before anyone started telling Jim-Bob goodnight. (My Dad is responsible for that catch).

I’ve seen it many, many times, in a strange cycle demonstrative of our technologically confused times. As a child, much to my delight, the movie would air repeatedly on several cable channels during December. As a teenager, the idea of “intellectual property” and network competition limited the broadcast to one channel, once a season. So I bought it on VHS. Now, the world has come full circle, or rather full reel. Without my trusty copy in Bulgaria, I can download it from a wide variety of sites in about forty minutes, for free.

It’s my all time favorite. I love every little piece. Especially here, it represents all that is good and holy about America, wrapped up in a crocheted dish warmer with a big fat bow.

And I still love it. But finally, at 31, I saw it from the other side. I was struck with the simultaneous timelessness and absurdity of it all. This film never goes out of style because George’s wanderlust is familiar to many. All over the United States, people rattle the bars of their cubicle in search of something to wake them up. They want to make a difference in the world, aren’t sure how, but feel certain they can’t do it from their desk. They feel there must be more to life than what they’ve got.

The trick, this movie demonstrates, is to discover the difference you’ve made in so many people’s lives, by lending an ear, a dollar, or a hand right where you are. Giving of yourself. To recognize your relationships and appreciate your friends. Don’t so easily dismiss the mundane. It’s a very practical way to look at life, too. A convenient reassurance for millions. George managed to make an impact right there in his little town by helping others. And helping others? Well, that is certainly grand.

But to help them instead of yourself is just plain counterproductive. Especially if it doesn’t make you happy.

This was George’s tragic flaw. The agonizing scene with Sam Wainwright dangling on the ear piece, Mary and George nose to nose, is memorable and well done. But it’s love with a super-size dollop of genuine agony. From this miserable moment, he realizes there will be no world tour and defaults to his future fate. Then he goes on to a life of frustration, seasoned with a here and there sort of happiness. Or so we’re told.

Was he happy? Did he make the right decision? I’m not so sure.

We are all responsible for our own happiness. George Bailey forgot to put on his own mask before helping others. It’s (still) a Wonderful Life. That’s why we love to watch. Just make sure it’s the life you want.