Last week, we got a lot of snow. It was beautiful, and I had a lot of fun. Now, it's just cold. Actually, it's still really beautiful, but it's difficult to appreciate given how cold it is. Things have gotten worse than this, and I look worse than this. Record low temperatures are the norm. My pipes are frozen, and no matter how many layers of insulated socks, long-underwear, and fleece I put on, and no matter how many wool blankets I climb under, I can't escape the chill. But I'll survive. And this is the last winter I'll ever spend in a cold weather place. Life is too short, and it's just better in sandals (or barefoot).

We have three dogs. Karolina is my guard dog.

No Name is a dog we rescued from a kid with a pitbull.

Pupa is my girl. However much fun she was having, I was having more.

The heavy snow and cold weather has brought interesting birds into the yard. A European Robin has been in picking berries, and a Wren has been picking up scraps. Both are common species, but I don't recall having seen either in the yard before. I know this is the first Fieldfare I've seen in the yard (again, Fieldfares are common in winter in Bulgaria). It's taken up residence in the apple tree, feasting on the leftover apples.

This was too amusing not to share. A California Sun delivery van snowed in in Bulgaria.

Even though I’ve got almost seven months left in my service, I couldn’t help but thinking a recent trip to Калофер (Kalofer) brought my time here full circle. In many ways, the trip epitomized my experience in Bulgaria, but it also made clear that – no matter how long I live here, no matter how well ingrained in the culture I become, no matter how much of Bulgaria I see and experience, no matter how well I get to know Bulgaria and Bulgarians – Bulgaria is a place I’ll never completely understand. The contradictions are just too great.

As I’ve mentioned before, Български именни дни (Bulgarian Name Days) are a big deal. At a minimum, name days are celebrated in much the same manner as birthdays, and many Bulgarians consider their name days to be much more important than their birthdays and celebrate accordingly. Tied to the calendar of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, a name day is a day of the year designated to celebrate the name and life of a specific saint. Everyone, male and female, named after that particular saint celebrates on the day set aside for that saint. Some, but not all, name days are associated with certain specific traditions. On Никулден (Saint Nicholas' Day), for example, a stuffed carp is traditionally prepared and served at dinner, while on Гергьовден (Saint George's Day) a lamb is sacrificed and served.

Йордановден (Jordan’s Day) or Богоявление (the Epiphany) is another name day with very specific traditions, and it is what brought me to Kalofer. Although celebrated differently across the country, the celebration is tied to Jesus’ baptism by John the Baptist in the Jordan River. The celebration in Kalofer is famous in Bulgaria, and it draws hordes of visitors annually, along with lots of journalists, photographers, and camera crews.

Without a place to stay and no information as to the specifics of the event, I arrived a day early in the hopes of securing some lodging and getting the scoop on the celebration. A mini bus picked a group of us up at the train station and dropped us off in the center of town.

The first thing I noticed was a large monument of Христо Ботев (Hristo Botev) towering over the town square. Botev is a beloved poet, revolutionary, and national hero, and if Bulgaria had its own version of Mount Rushmore, his would almost certainly be one of the four faces represented. Hence, it wasn’t surprising to see a monument in his honor, but it was surprising to discover a place where he is more beloved than Враца (Vratsa). As it turns out, Botev was born in Kalofer (he was killed in the mountains near Vratsa), and Kalofer combines the Epiphany with a celebration in honor of Botev’s birthday.

Anyway, upon arrival I quickly located a visitor information center and went to ask questions about accommodations and the celebration. But, on the eve of the town’s biggest annual event, the visitor information center was not open. So, I just walked around town trying to figure out where I was going to sleep and what would be transpiring in the morning. With one exception, every guest house I attempted to enter was locked, and they weren’t answering their doors or phones. The “river” where the Epiphany was to occur was a trickle of a stream no more than a couple inches deep and a couple feet wide. None of it made any sense to me.

It was now nearly lunchtime, and I wandered back to the town center. The only restaurant in town that seemed to be working was full, so I walked over to a guy selling fruit to buy some mandarins. After buying a kilo of mandarins, I asked the guy when and where the celebration would be. Following his instructions, I retraced my steps back in the direction from which I’d just come and found a couple guys beginning to construct a dam. Things were beginning to make sense, but I still needed a place to stay and I was hungry for something more than mandarins.

I walked back to the town center and saw a place which was advertising rooms for 10 leva per night. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I peeked in the window, but the place was dark and no one was working. Undaunted, I dialed the number of the place thinking maybe there was someone working somewhere who might pick up. Just as I was finishing dialing, a familiar face came walking through a nearby door. I couldn’t believe it. It was Илия (Ilia). This guy was a friend of a friend who I’d first met when he’d picked me up at the train station in Казанлък (Kazanlak) when I’d been there for the Rose Festival. I’d since run into him in Shabla and Sofia, and he was someone I’d come to trust.

He told me that his family ran the guest house I was trying to call, but, unfortunately, this was their last day running it. He said he knew of a couple other places worth trying, including one place that was basically a hostel. After a quick and disappointing lunch back at the restaurant, he joined me in an attempt to secure a bed. His luck wasn’t any better than mine – the hostel’s doors were locked and no one answered our knocks or calls – so, after we checked on the progress of the dam, he offered me a spot on the floor of his guesthouse with some Couch Surfers who would be arriving soon. I took him up on the offer and let him get back to work while I minimally helped with the dam and snapped some photos of the real dam-builders.

After a short nap in the sun, I returned to the guesthouse. Илия had sleeping pads and sleeping bags and a barn heater to keep the place warm, but he was intent on getting me a mattress to sleep on. The mattresses were in a storeroom under stacked tables and chairs. Despite my protests, Илия pulled and pulled, sending chairs toppling into empty bottles which were soon smashing onto the floor. Илия didn’t care and he wasn’t going to stop until he’d emerged with a mattress. I helped by balancing chairs while Илия tugged on and twisted a mattress until it finally broke free. The mattress was claimed by a Couch Surfer nicknamed принцеса (princess) by her friends who knew nothing of the work it took to get it out, but Илия’s kindness was not lost on me.

Илия soon filled me in on the details concerning the Epiphany. In a nutshell, everyone would stay up all night drinking. Around 7:30 a.m., everyone would head to the river. At 8:00, everyone would jump in the river and dance horo.

Things could have gone exactly as Илия suggested. We did join him and his friends at a house party where they were more than happy to share their food and drink, and, if we’d wanted to, we could have stayed until the next morning. But I bowed out early and headed to the river an hour earlier than that because I wanted to take photos. The photos below don’t do the event justice. Video is better, but, next time, if there is a next time, I’ll be in the water.

Here are some shots from around town the day before the festivities.

Construction of the dam was a fairly typical endeavor. A few guys who knew what they were doing managed the operation. A few more guys who followed instructions well and were hard workers did everything. And a bunch of guys who thought they knew better but were too lazy to lift a finger stood around and watched, barking out wholly unconstructive criticism and otherwise taking up space and oxygen.

While all of this was going on, unsupervised children were playing with fire ... literally.

Grandmas were dozing in the unseasonably warm afternoon sun.

And grandpas were navigating the icy sidewalks.

The following morning, the real fun started.

Located a few hours from Sofia by car and just minutes from the Bulgarian border, Lake Kerkini is an internationally significant wetland area and arguably Greece's finest birding site. Here are some photos from a recent weekend trip to the lake.

“От къде си?” or “Where are you from?” is one of the most frequent questions I’m asked. You’d think it would be an easy question to answer, but for me it’s not.

Several years ago, on a flight from Rio de Janeiro to São Paulo, an elderly Mexican-Brazilian man sitting next to me asked me the same question. After I told him an abridged version of my life, he told me a bit about himself and then said they had a word in Brazil for people like me. He said there was no such word in English. The word was “despaisano,” and it was used to refer to someone who is from nowhere but fits in anywhere. He then told me that I could choose to take being called a despaisano as either a compliment or an insult. I haven’t been able to find mention of this word anywhere else, and Brazilian friends I’ve subsequently asked about it have told me they’ve never heard of such a word. Perhaps I dreamt the entire thing.

As much as I like the idea of being from nowhere and fitting in anywhere, it’s not entirely true. I may not be someone who identifies with a particular place, but I am from somewhere. Being back in America for the month of August reminded me exactly where that is.

For most of my childhood my immediate family took a couple week vacation every summer to Wisconsin. My parents were both born and raised in Wisconsin, and our time was divided between their two families. Those couple weeks were always the highlight of my year.

