Walking through the alley, in the rain, to reach the opera. . .
Bulgarian friends Maya and Angel. . .
Slurping up the spring water. . .
Boris pausing between drum beats at an environmental protest rally. . .
Monthly Archive for September, 2007
Oh my.
Recently, I took a trip to a Bulgarian medical facility for a chest x-ray (I’m fine Mom, really). So far, I’d been prodded, diagnosed and prescriptioned inside the Peace Corps office. But I’d heard the horror stories about the hospitals, been shocked at the descriptions of shoddy equipment and incompetent personnel. Yet nothing quite prepares you for second-world healthcare, until you’re there, floating through a sickly sphere, taking in a less-than-trendy vintage view, of a place traditionally designed to care for, clean and cure.
On my first trip, a Peace Corps staffer led me through blurry back doors into what certainly appeared to be a vacant building. Inside was no better–sun-stained, unlit hallways of complete silence. After a brief conversation with half a face behind half a window, we headed down the hall. An unusually small door. A knock. A tiny lab. A woman. Her gray lips held a cigarette. A soda can at her chest. Her uniform was a jaundiced shade of white. I wanted to run, but I was told to wait.
The leaves of a plant beside me rested on the floor as if they preferred this position. The clock indicated that it was 7:13. I’d come from lunch. Then I did that thing you do when you’re not sure what to do. I sat very still. Shifted my eyes. Kept my previously clean hands to myself. Somehow this feels safer, doesn’t it?It’s like a mental fetal position.
But I thought ok, it’s cool. I mean, I just need a chest scan. An x-ray. It’s not like I’m getting a papsmere. No cold gel. No gloves. But somehow, comfort did not come.
Then I was in a room. A room with a shiny new x-ray machine. Wow! That was encouraging. But upon further inspection of the room, I realized, that obviously, this machine had been stolen. Obviously, it did not belong there. The perimeter of the room–the point where the wall meets the floor had not been washed in many, many years. It was lined with something sticky. Mice-holes. Grime. Scuffs. The walls were even worse. There was an empty bulb socket where a light should have been. The windows were not transparent. It was like seeing a High Definition Plasma Screen TV in a Cabrini Green project apartment. Like I had entered an abandoned house which was sometimes frequented by crack-whores. But today, by some tragic mistake, the medical supply company had mixed it up with the hospital and had een by to deliver an x-ray machine! Lucky me!
Oh I get it, I thought with relief. This is a dream. You know how in dreams weird things are always coming together. Like you’re at the zoo, but its the people that are in the cages, or you’re in the park, but your bedroom is there. Right.
But I did what I was told. What choice did I really have? And as I pressed my bare breasts against the cold glass machine and let that nurse photograph my insides and took deep breaths and squeezed my eyes shut, I was grateful that over the course of two years, this was the first time I’d been inside a Bulgarian medical facility.
Stay tuned for Part Two: The CAT Scan (Again, Mom, I really am okay!)
Fall has fell. I realize it when I paw through my pinks and pool-blues in search of earth tones, and find that I sent home all my winter clothes already. When I smell roasted red peppers in the hallway every evening. When I see the green apples emerge in the grocery boxes. When the smell of a cold leather taxi seat reminds me of the ride to my grandma’s on Christmas Eve. When Bulgarian faces become red with color, but empty of expression. When the flys begin to slow. When every day seems like football weather. When I realize the sun has become my friend once again.
When I notice that not only the leaves are changing. That I have changed. That I’m the one telling my Bulgarian colleagues: Don’t worry, it will work out. That its me who says to a friend, regarding lunch: Well, lets just wait until Wednesday and we’ll play it by ear. That the announcement of no Internet because my organization lost the telephone company invoice provokes nothing but a shoulder shrug and a reach for more coffee. That the plug falling from my computer causes me to simply restart and plug it back in, without a sound from my dirty mouth.
It’s hard to change. And I’ve found it gets harder as you age. But still, if you chip away, and refuse to get discouraged, one day you wake up and surprise yourself. . .
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When I joined the Peace Corps, I logically expected to find similar people to myself. Didn’t you have to ripped from the same roll of cloth if you went to live for two years in a developing country? Apparently not. Apart from politics, where a certain majority existed in predictable stereotypical fashion, we were a sundry lot.
So a year or so ago, I determined that our common thread must be our relative low resistance to change. New homes, new friends, new bosses, new jobs, new food, new language, new lives. It just made sense.
But that wasn’t it either. Plenty of us resisted with fierce force. Tantrums. Occasional tears.
What us volunteers really shared, in coming here, was the acceptance of a challenge. And if you rise to that challenge, after dropping some of your own baggage (or two L’s and and E), internal change creeps up the back stairs of your mind, wraps itself in an afghan and goes to sleep, making you think it had been there all along.
I was reading an article on Al Gore the other day. And this author mentioned the term “flow”, which is, I learned, after a quick trip to wikipedia, defined as the
“mental state of operation in which the person is fully immersed in what he or she is doing, characterized by a feeling of energized focus, full involvement and success in the process of the activity.”
Apparently, this term has been part of the business pop culture conversation for some time, enabling corporations to help their employees find pleasure amidst their work. It was originally coined in 1975 by this professor of psychology, y’all ready for this. . . . Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. (pronounced “chick-SENT-me high”) who is renowned for his work in the study of happiness, creativity and subjective well-being. The word ‘flow’ was used because individuals described their experiences used the metaphor of a “current that carries them along.”
Some might even call it finding the Zone.
Were do I find “flow”? One is easy to explain: writing. The other is harder. But perhaps it is best described as socializing with strangers. Gliding into a social situation, making introductions, guiding conversation down a Class 4 Rapids, connecting contacts and gathering personal observations into my own little invisible box. Strange but true.
