How's that for a title?

A February aubade:

Winter is staying

Old light and cold cement

Breathe deep

Try to learn something about everything and everything about something. -- T.H. Huxley

I'm stuck in the office on a foggy Bulgarian Saturday.  The country has decided to stick with the traditional bureaucratic method of making paper copies of everything.  It reminds me of the Vogans from Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.  Everything must be stamped, reviewed, copied and filed. As you can imagine, I have been plugged into my ipod, looking for the best mindless work music to get me through the morning.Here are the albums I have so far consumed:the antlers - hospicethe strokes - is this it?the tallest man on earth - shallow gravespinback - blue screen lifevan morrison - greatest hitspheonix - wolfgang amadeus pheonixradiohead - ok computercold war kids - loyalty to loyaltyI'm giving the award for best mindless work music to ...... Pinback.

"Alexithymia is a relatively new term which means the inability to express feelings with words. The medical research coming under this term is showing what a lot of us already knew: If you can't express your feelings with words, you are going to have a lot of problems!"  (from Wikipedia)Why does it have to be called Alexithymia, huh?  This makes me so ..... something!  I just feel like....ARGGGG!In other news, British Airway Pilots have joined Sarah Palin, H.H Holmes, Paris Hilton, wet socks, and Scar from the Lion King on my list of things I hate.  They have declared a strike on the eve of Christmas travel.  This is only relevant in light of my upcoming winter vacation with Reginald Chatsworth a.k.a. Tobias Hewitt and his lovely parents.  My first thought after reading the news was "no big deal. blokes want some more money."  But then...Tobias informed me that his parents will be utilizing the afformentioned airline which could bust our English adventure.Also, I broke my Ipod 5 minutes before he told me this, making it a nominee for my worst 5 minutes of the year.Picture.

"Don't eat breakfast alone!" This is the advice which was extolled upon me yesterday afternoon by a group of babas (grandmothers) gathered behind my apartment complex. They sit there daily; perched on a long, white bench, drinking tea, watching cats, and talking about god knows what. But most of their time, I must assume, is dedicated to colluding with one another about all of the ways in which I don't live appropriately. 'Don't go outside with wet hair!' 'Don't leave your oven plugged in!" "Don't walk around your room with bare feet!"

Every day, I return home from work and they are waiting. It doesn't matter what time I arrive. They are there. If the weather is nice I will stay late with the kids, playing outside. If I have nothing to do, I will go home early. On these days I imagine that they will not be assembled at the entrance of my block, but they invariably are. Every time. For a short while I suspected they had a lookout or perhaps a tracking device, scrambling into position whenever the 'Alex is coming alarm' sounds. But now I feel confident that sitting in that spot is just what they do. It is their raison d'être.

Anyway, I nearly always stop and talk with these amiable women before retiring to my couch. I usually catch them mid-conversation, talking about relatives in Spain or cooking recipes. I must admit that they possess a creative talent for making a variety of dishes out of the same 10 ingredients. Rice with roasted peppers and pork, baked pork with tomatoes and garlic, tomatoes with rice and pork, etc. They all sound astonishingly dissimilar until you go to the grocery store for the ingredients. Nonetheless, sometime in our conversation, they will not too subtly mention something they have noticed about my lifestyle that conflicts with their Bulgarian paradigms of being. The fact that I buy my eggs by the dozen or go for runs on Sunday or take walks on rainy days seems to agitate them.

They are of course attempting to be benevolent in their criticism, genuinely believing that these activities will cause ill health and bad fortune. I get the logic sometimes. Perhaps the eggs will go bad, I need to rest for a day, or I will catch cold in rain. But they don't state it like that. Instead, it's a critique of a seemingly arbitrary aspect of my life. I've actually grown to like the daily assessments. It has become a highlight of my days. They notice things that I would never otherwise pay attention to, and they are neither malicious nor sensible, so I can usually shrug them off.

However, the latest advice, "don't eat breakfast alone" struck me for some reason. I remember my mom pounding into my head that eating is a social activity, pushing to eat family dinners and be together. Of course, as a kid, being stumped on the ground in front of the TV was much more entertaining than the prospect of gathering around a large rectangle plank of wood and looking at each other while we consumed. And so I would rebel and push and plead to eat in the basement where I could watch The Simpsons in peaceful solitude.

Well, as often happens, my childhood rebellion has matured into an adulthood habit and I've realize that I actually prefer to eat alone. This of course goes against popular advice. I particularly remember Michael Pollan touching down on this topic in his In Defense of Food. He wrote that eating with other individuals keeps us from overeating and helps us learn social norms and keeps us grounded and socially stable. So, in order to keep myself 'grounded' I have created an imaginary friend with whom I can eat my muesli in the morning. But, as sure as eggs is eggs, one day I will walk home from work, the alarm will sound, the babas will scramble into position and say "Don't have imaginary friends!" I can't win.