While with my mother’s parents, we whiled away the days and nights going fishing along the banks of the Fox River, playing lawn darts, picking and eating fresh raspberries from the garden, visiting my mom’s aunts and uncles, driving out into the country just because and to buy fresh sweet corn, walking to the Dairy Queen for Dilly bars and the world’s best popcorn, sitting on the front porch and chatting up passing neighbors, watching nighthawks circle overhead dining on insects at dusk, catching fireflies after dark, being annoyed by the constant interruptions of my grandma’s police radio, and falling asleep listening to Bob Uecker calling the Brewers’ games.

The week with my dad’s parents was always spent at his uncle Floyd’s cottage. There, I learned to fish, catch and notch turtles, swim, golf, ride a bike, row a boat, paddle a canoe, play Uno and various other card and board games, play horseshoes, croquet, and croquet golf, chop wood, start a bonfire, and make roasted marshmallows and smores. It’s also where I tried, unsuccessfully, to water-ski and suffered through the chicken pox. At least once during our visit all of my dad’s family – my aunts, uncles, and cousins – would get together, usually at my grandparents’ house but sometimes at the cottage.

I’m not sure how anyone else felt about those visits, but I never wanted them to end.

After my freshman year of high school, instead of taking a vacation to Wisconsin, we moved there. I was sad to leave behind the life I knew and friends I had in Maryland, but I was excited knowing I’d be living in the same state as most of my other relatives, especially my grandparents. Sadly, one of my grandfathers, my mom’s dad, died of an aneurysm just a short time after we moved to Wisconsin. I’m not sure if I changed or the family dynamic changed with his passing, or both, but nothing was ever the same after that.

In the years that have passed since then, we’ve lost my other grandfather, most of my grandparents’ siblings, and one of my aunts. My one grandmother is in a nursing home and has been for some time. The other one is still living on her own, but her mind isn’t as sharp as it once was and she’s really starting to show her age.

Anyway, as a perk for agreeing to extend my service for a third year, the Peace Corps paid to fly me back to America for a month. I spent the entire thirty days with my family and didn’t even call any of my friends.

Spending that time with my family, I couldn’t help but think of those carefree summer days of my youth. At first, they seemed nothing but a bittersweet memory. But then I realized life is just as good now as it was then, the roles have just changed. My parents and aunts and uncles are now grandparents. My brother and my cousins are parents. Their kids all play together just like my cousins and I used to play together. The only thing that has changed is that one generation has been, in large part, supplanted by another, and the surviving generations have changed roles.

Seeing this, I told my grandmother she has a very cool family and should be very proud. And it’s true. My aunts and uncles have all raised amazing kids. Two of my cousins (and their partners) have adopted a total of five at-risk youth. Another is a pediatrician. One is a physician’s assistant. One has an M.B.A. from the University of Chicago. Another is working on his Ph.D. at Cal Tech. Several are teachers. All are honest, responsible, kind, generous, and hardworking folks who make me proud. I’m proud of them and proud to be one of them.

So the next time someone asks me “От къде си?” or “Where are you from?” I think I’ve got an answer. I’m from a wonderful family.

Here are my nephews enjoying their summer. I only hope they'll think as highly of me as I think of my uncles.

And here are some of my favorite shots of other things seen during my month at home.

This is Uncle Floyd's Cottage, quite possibly my favorite place on earth.

And these are from Big Lake ... on which Uncle Floyd's Cottage sits.

My parents also live on a lake. On one of my last days home, my dad and I enjoyed this sunrise together. It's a morning I'll never forget.

An almost full Wisconsin moon.

I’ve seen more of Bulgaria than almost every Bulgarian I know. That doesn’t mean I know Bulgaria more than they know Bulgaria, but it does give me a perspective they don’t have. And it’s cool to be able to take Bulgarians to places in Bulgaria that they’ve never been, which is exactly what I did back in July in taking some friends on a hike from the Рилски манастир (Rila Monastery) to the Седемте рилски езера (Seven Rila Lakes) and the Скакавишки водопад (Skakavitsa Waterfall). Here are some photos from the hike.

The first part of the hike was an uphill slog through the forest. Eventually, the forest opened up to views of the surrounding mountains.

One of the coolest things we saw on the first day of the hike were these tiny houses built into the hillside. In the middle of nowhere, the houses undoubtedly are without electricity and running water. It can't be an easy life, particularly in winter.

Our first night was spent in Хижа Иван Вазов (the Ivan Vazov Hut). It was a steady, seven hour, uphill hike to the hut from the monastery.

The area around the hut was fairly scenic.

But it paled in comparison to the Seven Lakes.

Before I came to Bulgaria, I’d never heard of Bayram. Bayram is the Turkic word for a festival or holiday, and it’s used by Bulgarian Muslims to refer to their two most important religious holidays: Eid ul-Fitr and Eid al-Adha.

I recently spent Eid-al-Adha in my favorite little Bulgarian Muslim village, Gorno Dryanovo. Also known as the “Feast of Sacrifice,” Eid-al-Adha commemorates Abraham’s faith and devotion to God. According to Muslim belief, God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son. Despite loving his son, Abraham’s faith and devotion to God was so strong that he agreed to such a sacrifice. Abraham’s obedience to God was rewarded and God spared Abraham’s son’s life, allowing for a lamb to be sacrificed instead.

Eid-ul-Adha (Bayram) traditions vary slightly from place to place, but, in Gorno Dryanovo, Bayram combines aspects of Halloween (kids go from house to house collecting sweets and small gifts), Thanksgiving (there is a feast – a feast which the more fortunate in the community give thanks for by sharing their blessings with the less fortunate), and Christmas (first and foremost, this is a religious holiday). To be able to share in this experience as a non-Muslim was pretty special.

Within minutes of arriving, we witnessed a lamb being "sacrificed." Walking around, we saw perhaps a half-dozen similar spectacles. Typically performed in barns, the killings were often done in front of other animals - sheep, horses, cows - all of which were visibly distressed. From start to finish, the whole thing takes about 40 minutes. Interestingly, only 20 to 25 men in the village actually perform the killings; most people can't stand the sight of all the blood and guts. Surprisingly, none of that bothered me. The smell, however, did get to me in one particularly confined space.

Some kids helped with the slaughter. Others witnessed it while walking around collecting sweets. None of them seemed phased in the least.

Sheep intestines are between seventeen and twenty four meters long.

I assume this is the stomach.

Whatever it is, it was full of grass.

This is where the smell got to me.

This probably wouldn't fly in America.

Even without witnessing the slaughter, it would have been a great weekend. Here are some shots from and around the village.

While early fall in Bulgaria is the time for eating peppers, late fall and winter is the time for eating potatoes. Truth be told, both peppers and potatoes are eaten year round, but potatoes are a definite staple during the coldest months in Bulgaria. I'll be dishing out some potato recipes in the coming weeks, but I felt compelled to start with the favorite one of Bulgarians and visitors alike: пържени картофи със сирене (French fries with feta cheese). This recipe combines some things I've picked up from my Belgian sister-in-law and her family with some things I've learned in Bulgaria and some of my own preferences. The result is consistently scrumptious fries.

1. The first step is to pick the right potatoes. Belgians would never use anything other than Bintje potatoes, but they aren't readily available outside of Belgium and The Netherlands. In America, Yukon Gold and Russett potatoes are acceptable substitutes. In Bulgaria, just choose a starchy potato.

2. Belgians and Bulgarians almost always peel their potatoes, and this would logically be the next step, followed by a quick wash. But I prefer fries with the skin on, so I simply wash the potatoes.

3. After washing the potatoes, cut them into 1/3 inch sticks. Rinse potatoes and submerge in a bowl of cold water. After letting potatoes sit for 30 minutes, drain bowl and rinse potatoes in cold water until the water is clear. Drain potatoes and pat dry with paper towels.

4. Add potatoes – cooking no more than one handful at a time – to preheated deep fryer. Fry potatoes, stirring often to prevent sticking, 3 to 5 minutes until just cooked but still white. Transfer fried potatoes onto dry paper towels to drain, and let stand at room temperature at least 30 minutes.

5. Return potatoes – again cooking no more than one handful at a time – to deep fryer. Fry 2 to 4 minutes or until crispy and golden brown. Transfer fries onto dry paper towels to drain briefly and then top with shredded сирене (feta cheese). Salt and pepper to taste.

At some point, I'm going to try adding crumbled bacon along with the сирене, but, for now, these will suffice.

A couple weeks ago, I enjoyed a long weekend in Мелник (Melnik). While there, I briefly visited the nearby Роженски манастир (Rozhen Monastery). There's been plenty written about both places by others, and I don't really have much to add. The area is known for three things: outstanding wine (apparently the local stuff was Winston Churchill's favorite, and he bought 500 liters annually); interesting architecture; and unique, natural sandstone pyramids. None of those three things is enough to lure me back, but, surrounded by friends, I can't think of another place I'd have rather been.