Right now I feel a slightly unhealthy addiction to my laptop. I blogged about this over a year ago in Screen Swap, but that was even before Facebook, WordPress and RSS Feeds came into my life. Boudreaux and I can’t remember what we did before our computers. How did we spend our time? What did we do at night? What did we do on the weekend?
This is how bad it is: When I came into the kitchen this morning and our houseguest was on my computer, I had a momentary moment of panic. For a few seconds, I really didn’t know what to do next. But eventually, I calmly began making breakfast. It was morning and that seemed logical. Everything would be okay.
A few months ago, he said it best: “When Internet is down, I feel like I’m on an airplane.”
I talked to my friend Maury about it tonight.
Andrea: But, I’m being productive. It’s not television.
Maury: Well, you wouldn’t be telling me about it if you didn’t think there was a problem.
Andrea: But I don’t want to do anything else but work on the computer.
Maury: Honey, heroin-addicts don’t want to do anything but heroin, either.
Hmmmmm. . . .perhaps some balance is in order.
“Excuse me,” I called to Before and After’s bartender who barely looked my way. “Imateli gradina?” (Do you have a garden?) I was looking for a place to lunch on this 70 degree day.
“Ne” she said with a frown, clearly indicating, though this was the first time we’d ever met, that she was tired of these endless questions and would I just give it a rest?
I responded with one of my three alternating Bulgarian response behaviors. Kindness killing (big smile and thank you) or utter disgust, both designed to induce guilt. I know, this is not helpful for my aura.
And this time, I said to myself: What did I expect her to say? Well, I answered self-righteously, I expected her to say: “Noooo, I’m sorry we don’t (sympathizing mock frown just for me) but there’s a delightful patio that serves lunch right around the corner. Let me show you.”
Regardless of which side of the Atlantic you decide to eat, American customer service expectations include both an apology and an expression of sympathy when greeted with the word “no”.
And coming from such a culture has only set me up for continuous disappointment. In a city with no Target, a list of errands can take all day. And without helpful shopkeepers, it can take all week. Ironic isn’t it? In a country where power strips are sold at the power strip store and detergent is sold at the detergent store, you’d think they’d help each other out a little. But not in this town.
The scary thing, is that once again, America is the anomaly. We fly our freak flag without even realizing how ridiculous we are. After all, should they apologize to me? Do they owe me any sympathy? Did they mean me any harm? (No, its not personal, Andrea. How many times must we tell you that???) Okay, fine, it’s not personal. I guess its about human expectations. More and more, kindness has been creeping up the back stairwell of my mind. It seems pretty important. More important than being right. Than being clever. Than being funny. I’m trying hard to be kind.
So yes, from a human, I expect kindness–in this case demonstrated by sympathy or help.
However, whether or not an “apology” is necessary is another quagmire. Are we so eager to please in the United States, that we’re programmed to apologize every time we say “no”? Even if the receiving side deserves no such excuse or reason for our decision or circumstance? Worst of all, can this behavior be good for us? Doesn’t it degrade the confidence in our own actions if we’re always apologizing for those actions?
Think about it. Has there been a time when someone asked you to do something and when you refused, felt compelled to apologize for your response? Was that apology really necessary?
It’s part of a ritual from Andy, a dear friend of my dear friend Maury, about taking back your own free will.For some it’s about smoking. Others ice cream. For me, it’s about fingernails. It’s time.
The idea is this:
I am only allowed to bite my nails AFTER I’ve given myself full permission to do so.
I hereby consent to biting my nails of my own free will.
. . .and then I can bite them all I want.
I must make a pledge, swear to God, make a convenant and sign it in blood, that I will only bite my nails with written permission.
I cannot violate this covenant. Until I have given myself written permission, I cannot take a bite, not even a tiny little rip of a jagged edge.
Now, I know this sounds hokey, but I am truly beyond desperate. I guess the idea is never to give myself permission. Because if I really WANT to stop biting them, I would never do that.
So last night, we sterilized a needle and then found ourselves completely stumped on how to draw blood without inflicting an actual wound on my finger. I mean, have you ever tried to make yourself bleed? It’s a little disturbing. And my first few attempts were complete failures. Then Michael tried. But then I’d wail and he’d pull back.
Finally, he gunned it and we saw some red.
Here is my covenant:
:
Okay, so my sidebar is sort of spilling over this week. . .but not quite. . .you know, at the edge. . . lingering at the round, smooth rim like the beer foam on a bottle. . . . of Corona at breakfast. . . on a fall patio with arms covered in fleece. . and my Seven Jeans and a Bloody Mary bar. . . .and real nachos in front of me. . .and a whole bunch of of TVs getting ready for the start of the 2007 American football season. . .
But this is not a blog about football. Sigh.
To your left, you’ll find some recent discoveries. . .
1. Be Absurd. Be Very Absurd. I’m serious! This is from the Bust Guide’s online BUSTCard selection, and because I’ve found most free online greetings to be generic or geriatric, I love these smart-ass messages. With a name like BUST, you can just imagine the possibilities. Send with caution. Not suitable for all relatives.
2. Etsy. A lovely little online boutique to sell or buy handmade items. Find flower-splattered ceramics, purses from recycled peanut butter cup wrappers and candy-color-striped headbands. Dozens of sellers. A virtual fashionista and fortunata opportunity for all.
3. Pioneer Woman. I suppose I’m dog-paddling in the wake on this one, or as Pioneer Woman might say, behind the herd, but this modern-day writer-wrangler is a little Legends of the Fall, a little Dolly Parton and a little Dixie Chic wrapped up in a whole new brand of cowgirl. And she knows how to market herself–not to mention run photography contests with Price-is-Right-size prizes. Her comforting masthead is like a front porch you never want to leave. Cheers to Trixi La Doux for tipping me off.
