Glory Ho

On Saturday I went to the bazaar. For me, this word conjures some very specific images–in one period of my life: 70′s style church halls, grey folding chairs, crochet-like bathroom decor and saran-wrapped loaves of pumpkin bread (if only Andrea Ashdown could read this). In another, I can hear the 90s song “How Bizarre” an incredibly catchy one-hit wonder during my summer in Boulder. But I digress. The bazaare here is a weekend outdoor market that creeps through parking lots and jumps along the train tracks through Kostanets. I had been warned that the “gypsies” or “Roma,” a somewhat mysterious, fortune-telling, pick-pocketing, but generally harmless minority group in Bulgaria would be on the prowl, so I watched myself.

Basically, the bazaare is the mall. While the fruit market is a half a mile down the road (I love going there as well–plums, tomatoes, corn, cucmbers and watermelon abound–think Farmer’s Market without gourmet labels, free samples, signs or crepes) here, you can find anything from live rabbits to leather sandals, saran wrap to spark plugs, toilet paper to pocketbooks. As Michael and I have found in our previous travels, clothing moves pretty fast. Even if people are peeing outdoors and subsisting on rice and cornmeal, they’re doing it with style. And this brings me to the dress here in Bulgaria. Women are pretty small here so they pull a lot off–you see bare midriff, pointy toes, platform heels, skin-tight tops, fishnetish coverings, gold covered teeth (a whole other BLOG topic entirely) and shiny-silver decals. And this is all at the bazaar. Not just for sale at the bazarre, but ON people at the bazaar. There is no casual–women, especially, are always dressed up. Shorts are non-existent. Even on men, I rarely see these. Flats, unless they have gemstones on the toe, or you’re a “baba” (grandmother), are rarely seen. I used to think I was sometimes impractical in my shoe choice, but I now feel like an REI queen.

Near the market’s entrance, I smelled a barbeque. It was coming from a table with a makeshift black tarp. A baba was turning “kyoofte” (small ground beef patties with spicesa and onions) on the grill and there was a dutch oven full of hot water and what looked like sausages of some kind. Remarkable, there were very few flys to be seen (flys are a big problem here). Lori, it must have been all those brats we ate toward our departure, but I knew the semll. She was placing them in massive, but remarkably soft homeade buns and then, there! A flower-smocked patron was putting ketchup on her food! I guess I didn’t realize how much I had missed American food until I had that brat with ketchup (yes, I know, many people do not eat brats with ketchup). But man, it was good. Of course, when I was finished, there was nowhere to dispose of my napkin. Finding a garbage can in outdoor Bulgaria is a challenge. It works like this: people nurture the dirt of their own property with water, scissors, prayers and superstitious traditions, but outside their gate, the road, the city center, even the decorative, biblical-looking water fountains belong to nobody. As a result, litter is a huge problem.

As I wandered through the market, I stopped to pet the rabbit long enough to engage in conversation with the merchant, who, after finding out I spoke English, was eager to tell me that he had a neice who was in Australia. Mitc was a kind, elderly man and I used all the Bulgarian I knew before saying goodbye. Then there was Ivan, who has a daughter studying in Los Angeles. I bought a tiny, battery-operated piano for Nia for her birthday from him and we spoke as many words as I knew. Albana and Tonya were women I had seen before, two of several ladies who sit idly in front of their barely recognizable “magazines” (shops). Stores here often don’t have signs, and so, to tell patrons there are good inside, they hang rubber-like red, blue and yellow streamers down the door of the entrance. I had a lovely time chatting with them as well. Bulgarian people, as this demonstrates, are often very kind and eager to speak with a foreigner. However, even in this small town, people don’t greet each other unless you specifically know each other.

Every time I enter the Bulgarian world, I become a little more confident and a little more comfortable. Just takes a little time.