Here are some shots of and from around town.

As much as I enjoyed hanging out with friends in Melnik, the highlight for me was a two hour walk from Rozhen to the Rozhen Monastery and then Melnik. Glorious weather, fall colors, amazing sandstone pyramids ... it was brilliant.

I'm still working on my stash of peppers, and this is a super easy "salad" that I really love - Печени чушки с чесън (Roasted Peppers with Garlic).

Ingredients:

6 peppers

2 large garlic cloves

3 teaspoons oil

1½ teaspoons vinegar

salt

fresh parsley

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400° F (or use broiler).

Cut tops off peppers.

Quarter peppers lengthwise and discard seeds and ribs.

Place peppers, skin sides up, on pan and bake until skins are blistered and slightly blackened.

Transfer peppers to a bowl, cover, and let stand until cool enough to touch.

Peel skin from peppers and cut each pepper lengthwise in half.

Mince garlic and in a bowl toss with peppers, oil, vinegar, and salt to taste.

Cover peppers, place in fridge, and allow to marinate (preferably overnight).

Serve with fresh, chopped parsley.

Roasted Peppers with Garlic.

While some people prefer their peppers stuffed with meat and rice, others, including me, prefer a different kind of stuffed peppers - Пълнени чушки с яйца и сирене (Stuffed Peppers with Eggs and Cheese). This is a simple recipe for making such peppers.

Ingredients:

10 peppers

3 eggs

14 ounces cirene (feta)

3 tablespoons oil

1 teaspoon paprika

1 teaspoon black pepper

1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350° F.

Cut off tops of peppers and remove the seeds.

Beat the eggs, grate the cheese, and combine and mix in a bowl with spices and fresh parsley.

Stuff each pepper with the mixture.

Grease an oven proof dish with oil.

Put peppers in dish.

Cover dish with foil and cook peppers for approximately 20 minutes in oven.

Uncover and cook for another 10-15 minutes until the peppers are fully cooked.

Stuffed Peppers with Eggs and Cheese.

September in Bulgaria is a feast. Gardens overflow with tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, potatoes, apples, grapes, and other homegrown fruits and vegetables. What doesn't get eaten gets canned in preparation for the long, cold winter ahead. Being one who much prefers veggies fresh as opposed to canned, I have been gorging myself every day thanks to the hard work and incredible generosity of Баба Ристена (Baba Ristena). Таратор (Tarator) and Шопска салата (Shopska Salad) have been staples of my diet, but lately I've been inundated with peppers. To remedy this "problem," I've taken to making what a friend describes as a "true Bulgarian dish" - Пълнени чушки (Stuffed Peppers).

Here's her recipe:

Ingredients:

10-12 large peppers

1 cup rice

1 lb. mincemeat

4 medium-sized tomatoes

2 onions

3 tablespoons oil

1 tablespoon paprika

Salt and pepper to taste

Fresh parsley

Yogurt

Directions:

Cook the rice.

Preheat oven to 375° F

Cut off tops of peppers and remove the seeds.

Heat oil in a frying pan.

Finely chop the onions and fry in oil for 2-3 minutes.

Add the meat and cook 5 minutes.

Add the rice and diced tomatoes.

Add salt, pepper, and paprika.

Cook for 2 minutes.

Stuff each pepper with the mixture.

Put in an oven proof deep dish.

Fill the dish half way with water.

Cover dish with foil and cook for approximately 30 minutes in oven.

Uncover and cook for another 15-20 minutes until the peppers are fully cooked.

Sprinkle with fresh parsley.

Serve with plain yogurt on the side.

Stuffed Peppers with Mincemeat and Rice.

A fellow volunteer, the one from Горно Дряново (Gorno Dryanovo) who recently had a "wedding," put together a remarkable video capturing her time in Bulgaria. We were first shown the video at our close of service conference. Several of us were moved to tears. Surprisingly, few of the Bulgarians who watched the video with us were as moved as we were. Talking to some of them afterward, it was apparent why. They are from larger cities and the video does not represent their "Bulgaria." No, it's not everyone's Bulgaria. But it is someone's.

A little over a year ago I visited Горно Дряново (Gorno Dryanovo) for the first time. I loved it and vowed to return. The volunteer living there told me I needed to come back for a wedding, and she promised to tell me when there would be such a wedding. As her departure date grew near and I still hadn’t heard anything, I resigned myself to the fact I wouldn’t witness a wedding in Gorno Dryanovo. Then, at the last hour, I was invited to a wedding. And not just any wedding. Her wedding!

So, in mid July, I returned to Gorno Dryanovo for a village wedding … sort of anyway. It was a staged “made for TV” and “made for the village babas” “wedding.” No matter. The entire weekend was beyond brilliant. Prior to the “wedding,” a group of us put the final touches on a map created as part of the World Map Project, opened a new sports’ center (and kicked some Bulgarian ass in soccer thanks to some favorable officiating), and celebrated the groom’s birthday. The entire time we enjoyed the company of the hospitable and gracious locals, and, ultimately, we joined the entire village in celebrating the “wedding” of two people who we’d all grown to love. It was the perfect end to two years of service together and perhaps the best weekend of my service in Bulgaria.

Even though I knew the village would be the perfect place for some amazing wedding photos, I left my camera at home and just enjoyed the festivities. Details of the wedding can be found here, but I think pictures tell the story as good or better than words.

This is one of my favorite shots of the happy couple (Photo by James Gholson).

The second wedding had no chance of comparing to the first, but it was fun, interesting, and a great thing to have been invited to. Since it was my first actual “Bulgarian” wedding, I did bring my camera along (but I hung out in the back far away from the action and behind a lot of other people). Here’s what transpired.

The bride and groom were separated. The bride and her friends got ready for the wedding in one place, and the groom and his friends “prepared” for the wedding in another place.

A little after 3:00 p.m., the groom and his entourage departed for an apartment where the bride was holed up.

Here are the groom's friends waiting for him to come out.

At 3:30, the groom's entourage arrived at the bride's apartment. The groom came with a bag full of coins which he would use to bribe his way into the apartment. Some of his friends had crowbars and other tools for breaking in the door just in case we were refused admittance.

The groom's entourage gathered outside of the bride's apartment.

People watching from above.

The pied piper leading everyone into the apartment.

After being admitted, the groom first had to find the bride and then he had to find her shoes. Not surprisingly, the shoes didn’t fit requiring the groom to make them fit by adding money to them. Once the shoes fit, the bride and groom kissed, and everyone had a drink or two to celebrate.

The bride was found and the shoes fit, so everyone could drink and be merry.

Then everyone left the apartment, and the wedding party went out into the courtyard and danced horo.

The triumphant bride emerged.

And then the dancing started.

Following a couple dances, it was off to a civil ceremony, which would make the wedding official.

The governmental hall was like a cattle call with one wedding after another. Great care was taken to make sure no two brides crossed paths, as such an encounter would bring bad luck to their marriages.

Waiting to enter the wedding hall.

Inside the hall.

A strange ritual where the bride and groom attempt to eat each other.

Exchanging vows.

They're married!

"Oh, well," the groom thinks, "Nothing I can do about it now."

The reception line.

Some of the many flowers, chocolates, and other gifts.

The newlyweds emerge.

After the civil ceremony, everyone piled into their cars and headed to the church so that the wedding could be recognized and blessed by the church.

An obligatory flower girl pose before heading off to the reception.

I wish both couples nothing but success and happiness and thank them for allowing me to be part of their most special days.

I celebrated my two year anniversary in Bulgaria with the people who first welcomed me here: my language trainer and her family and my host family from Boychinovtsi. Two years earlier I had sat in the same room with the same group of people feeling like a complete outsider, an intruder in a place I didn’t belong. But two years down the road I sat there and felt completely at home. Everything and everyone there was familiar and comfortable, and it was a typical Bulgarian get-together of family and friends of which I was a part. The table overflowed with food, drink, and laughter, and I soaked it all in as long as I could.

Eventually, I pulled myself away from the table and crawled into bed wondering if the day was as meaningful and special for them as it had been for me. It didn’t take long before I was fast asleep.

Then, a little more than an hour after I’d gone to bed, I was awakened by some strange sounds. Was I dreaming or was someone actually calling my name? Someone was definitely calling my name. But who was it and what did they want? Dazed and confused, I sat up on the side of the bed and listened intently. The sound seemed to be coming from the street, not the house. I fumbled around for my glasses and went to the window.