Kurt Vonnuget once wrote that if you cannot write clearly than you probably cannot think clearly either. I’m not sure if I could track that statement down. I recall hearing it on one of the 30 podcasts I listen to daily. They keep me grounded. I suppose. If you consider constantly brooding over the Afghan war, American healthcare reform, economic crisis’, global warming, genetically altered agriculture, water shortages, Chinese markets, mid-term elections, and a million other topics that are a million miles away from me, to be grounding. Probably not, but It’s worth a shot.

Anyway, I suspect that’s I why I am writing; to prove to myself that I can still think. (Kurt Vonnegut also wrote that semicolons are transvestite hermaphrodites, they do little but prove you went to college. Oh well.) Fydor Dostoevsky once wrote that 'work makes man kind and honest' and sometimes writing feels (as my dad says) 'a lot like work'. Many people once wrote many things, but it’s still worth a shot.

It was an uneventful weekend.

It's been a uncommitted week over here in Bulgaria. The swine flu (svinski grip) has taken it's grip (drum roll with cymbal crash) on the country. It's reached epidemic levels in several towns in the northern plains and the southeast regions of the nation. The already flu cautious (paranoid) Bulgarian culture have consequently closed down their schools for the week.

BULGARIA - Bulgaria declared national epidemics on Nov. 6

due to the quickly rising numbers of the infected people. The

health ministry has recommended organizing public events be

limited. All schools across the country have been shut down for

a week (to Nov. 13) to prevent further spread of the virus. (reuters)

There was of course an impending celebration by the TEFL volunteers, who considered this vacation to be the equivalent of an American snow day. The Youth Development volunteers, however seemed to be an awkward medium; a limbo of sorts. Trapped somewhere between work with our respective NGO's and the obvious lack of children we thus had a floundering week, not knowing precisely how to occupy our time without kids. Not vacation, but not work. I was reminded of my first several months in country, trying to accomplish a measure of real work, but becoming exhausted without doing much of anything.

In other news, MSU kicked off their season last night, which makes me miss home more than ever. The nipping November walks to the Breslin center in the final stump of fall have always been one of my favorite journeys, rivaled only by the zodiac/bike/hike/kayak/ ride from the Gills Pier ‘jedi’ to the ever changing location of ‘the sandy beach’ (Leelanau, Michigan).

Alright, I'm settling into work again, trying to slip into a day to day routine once more. I've been traveling a lot here at the end of summer. Last week, my friend Billy and I made a trip to the Southern Black sea coast before bus hopping up to Kazanluk to meet with fellow B24's for our MSC (Mid Service Training). I proceeded home from there, lingering in a few towns on the long, bumpy path to Topolovgrad.

The Black Sea was a great break. There is a large nature reserve that stretches from Sozopol down to Malko Turnovo on the Turkish Boarder. Since most people reading this will have no understanding of these seemingly arbitrary names that I seem to be making up, I will just say that it's a big park in the South East corner of Bulgaria. The park is about 1,500 sq. km. which is nearly 1% of Bulgaria (Thanks guy with no teeth on the bus!).

We jumped on the 5:30 bus out of Topolovgrad to the Black Sea and then an unexpecte and unappreciated additional 3 buses more to get to the park. In retrospect, I'm impressed that neither one of us complained or said a bad word about the trip. It's a true testament to our integration. Twelve hours for 150 km is pretty much run-of-the-mill these days. Anyway, we purchased water, milk, vegetables, meat, cereal and beer from a stand near the beach and hiked about 5 km down the coastline. Once we had passed a couple of flocks of shepardless sheep we figured that we were far enough away from the tourist scene. We set up camp, kindled a fire, made shishkababs and ate cereal out of half's of plastic beer bottles in the morning. We spent two days fartin' around like so and then headed up to training feeling like little kids.

Here are some pictures:

and a sweet song....

The village in which I had lived for the previous year is located just 50 or 60 km from the Devin water spring (the biggest distributor of bottled water in Bulgaria). Perhaps I have been spoiled by the refreshing and revered mountain water of the Rhopodi's, but I am slightly distressed when I look at the filmy reminiscence in my water filter after a single cycle. The residue is a yellowish paste that smells like shag carpet. I'm not complaining. I'm just a bit disquieted when I see every other person in the village drinking from the tap exclusively. Well, besides what they drink during their numerious hour long visits to the cafe.

On a lighter and less disturbing (perhaps not) note. I enjoyed a beer with a friend last night at a cafe in the center with an oversized umbrella suspended over the veranda. This cafe (I call it Umbrella) is kitty corner from the local discotech, a popular hangout for local guys....and that's about it. Well, in an effort to attract the younger, discotech crowd to their establishment, Umbrella unlocked the bigger speakers and played some techno-house music. I'm not a fan, but it's normal occourance and I'm used to it. Anyway, the standard base beat starts in: BUM BUM BUM BUM, then the forefront beat: WEEDEE WEEDEE....WEEDEE WEEDEE. Like I said, this is all pretty run-of-the-mill, but then something unique happened. I heard a voice that I recognized on the mix. It was saying "YES, YES, YES, YES....I BELIEVE. YES, YES, YES, YES....I BELIEVE." I could'nt place it, so I put down my drink and listened a bit more. "I BELIEVE, BEL-BEL, BELIEVE....IN THE STRE, STRE, STRENGTH OF OUR DEMOCRACY....YES, YES, YES, YES....YES WE CAN!" It's Obama! Yes, yes, yes indeed, a Bulgarian DJ mixed a techno song from the Barack Obama 'hope' stump speech. I've never been more awkwardly proud to be an American.