Standing in the street were the principal of the school where we had done our training and his daughter’s boyfriend. They had learned I was in town, and they wanted to grab a beer. Still half asleep and feeling plenty good from the earlier rakia, wine, and beer, I politely declined. Everyone else was sound asleep, everything was locked up, and I didn’t want disturb them. “Just one,” they pleaded and pleaded. Having played the “just one” game plenty of times and knowing how it usually ends (at least for me), I stood my ground and agreed we’d hang out and have a few beers on my next visit to Boychinovtsi. And we will. Because sometimes the Peace Corps is about grand projects and helping those who are less fortunate, and sometimes it’s about having a beer with new friends.

Two of the three wonderful Bulgarian families who have adopted me.

Watch and listen to this. A friend, who also happens to be a Peace Corps volunteer, was a contestant on X Factor Bulgaria and dedicated this song to the kids he teaches in Bregovo, a small town in the far northwest of Bulgaria near the Serbian and Romanian borders. You don't need to understand anything to understand everything.

Ten years ago I was on my way to a deposition when a reporter broke in over the radio to announce that a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. A few minutes later, the reporter broke in again to announce a second plane had crashed into the other tower. A chill went up my spine, but I drove on to the other lawyer’s office and went through with the deposition. After taking the worst deposition I’ve ever taken, I returned to my office just to check in, and then I went home. And there I sat in disbelief. Just me and my girlfriend. Shocked. Stunned. Speechless. Horrified and saddened by the cowardice we had witnessed, awed by the courageousness, thankful our families were safe, and thankful to be together. It’s a day I’ll never forget.

That said, as we continue to spend billions upon billions of dollars on the military, I can’t help but think there has to be a better way. As someone much more intelligent than I am said a long time ago, “Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding.” That’s the idea behind these bears, which came to Sofia earlier this year.

It was the last Sunday in May. I had agreed to survey birds in connection with the Bulgarian Society for the Protection of Birds’ Common Bird Monitoring Scheme. I wasn’t quite sure of the territory I was supposed to survey, so I got up at the crack of dawn and went out toward the general area I was supposed to cover. Along the hour or so walk to my territory I saw not a soul. But for some domesticated roosters and the many wild birds, the town was still asleep. As I climbed a small hill on the edge of my territory, a Eurasian Sparrowhawk zoomed by low overhead. Moments later a Hoopoe flushed from the trail, flapping away like a giant butterfly with its black and white wings and tail contrasting with its buffy pink body. As I continued, all the expected species were out marking their territories with much vigor: Skylarks, Red-backed Shrikes, Black-headed Buntings, among others. Then I saw something approaching from behind. A dog? No. It was a Golden Jackal, and it hadn’t seen me. I moved up the hill behind some vegetation and waited, hoping to get a photo. Unfortunately, when the jackal turned the corner and came into view it saw me and immediately fled through the long grass. Both thrilled and disappointed, I continued on … encountering more birds, a plethora of wildflowers (pink, red, purple, blue, yellow, and white against a backdrop of green), clean, crisp morning air, and just one old man. It was a brilliant way to start the day.

Being Sunday it was also market day in town, so I stopped into our local market on my way home. The end of May in Bulgaria is, among other things, cherry season, and the cherries looked amazing. I bought a kilo of them and headed home.

When I arrived home, as is usually the case, Baba Ristena was tending to her garden. She often offers me food and insists that I take it, so, when I asked her if she wanted any cherries and she declined, I simply gave her a handful. She washed the cherries and then devoured them – clearly a welcome and unexpected treat. I went inside and washed the rest of the cherries and put them in a couple bowls. I ate one bowl for breakfast and saved the other one for later.

After lunch and a nap, friends began arriving for the town’s first ever rock festival. I had friends in two of the bands and was looking forward to it. The plan was simple: have BBQ, drink beer, head to the rock fest, eat more BBQ, and drink more beer. As we sat around enjoying the first round of BBQ and beer, another volunteer who had arrived commented about my interactions with one of my Bulgarian friends, “That’s awesome. You guys talk to each other like you’re brothers.”

At the concert, the mayor came up and greeted my friends and me with a warm and genuine greeting. My friends had no idea who he was, and when I told them afterward that they had just met the mayor, the response was, “You need to tell us when we’re meeting the mayor.” I just laughed.

When the two headlining acts finally took the stage, I was there with them one after the other. Apparently, I was the only sucker among their friends who was willing to stand on stage and videotape them playing live rather than enjoy the show from the audience. Oh, well. It was fun, even if I am now partially deaf.

When the show ended, we headed home and grilled up some more BBQ and drank some more beer. I crawled into bed full, content, and smiling.

The next morning, as I savored the second bowl of cherries, I couldn’t help but thinking, “Life is a bowl of cherries.”

One of the bowls of cherries.

Black-headed Bunting.

Yellow Wagtail.

Red-backed Shrike.

Skylark.

Common Cuckoo.

And some flowers.

I started the month of July substituting for another volunteer at an educational high school camp at the American University in Bulgaria. The camp had been recommended by other volunteers who described it as one of the best things they had done during their Peace Corps service. Initially, I wasn’t too excited about the camp because I didn’t see how it furthered the Peace Corps’ mission in Bulgaria. But having worked the camp, I changed my mind. The camp was attended by 170 teenagers from fourteen different countries, and the Bulgarian kids who were lucky enough to attend got to meet new friends from places outside Bulgaria, learn about different cultures, and see how the Americans who ran and taught at the camp embraced it all. It definitely was a cool thing to participate in, and I’m glad I went and got to meet and teach kids from so many places I’ve never been (e.g., Montenegro, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Russia, Georgia, Ukraine, Kosovo).

The last day in which I was involved in the camp we took a field trip to Стобски пирамиди (Stob’s Pyramids), a strange formation of rocks located near the village of Stob. The pyramids were on the way to the Rila Monastery and were a short walk from a small church on the outskirts of the village. It was hardly the most interesting place I’ve been in Bulgaria, but it was worth the hour or so detour we took exploring the area.

The past several months have been an emotional roller coaster. First came the exciting news that my application for an extension of service through August of 2012 had been granted. Shortly thereafter came our B25 close of service conference, which I was required to attend even though I’m extending my service. In all likelihood, the conference was the last time all of the B25s will ever be together again, making for a very emotional few days, especially the last night and the following morning. One by one, those volunteers who I did get to see after the conference began heading back to America or onto new adventures (for example, check out this and this). Deleting their numbers from my phone, I’ve felt a true sense of loss and sadness. Sadder still, one of the kids I had taught for the past two years died of an apparent heart attack just a few days after school let out for the summer. He was just eighteen.

Making sense of all this hasn’t been easy, but I know continuing my service is the best thing for me at this time. The people who wanted me here in the first place still want me here. Some people who didn’t want me here when I first arrived do now. And I’m continuing to discover new and interesting things about Bulgaria, its people, its culture, and its history. My life is good here. Beyond that, somewhere along the line during the twenty three months I’ve lived in Bulgaria, Bulgaria became my home – more of a home than some of the other places I’ve lived, less of a home than others, but a home. Eventually, it will be time for me to move on and find a new home. For now, however, I’d like to continue working to make this one better.

Going back to our close of service conference, beyond the emotional aspect of the conference, what struck me is how different all of us will emerge from the experience of serving as Peace Corps volunteers. For example, when asked what we had learned during our service, one volunteer shared that she had come to the realization that, given the cultural differences and conflicting beliefs among people of different backgrounds, it is extremely difficult to ever attain world peace. I didn’t say anything at the time, but my perception is exactly the opposite.

Two years ago, Bulgaria was nothing more than a place on a map to me. Today, it’s much, much more. I’m not Bulgarian. I’ll never be Bulgarian. And, I’ll never understand or agree with certain things about Bulgarian society and culture. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love a country and a people who have by and large welcomed me, respected me, and cared for me.

It’s been a long time since I’ve updated this blog, but there are good reasons for that. First, July was a very busy month, and I simply didn’t have time to either sift through photos or write. Second, I was in the USA essentially the entire month of August and felt my time was better spent with my family than on the internet. And third, I needed a break from blogging.

When I started this blog, I wrote this. While that all still holds true, it’s not the complete truth. More than anything, I started this blog for my parents, and I’m fairly certain that they are the only people who actually care if I keep the blog going (but I’m grateful and happy it’s drawn at least passing interest from others).

When I was nineteen, my parents drove me more than 2,000 miles from Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin to Los Angeles, California so I could chase a dream. I’m not sure whose dream I was chasing but at some point it became mine, and my parents supported me unconditionally. I’ve been chasing dreams ever since, sometimes bringing me closer to my parents but more often pulling me away from them. Being apart hasn’t always been easy, and I know I’ve caused them much pain by living so far away for so long. But through it all, their love and support has never wavered, and in some ways the time and distance between us has brought us closer together.

As an example, my mom is a pastel artist. When I started this blog, she started painting some of the photos from my blog – both as a way of maintaining an emotional connection with me and as a way of helping me share my Peace Corps experience with others. In doing so, she has helped strengthen the bonds that I have with people in Bulgaria and has made Bulgaria something special for friends and family in America.

Here are some of her paintings from last year, which my dad took and made into a calendar. Having seen the paintings she’s done this year, the 2012 calendar promises to be even better.

Almost a year ago, I visited the Седем рилски езера (Seven Rila Lakes). This past weekend, we went back to share the experience with some volunteers who still hadn't been. Everything I wrote last year still applies. The place is simply magical.

Things didn't look promising on the afternoon of our arrival.

The next morning, things didn't look much better. But, slowly but surely, the sun wrestled away the clouds and we were left with a spectacular day.

Not everyone agreed, but for me "The Eye" stole the show, revealing a different shade of blue with every passing cloud.

The birding was pretty good too. Not surprisingly, most of the birds didn't cooperate and let me photograph them, but a few did. Chaffinches, like this one, were common along the trails leading up to the Seven Lakes.

Common Linnets were abundant around the hut where we stayed.

Fewer numbers of Hedge Accentors were in the same places.

Water Pipits were fairly common throughout the open areas.

And Alpine Accentors were easily found among the rocks at higher elevations.

Крайници (Krainitsi) is a fairly typical Bulgarian village, with little in the way of distinguishing features. But that doesn't mean it's not a special place.

It's a place with lots of doting баби (grandmothers).

And some surly дядовци.

It's a place where people walk their donkeys.

And let their dogs roam free.

Perhaps the only thing outnumbering the баби in Крайници are the storks. They have nests everywhere, from the church ...

to the trees ...

to the telephone poles.

When not attending to their offspring or hunting in the fields, the adults keep patrol from the rooftops.

But what really made visiting Крайници special was getting to see the impact a fellow volunteer and friend has made in the community. I'm going to miss him when he leaves in a few weeks, but not nearly as much as he will be missed by the people, and especially the kids, of Крайници.

One of the best things about being a Peace Corps volunteer is knowing people in cities, towns, and villages across the country. As a result of such connections, we get to visit places like Гьоврен (Gyovren). When we visit these places, we are treated as welcomed guests. Like Горно Дряново (Gorno Dryanovo), Гьоврен is an amazing, authentic village found between two interesting but slightly touristy villages.

This is the view from our host's balcony. In the distance is the Триградско ждрело (Trigrad Gorge).

As in many Bulgarian villages, donkeys are common and the wood is piled high for the coming winter.

The instruments used to care for the land are often crude and homemade.

The баби (grandmothers) tend to do much of the work.

Including the heavy lifting.

As this woman, one of our obliging hostesses, observed, "It's very beautiful, but there is much work."

I spent two days in and around Ягодина (Yagodina) last September. I waited to write about it because I knew I'd be back to visit a friend and fellow volunteer serving there. Having gotten to know the place a bit more, I'm sure I'll return again someday. Although they are very different, Ягодина is very much like Широка лъка (Shiroka Laka) in that it has been able, to this point anyway, to open itself up to tourism without losing its authenticity and genuineness.

There is no public transport to and from Ягодина. For those of us without cars, that means one of two things: hitchhiking or walking several kilometers from the nearby village of Тешел (Teshel). Since the weather was perfect, I opted to walk. It's a beautiful walk along mountain streams, through evergreen forests and narrow gorges, and beneath rocky outcroppings.

Nestled into a lush valley, the village's location is tough to beat.

Every morning and late afternoon, cows parade through town on their way to the nearby hills.

After the cows have departed, someone has clean up their mess.

And everyone else goes about the business of the day.

As much as I would have liked to have just hung out and watched life go on, we had work to do. We started by clearing the area in front of the читалище (community center) of overgrown weeds. Then we hung bird nest boxes and put in signs for an eco-trail connecting Ягодина with the nearby villages of Триград and Гьоврен. It was great seeing so many kids working to better their communities.

Of course, when not working, I kept nosing around town and exploring the surrounding hills, taking pictures of whatever caught my eye.

A few kids even joined me at the Оролово Око (Eagle's Eye) which offers unobstructed panoramic views of the surrounding countryside.

After our work was complete, we were treated to a free tour of Yagodina Cave and some traditional folk dancing and singing. All things considered, it was a brilliant couple days in the Rhodopes.

A few weeks ago, I went to Казанлък (Kazanlak) for the annual Празник на Розата (Rose Festival). Bulgaria is one of the world's leading producers of rose oil, and Казанлък sits on the eastern end of the country's famous Rose Valley. In addition to being the de facto capital of the Rose Valley, Казанлък is home to the world's largest rose fields.

The Rose Festival is an international event, and we were shown the red carpet treatment by the mayor of Казанлък (and the Peace Corps volunteers who hosted us). It was a pretty cool experience.

After meeting with the mayor, we went off to stop and smell the roses ...

and to sample rose rakia and rose jam (neither of which appealed to my taste buds) ...

and to see how rose oil is made.

The next morning, we headed off to the rose fields. These workers (who only pick before and at dawn while the roses still have dew on them) had finished by the time we arrived.

Here is some of what they picked before we arrived.

The fields were also full of women in traditional Bulgarian dress who were more than happy to pose for photos.

After the rose fields, we headed to the parade. The mayor and Rose Queen led the way.

After some brief words from the mayor, some explosives with pink colored smoke were set off. Check out the reaction from these young girls.

With that, the Rose Queen took her seat on the throne. The mayor hooked us up with VIP seats directly across from her and her court.

Peek-a-boo. I see you.

Then we just sat back and enjoyed the parade, which included a little bit of everything.

Friends told me about and showed me photos of Бузлуджа (Buzludzha) over a year ago. I wasn’t impressed, nor was I particularly interested in visiting. But when I saw it on my way into Казанлъ̀к (Kazanlak), I had to visit. And, I’m extremely glad I did.

Бузлуджа is the kind of place that neither words nor photos can do justice. It must be experienced, and it’s definitely on the short list of the most interesting places I’ve been in Bulgaria.

In 1891, a secret meeting took place on the mountain. The foundations of Bulgarian Communism were laid at that meeting. In honor of this history, a UFO-like meeting hall and 70-meter tower were constructed on top of the mountain. Finished in 1981, the monument was abandoned following the fall of Communism and has since been vandalized and painted with anti-Communist graffiti.

Seeing the place completely neglected and trashed makes visiting it rather surreal, and anyone with even a passing interest in history should check it out.

Here it is from the outside.

Note the graffiti over what once was the main entrance.

After crawling through a broken window, this is what you see inside.

What remains of murals adorn the walls and ceiling. This one, in the center of the ceiling, reads: "Proletariat of every country, unite!"

This mural once depicted, from left to right facing the mural, Todor Zhivkov, Dimitar Blagoev, and Georgi Dimitrov. Obviously, someone didn't care for Zhivkov, as his face has been removed.

More looks at the main conference hall and the murals.

The upper level is fringed with blown out windows which provide unobstructed views of the surrounding countryside.

Most people reach Бузлуджа via car, missing out on a wonderful hike through a serene beech forest.

The differences between the Bulgarian and American education systems are stark and many. Perhaps one day I'll elaborate on some of the major differences and how they affect those of us who are teachers, but for now I'll limit myself to graduation and the senior ball.

Most of the kids I teach (high schoolers) remain in school through June 30th. The seniors, however, take their last classes on May 15th. And then in late May, there is a senior ball. There is no graduation ceremony, no valedictorian speech, or anything else remotely similar to what we have in America.

Last year, I had to pick my brother and sister-in-law up at the airport so I missed many of the festivities associated with the senior ball. This year, I experienced it all. Here's what happens.

Late in the afternoon, friends and family of the kids begin gathering at the school and wait. Eventually, designated drivers in fancy cars bring the kids (who are in no condition to be driving) to the school. More friends and family arrive with the kids, and the kids rush the school, smashing balloons and other displays, yelling, screaming, and taking swigs of booze. After several minutes of this, the kids emerge from the school triumphantly and chant repeatedly.

The kids then get back in the cars and are driven to the center of town where police have blocked the streets and it seems the entire town is waiting for them. Once there, they chant some more.

After repeated chanting, the kids hop back in the cars and are driven to their ball where there is more drinking, more chanting, and lots of dancing.