This pretty much much sums up the weekend. It was a tour of debauchery; a binge, a bender, a specticle of do-nothingness and manfulnessnish (?) with some fellow Peace Corps buddies. It was a recess spent floating down the Danube river, chattin it up about the significant and the trivial alike. After tackling the industrious task of inflating the large, rubber bus tubes, we only exerted ourselves in lifting the plastic, reclosable bottles of beer to our partched lips. It was a weekend well spent....and lost.

It’s been drizzly morning in Smilyan and I stand at the gate of my quaint garden and look out at the bustling main street, Deveti Septemvri. If only judged by this cacophonous main street, this small, mountain village could easy be mistaken for a more industrial, bread-and-butter city. The thin, stretched out town rests in a valley and is only 3 blocks wide at its thickest point, so any commerce is a public affair and it’s surprisingly difficult to escape the clamor of village life. But I digress… The garden in which I stand is situated next to a pallid communist style bloc apartment building (the only one in town and also my home) and pinned between an old wooden, one room house and large parcel of corn and beans. It’s flanked on all four sides by a gangly metal fence, topped with rusty barbed wire and a steel frame reminisce of a green house rests obtrusively across half of the plot. I’m holding a large wicker basket, proud of the unexpected mass of its contents. Potatoes account for most of the weight, followed by cucumbers and carrots. The heaviness of the basket however is an afterthought. I’m mostly in awe of the jungle that presents itself before me. In mid August, the fecund garden is unrecognizable to the ordered and tidy haven that it once was back in May. The place is an anarchy of vegetation. The pumpkins had trailed halfway across the garden and began invading the tomato’s domicile. The Smilyanski beans had climbed on top of the green house frame and reached sideways to cover the yearning cucumbers, as though they were playing a perpetual game of ‘king of the hill’. The flowers, which I had forgotten about, were a jumbled mess. Several blossoms had managed to peek out and demand that their beauty be appreciated, but the other shriveled buds laying under the attacking gourd vines proved that this chaotic environment was no place for a domestic flower. The encroaching vines and weeds had begun to suffocate all the plants and destroyed the geometric rows and walkways of my once controlled garden. These defiant weeds had evaded my weekly offensives all summer long, egging on the other plants to join in with its iconoclastic expansion upward and outward. I had attempted in May and June to keep the garden in control; pulling the weeds and clipping the bean vines so that they wouldn’t choke their weaker neighbors. But now, looking at this hectic scene, I have surrendered containment. The scene of green was a display of the unwavering ambition of every annual to spread its genes and make the most of summer before first frost. The garden was no longer my doing. I look over toward the tuber corner of the garden and I sympathize with the potatoes; draped on the ground, exhausted, appreciating the end of summer. I will leave all of this in a week. I’m being relocated to the much more austere city of Topolovgrad near the Turkish border. There will be more work and better resources to accomplish some projects that I’ve been wanting to do. I haven’t really had the chance to consider whether the work and move will make me happier or not. I’ve been too busy saying goodbye and closing the book on Smilyan. Of course, everyone asks me not to go and of course I hesitate and wonder whether leaving this place was not a stupid, impetuous thing to do. I wonder whether I should have exercised a bit more prudence in deciding whether I can be a successful volunteer here…or furthermore, what a good volunteer is. I could have weighed it out a bit more, made a more sound and developed decision. I was helping a friend in her garden the other day. She is notorious for having one of the healthiest and virile gardens in town. Her neighbors were envious because her plants had avoided the bugs that ravaged their potatoes and the virus that had crippled their cucumbers. I asked her how she kept the pests, bugs and viruses away. She responded that she puts the crops in different spots every year. The plants never stay in the same spot from year to year and never have the same neighbors. Every season, she “mixes and stirs the garden.” The secret to her success was to always be moving and changing. I think I’ve been persuaded by the logic; that a move will give me a fresh start and change will bring new opportunities. So I’m abandoning the place where I am comfortable and the people that I know. I’m leaving the ordered schedule and predictable next year for something more challenging and unpredictable. It sounds like maybe I’m just being guided by that same August abandonment that my garden is parading.

  Okay, so it's not my town...but it is humble.  This is Smilyan, home of the Smilyansky bop (what most of you would [but really very few of you] would recognize as a kidney bean), and some of the worlds nicest people.  

  My home for the next two years rests on the southern slope of the Rhodopi mountain range.  It's about 20 km north of the border to Greece (but I cant travel their because of the stupid The Schengen agreement hasn't yet taken effect in Bulgaria and probably wont for the next 2 years. But thats another rant altogether.)

  Anyway, depending on who you ask, there are about 1,500-3000 people who live in the town.  There are a lot of babas, goats, firewood and cheese here.  I think you get the jist of it.  check it out on this map!

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