And, in case you are wondering what they are chanting, this video, taken on May 15th, explains it all. Let's just say that anyone who lives in Bulgaria for any significant amount of time (or even someone who visits in May) has no excuse for not being able to count from one to twelve in Bulgarian.

"Moldova?" "Where the hell is Moldova?" "What’s in Moldova?" "Why would you go to Moldova?"

Those were typical questions I got from friends back home upon telling them I was going to spend some of my spring break in Moldova. And it’s precisely because of such questions that I wanted to go. Getting someone to visit Turkey, Greece, Italy – the spring break destinations of many other volunteers – is easy. Moldova … not so much. So, I figured it was now or never if I ever wanted to see Moldova.

On paper, Moldova is the poorest country in Europe, something you’d never suspect visiting the country’s capital city, Chişinău. Interestingly though, everything in my hotel came in halves – the bars of soap and towels were cut in half; only half of the hallway was lit; and the chandelier-type light in my room had one working light, one burned out light, and one flickering light – so maybe the signs of poverty were there. But there were also plenty of top-of-the-line BMWs and Mercedes cruising the streets, along with lots of high-end shops and restaurants that seemed plenty busy. Beyond that, what I’ll remember most about Moldova is the popcorn and the women. Chişinău has more popcorn hawkers per capita than any place I’ve ever been, and popcorn always makes me happy. Even better, there were more beautiful women strolling the streets of Chişinău than I’ve seen anywhere else in the world (I realize beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I’ve been to more than sixty countries on five continents and, for me, of the places I’ve been only Sweden can compare). Unfortunately, apparently they all thought I was crazy for walking around in the cold and rain in a pair of Chacos with my tongue hanging out, so I never got anything more than a laugh from any of them.

If it wasn't for the popcorn and the women, I'd be hard-pressed to think of a reason to recommend visiting Chişinău. For the most part, it's a rather bleak and uninteresting place, and, apart from the city's many colorful churches and numerous parks, there isn't a whole lot to see.

A short drive from Chişinău is the historical and archeological complex of Old Orhei. Many interesting discoveries have been made here, but as a visitor all you really see is the cave monastery. While interesting, I'm not sure it's worth the hassle, especially considering we have many similar monasteries in Bulgaria.

On the way to the cliff monastery.

The entrance to the monastery.

Inside the monastery.

The current caretaker.

The old monks' quarters.

The view from the cliff ledge outside the monastery.

Moldova is known for producing excellent wine. I toured the country's two most famous wineries, Cricova and Mileştii Mici. Mileştii Mici is the largest winery in the world, with over 200 kilometers of underground cellars. Cricova is a bit smaller (120 kilometers of underground cellars), but also a bit snazzier. The two have similar histories but are different enough to both warrant a visit.

The entrance to Cricova's underground cellars.

The underground wine highway.

Because of the ideal and constant temperature and humidity, many rich and famous people store their wine collections at Cricova.

This is the personal stash of Vladimir Putin.

Just one of several of Cricova's elaborate tasting rooms.

Mileştii Mici is like Cricova's unaffected big brother. It's more of the same but without the facelift and vanity.

Purportedly, Mikhail Gorbachev thought Soviets drank too much, and he tried to destroy all the wine stored at Mileştii Mici. This secret passage way was built to save the best of it.

Some of Mileştii Mici's vineyards.

A little over a month ago, I spent a few days in Romania for spring break. It was my first time visiting one of Bulgaria’s neighboring countries, and, not surprisingly, many of my Bulgarian friends wanted to know how Romania compared to Bulgaria.

As I told them, Romania is significantly larger than Bulgaria, both in terms of population and land mass, and it’s difficult to draw any conclusions or make comparisons between a place where you’ve been living for two years and a place you only visited for a few days. That said, the infrastructure within Romania seemed more developed and advanced than Bulgaria’s infrastructure, and, from a tourist standpoint, Romania seemed like a much easier country to visit independently than Bulgaria. Granted, we only visited Bucharest and some quite touristy areas, but it sure was easy. With jagged, snow-capped peaks rising above the clouds and reaching into the blue skies, it was also rather beautiful. And with Austro-Hungarian influences combining with Turkish and Russian influences, Romanian culture is incredibly diverse. All things considered, the little taste of Romania we got left me longing to return for the full course.

Our exploration of Romania was limited in large part to the area around the city of Braşov. Braşov itself is an interesting destination and a pleasant place to hunker down for a while, but I couldn't help but thinking that the best Romania has to offer is in its mountains.

Here are some shots taken from the road or train on our way to or from Braşov.

And here are some shots of and from Braşov.

Using Braşov as a base, we took day trips to some of the surrounding tourist spots. Our first stop was the Sinaia Monastery, which wasn't unlike many of the Bulgarian monasteries I've visited.

We then made our way to Peleş Castle, a $120 million testament to greed and ostentatiousness.

Next, we made the obligatory stop at the Bran Castle, marketed as "Dracula's Castle." Not surprisingly, there were no vampires and there was very little of interest period, just overpriced touristy stuff.

The views from the Râşnov Fortress made the quick stop there worthwhile.

Of all the places we visited, Sighişoara was probably my favorite. Here are some photos of and from the old town.

Among other things, Bucharest is a strange combination of massive, communist-era eyesores and little, seemingly misplaced churches. And it's not nearly as bad as most guidebooks and Romanians tell you it is.

The Palace of Parliament (the world's second largest building after the Pentagon).

Some other shots taken around Bucharest.

These people were walking around Sofia in the weeks leading up to May 21st. I'm curious. What do they believe now? And now what are they going to do?

A little less than two months ago, I made my first visit to Chepan Hill (Чепън планина). It was still technically winter, and the upper reaches and shaded sections of the hill remained covered in snow. Other than some evergreen forests almost everything was still brown, and an unmistakable haze from all the wood-burning and coal-burning stoves hung over the landscape. We were told we needed to come back at the end of April when the Dwarf Almonds were in bloom, so that’s what we did. Timing isn’t everything in life, but it’s a lot. And our second trip up Chepan Hill was timed almost perfectly.

Life is also very much a matter of perspective. From a distance, Chepan Hill isn’t too impressive – it looks like an unspectacular rocky, karst hill. But upon closer inspection, the rocky hill is alive with wildflowers, blooming shrubs, and various and sundry small animals. And upon even closer inspection, the beauty of the hill is undeniable.

Some photos from our first trip to Chepan Hill.One of the few flowers that was out and blooming.

Some shots of and from Chepan Hill the second time around.

Chepan's famous Dwarf Almonds beginning to bloom.

A Ladybird Spider. Very cool.

When I first arrived at my permanent site almost twenty one months ago, I had no idea what to expect in terms of my teaching assignment. Nearly everyone I encountered referred sarcastically to the kids I’d be teaching as “special” and “interesting,” and I knew things wouldn’t be easy. And while it hasn’t been easy, it has been extremely rewarding.

Last Wednesday and Thursday, I was in Golden Sands, Bulgaria’s second largest resort on the Black Sea coast and arguably its finest. As far as I could tell, I was the lone foreigner among scores of Bulgarians who were there for a series of national competitions to determine the best of Bulgaria’s professional school students. Unlike in America, kids here have the option of attending a high school that trains them for a specific profession. Upon graduation, they are theoretically qualified to begin working right away in that field. By way of example, there were competitions to determine the best young bartender, chef, baker, server, stylist, and builder, among other competitions. I was attending because a team of our students qualified for and competed in the competition to determine Bulgaria’s best young mechanic.

The entire competition was rather impressive. There are some extremely talented Bulgarian kids who are learning a lot at the various professional schools. It’s amazing how much kids can learn, how creative they can be, how much fun they can have, and how much their talent shines through when they study things they want to learn instead of things they’re forced to learn.

Most of the kids I teach have lived and continue to live tough lives. A lifetime of disappointment has caused many of them to become apathetic and lethargic. To see three of them genuinely care about something and go through the whirlwind of emotions of competing for a national championship was pretty damn cool. First, there was the pride of simply being one of the teams competing. Then, upon seeing the other competitors, there was the self-doubt. Next, as the time for the practical portion of the competition drew near, there was the nervousness – hands were trembling, mouths dry. Then, after they competed, there was relief, followed once again by tension, nervousness, and self-doubt, as we waited for the results.

Having finished the theoretical portion of the competition in fifth place, our kids faced long odds entering the practical component. In truth, they were the underdogs entering the competition in the first place. The other schools were from far larger cities – Sofia (~1.2 million), Varna (~330,000), Ruse (~150,000), Stara Zagora (~135,000), Lovech (~36,000), and Karlovo (~28,000) – and us competing for the national title was a bit like Hickory competing for the Indiana state championship in Hoosiers.

Once the results had been tallied, all the schools lined up and waited for the officials to announce the final standings. When seventh place was announced, and it wasn’t our school, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Same thing when sixth place was announced. When fifth place was announced, and it again wasn’t our school, relief was replaced by pride. But when another school was announced in fourth place and we knew our kids had placed in the top three, pride morphed into happiness. Then the school from Sofia was announced as the third place team, putting us in the top two and bringing out feelings of unadulterated joy. The team from Varna won, with their kids taking the top three individual spots as well, but that didn’t matter. Our kids and my colleagues were elated being the runner-up, and seeing people I’ve come to care about so happy had me choking back tears.

Think about it. A school of 150 kids (my school) from a small town (my town) finished second in the 2011 competition to determine the best young mechanic in Bulgaria. Those kids surprised a lot of people with their performance, but not me. I’ve known since I got here that the kids I teach are interesting and special.

This was a big deal. The opening events brought out entertainers, politicians, and other dignitaries.

A few shots of the team.

Before the competition started, each of the teams inspected the cars and equipment and was given instructions from the judges.

A little last minute encouragement from the "coach."

The kids each had to perform three tasks. Given my lack of knowledge concerning cars, I could be wrong, but it looked like the tasks involved the following: an engine diagnostic task involving a computer; an issue with headlight realignment; and repairing and replacing a tire. Ivo started on the computer, Ilian on the headlights, and Milen on the tire.

Then it was Milen on the computer, Ivo on the headlights, and Ilian on the tire.

Finally, it was Ilian on the computer, Milen on the headlights, and Ivo on the tire.

Waiting for the results to be announced.

Accepting the 2nd Place Cup.

A few shots from some of the other competitions.

Golden Sands.

Black Sea sunrise.

Among other things, the Balkani Wildlife Society is working to save the local population of Hermann’s Tortoises in the area around Dragoman. To that end, a tortoise breeding center is being established near the Dragoman marsh. A couple weekends ago, I joined some other volunteers in Dragoman to work on the breeding center and build shelters for the tortoises. It was really just a typical day in the life of a Peace Corps volunteer, but it made me think about something all of us who do volunteer work should remember.

The direct beneficiaries of our work, the tortoises, will never recognize or thank us. The indirect beneficiaries of our work, the local people who hopefully will be able to enjoy tortoises again the future, are unlikely to recognize or thank us. And that’s fine. In my opinion, volunteers should work without any expectation of recognition or thanks. The real reward is the peace of mind that comes from knowing you are doing the right thing, and that should be enough.

I just returned from spring break. I spent five days in Romania and six in Moldova. When I get some time, I’ll sort through my photos and do a brief write-up for each country. In the meantime, this story is just too good not to share.

My vacation began in Romania with a couple friends. After a whirlwind tour, we went our separate ways. They headed to Istanbul, and I headed to Moldova.

To get to Moldova, I took a night train from Bucharest to Chisinau. Romanians speak Romanian. Moldovans speak Romanian and/or Russian. The conductors operating the train, which had a final destination of Moscow, spoke Russian. I don’t speak Romanian or Russian.

Despite my illiteracy, I could tell that my ticket was for Wagon 2, Cabin 5, Bed 55. So, I boarded Wagon 2 and looked for Cabin 5. Easily enough, I found it. But the door outside Cabin 5 showed it contained Beds 56, 57, 58, and 59. There was no Bed 55. From the outside, none of the cabins seemed to have a Bed 55. I decided to go into Cabin 5 anyway. Inside, the four beds were marked 46, 47, 48, and 49. I wondered if perhaps my bed was in a different cabin. I checked a few nearby cabins, but, alas, no Bed 55. So, I returned to Cabin 5 and waited for the conductor. When I heard him in the hallway dealing with another passenger who seemed to be similarly perplexed, I went outside and showed him my ticket. He looked at the ticket, looked at the doors, poked his head into Cabin 5 and pointed to the bed on which I had been sitting. Another passenger had entered the cabin and was now sitting on one of the other beds. I pointed at myself and then to the bed just to make sure we were on the same page. After he nodded to signify “yes, that’s your bed” I went in and sat down.

Upon learning that the other passenger spoke some English, I explained to him my issue with the ticket. He just laughed and said, “Moldovan numbering system. Only in Moldova. You have to be Moldovan to understand it.”

Having ridden on enough Bulgarian trains, I knew this type of numbering system was hardly unique to Moldova. Just to prove it, I took a photo of the cabin I rode in on the way back from Bucharest to Sofia. Although not quite the same, it’s close enough. The cabin contained Seats 21-28. The odd numbered seats were on one side of the cabin, and the even numbered ones were on the other. You can see how the even numbered seats were labeled. The odd numbered ones were similarly arranged without any logical sequencing. Maybe I’m wrong, but either the guy who did this was hammered on rakia or he’s a complete wiseass who just wanted to have some fun with unsuspecting passengers. It can’t be that people actually think this type of numbering is logical, can it?

There is something very cool about birthdays and the way we celebrate them in America (and lots of other places). Typically, when we celebrate something, we are celebrating an accomplishment of some sort – a wedding, an anniversary, a victory, graduation from school, a new job, a raise, a bonus, a promotion. When it comes to birthdays, however, all we really are celebrating is someone’s existence. We are celebrating the fact that that person was born. No matter what the person has done, or hasn’t done, we are glad he or she is with us and we show our appreciation for his or her presence – nothing less, and nothing more. And that’s pretty cool. We show our appreciation by wishing the person well and, oftentimes, by buying the person a drink, making the person a special meal, taking him or her out to eat, and/or showering him or her with gifts, large and small.

In Bulgaria, folks likewise wish each other well on their birthdays, and sometimes presents are given – typically something small. But basically, birthday traditions here are exactly the opposite of ours. It is customary for the person celebrating his or her birthday to hand out chocolates to his or her family, friends, and colleagues. Quite often, the birthday boy or girl goes one step further and treats those closest to him or her to a special meal or a party. Instead of everyone else celebrating the existence of the person having a birthday, that person celebrates being alive and having family and friends around to enhance the enjoyment of living. This is also very cool.

Turning forty, which I did today, isn’t typically considered cool. When I was a kid, I remember how depressed people seemed when they turned forty and how old they seemed to me. Now that I’m protected by the Age Discrimination in Employment Act and part of the club, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I can’t do all the things I once could, but I can do many things better now than I ever could. And I couldn’t be more content. There’s no shame in admitting it: I’m a man!!! I’m forty!!!

As we all know, society has it's own thoughts on the subject. Superstitious Bulgarians believe that receiving congratulations for your 40th birthday results in bad luck for the rest of your life. As a result, many Bulgarians will try to avoid friends and acquaintances not only on their 40th birthday, but also in the days leading up to and following the birthday. And in America, when one turns forty he is considered “over-the-hill.” I realize this is just an idiom, but it’s never made much sense to me. The climb to the top of the hill is the rough part, with lots of starts and stops, doubts about whether you’ll ever make it, and pain and suffering along the way. And what’s at the top? A nice view but not much else. Coming down might be a little hard on the knees, but it’s typically a lot easier than the climb up. And if you’re on skis or in a sled or on a roller coaster, it’s pretty damn exhilarating.

Last year on my birthday a wise Bulgarian friend told me that a man only becomes old when his memories outnumber his dreams. If that’s true, it would explain why I don’t feel much different today than I did twenty years ago. I’ve lived a blessed life, and I have a lifetime of great memories. But those memories are dwarfed by my dreams, and I’m hopeful that the best is yet to come.

Of course, life is all about the family and friends who help make dreams possible and who share in creating memories. It's been an awesome forty years because of you. Thank you one and all. Looking forward to the next forty years being even better.

A little over a year ago, in the weeks leading up to March 1st, I noticed folks (mostly old women but some young ones and some men) selling red-and-white dolls and red-and-white bracelets on every street corner. They appeared out of nowhere, and they were everywhere. And I had no clue what was going on.

A year later, I anxiously awaited their appearance, knowing all about Баба Марта, мартеници, and Баба Марта Day. And excluding Christmas, Баба Марта Day ranks a close second to Thanksgiving as my favorite holiday.

What makes Баба Марта Day so special?

Баба Марта Day heralds the end of the cold, bleak, gray days of winter and the beginning of spring. And spring is my favorite season. And no place I’ve ever been does spring better than Bulgaria. The country is a giant orchard of blooming fruit trees. Where there are no trees there are huge fields of wild poppy and rapeseed. Roadside ditches are lined with blooming forsythia. Breeding birds return and establish territories, singing from their favorite perches: Cuckoos call like clockwork, and White Storks announce their return by rattling their bills. Spring rains bring out salamanders in the forests and frogs in the marshes. And баби and дядовци turn over their gardens and begin working on the coming year’s crops. It’s simply a great time to be in Bulgaria.

Beyond that and perhaps in part as result of it, Баба Марта Day is a day about hope. People are pleasant to one another. Smiles are common. And everyone seems ready to put behind the dreary winter (and past) and get on with a more promising spring (and future). Of course, Баба Марта has a mind of her own, and many of us are experiencing bitter cold and snow today. Hopefully she's just in one of those moods.

Vendors hawking мартеници in Sofia.

The car and the road are more a part of American life than anywhere else I’ve ever been. And the road trip is probably the quintessential American experience.

I miss being able to hop into the car and drive – or ride – for hours. Peace Corps rules prevent us from driving. Peace Corps realities limit our chances for long distance road trips as passengers. And as much as I enjoy traveling by train, there are times I just want to get behind the wheel, crank the music, and drive. Somewhere in particular. Nowhere special. Anywhere. Just drive.

This weekend, we road tripped from Sofia to a small village in the Стара планина (Stara Planina). I didn’t get to drive, but it was close enough. The drive alone made the trip more than worthwhile. But a renovated old house, a huge fireplace, a roaring fire, a few beers, and Tolstoy made it close to perfect.

A dusting of snow on the upper elevations of the Stara Planina made for some pretty spectacular scenery.

Качамак (Kachamak) is a popular Balkan dish similar to Italian polenta. There are probably as many different ways to make it as there are families in Bulgaria, and this is just one of them.

Ingredients:

6 cups cornmeal

3.5 sticks butter

2 cups crumbled cirene (feta cheese)

1 tablespoon salt

1/2 gallon water

Directions:

Pour water in pot, add salt, and bring to a boil. Remove pot from heat and add cornmeal to it, taking handfuls and forming a heaping mound. Return pot to the burner and, using the handle end of a wooden spoon, form a hole in the center of the mound of cornmeal to allow steam to escape. Bring to a boil and cook for 30 minutes. Mix and mash cornmeal and water thoroughly. Melt butter in a saucepan and then stir into cornmeal mixture. Stir thoroughly until cornmeal mixture becomes a dense mass. Transfer cornmeal to a shallow dish and top with crumbled cirene. Serve with yogurt.

Качамак със сирене

Translated literally, "бързи питки със сирене" means "quick bread with cheese." These are quick and easy, but they are really more like cheddar cheese biscuits than anything else. I first had them in Chiprovtsi and I adapted the recipe from here. The recipe yields 20-24 biscuits.

Ingredients:

1 cup grated cirene (feta cheese)

1 egg

1 cup yogurt

2/3 cup sunflower oil

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon garlic powder

approximately 3 cups flour

1/4 pound (100 grams) of grated kashkaval (cheddar cheese)

1 fresh hot pepper, seeded and finely diced (optional)

Preparation:

Mix two cups flour, cirene, egg, oil, garlic powder, and salt (and hot pepper) in a bowl. Dissolve baking soda into yogurt and add to the other products. Knead dough until soft, gradually adding remaining cup flour. Let dough stand in the refrigerator for about ten minutes. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Form the dough in balls the size of a walnut. Place on a baking sheet at a distance from each other (size will double while baking). Sprinkle the shredded cheddar cheese on top of each ball. Bake until golden. Serve warm.

Бързи питки със сирене

Това е рецепта за крем супа от тиква.

Съставки:

1400 мл зеленчуков бульон

10 грама сол

1000 грама тиква пюре

1 гр нарязан пресен магданоз

160 грама нарязан лук

0.5 грама нарязан прясна мащерка

1 скилидка чесън, нарязан

1 гр млян джинджифил

1 гр мляно индийско орехче

1 гр мляна канела

120 мл сметана за готвене

5 цели зърна черен пипер

Инструкции:

1. Загрейте бульона, солта, тиквата, лука, мащерката, чесъна, джинджифила,

индийското орехче, канелата и пипера. Оставете да заври, намалете котлона и оставете да къкри за 30 минути без капак.

2. Пюрирайте с помощта на кухненски робот или пасатор.

3. Върнете отново супата на котлона и оставете да кипне. Намалете котлона и оставете да къкри още 30 мин без капак. Разбъркайте с течната сметана. Изсипете супата в съд и гарнирайте с пресен магданоз.

Служи 8-10.

Крем супа от тиква.



 

Another recipe requested by some Bulgarian friends.

A big part of being a Peace Corps Volunteer is simply making friends. Bulgarian friends. And when it's 52 degrees and sunny on February 8th that means sucking it up and playing outdoor basketball with some of those friends. Yeah. It's a tough gig. I'm not sure how any of us do it.

About six weeks ago, I asked a simple question on this blog: Why is Bulgaria, relative to its income per person, the saddest place in the world? Since that time, I’ve had the chance to ask numerous Bulgarians this same question. Not surprisingly, many Bulgarians disputed the premise. But many others did not. Other opinions on this topic can be found here and here, but these are some of the more thoughtful and interesting explanations I was given.

Bulgarians Know too Much

According to the Bible, "with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief." Put another way, "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

As a whole, Bulgarians are very well educated. They know what life is like in places like Western Europe, the United States, Canada, and Australia. It is these places with which Bulgarians compare themselves, and, when doing so, they tend to look upon Bulgaria unfavorably. They understand concepts such as democracy, capitalism, and meritocracy both as theoretical ideals and as practical systems of societal governance. And they are aware of the widespread corruption within Bulgaria which has kept such ideals from being realized. So, while most are appreciative of the political freedoms the past twenty years have brought to Bulgaria, many are resentful that corresponding economic freedoms have, in large part, been limited to a select group of politically connected elites.

Unhappiness is Part of the Bulgarian National Psyche

Bulgaria was under the Turkish yoke for nearly five centuries. In other words, Bulgarians were slaves to the Turks for almost five hundred years. When you are a slave and someone asks you, “How are you?” what do you think the answer will be? When has anyone been happy to be someone else’s slave? According to some Bulgarians, because of this history and the many years under communism, the concept of happiness has seeped out of Bulgaria’s national psyche.

Personally, I think this may be changing. There are some Bulgarians who, no matter what, answer the question, “Как си? (How are you?)” by saying, “Горе-долу (So-so).” But these folks tend to be older. When I ask my students the same question, most answer by saying, “Добре (Good),” “Супер (Super),” or “Екстра (Extra).” On those occasions when one does answer, “Горе-долу,” he or she is typically having a bad day or is sick.

Bulgarians are Very Superstitious

Many Bulgarians are extremely superstitious. The Bulgarian paranoia with “течение (drafts)” has been the bane of my existence since I got here, and it’s just one of many Bulgarian superstitions. The longer I’m here, the more I learn.

For example, last year, a friend who attends my adult English classes was having a birthday the day after one of our classes. I informed the class of this fact and wished her a happy birthday in front of everyone. I was surprised when no one else followed suit. After class, I walked with my friend toward our respective homes. When we went our separate ways I again wished her a happy birthday. This made her very upset and she scolded me for wishing her a happy birthday before it was actually her birthday. This, she told me, was sure to bring her bad luck.

I wasn’t surprised then when several Bulgarians said that, even if happy, some Bulgarians won’t admit to it for fear it will jinx them and bring them bad luck.

Bulgarians are Immoral

More than one philosopher has opined that to attain true happiness one must make morality his ultimate concern. Several of the Bulgarians I spoke to believe that Bulgarian unhappiness is corollary to the country’s immorality.

Bulgarians are Honest

This hypothesis seems contrary to several of the others, but more than one Bulgarian suggested it as a possibility. Ask a Bulgarian a question, and you’ll generally get a straightforward, honest answer. It might not be the answer you wanted to hear and you might have to listen to an earful, but what you’ll hear will most likely be the truth.

Bulgaria is Doomed by the Stars

Mundane astrology is a line of astrology that holds that countries, like people, have horoscopes. Some Bulgarians believe Bulgaria’s current condition is a result of the country’s horoscope.

Some of these explanations make more sense to me than others, but I’ll leave it up to you to decide what you believe the answer to my question is.

Several years ago, I went skiing for the first time (sort of). My then girlfriend and I made the short drive from Las Vegas to the ski resort of Brian Head, Utah. Since it was my first time and her first time in a long time, we signed up for ski school.

After three hours or so of lessons, everyone in our group was declared fit to go skiing – everyone except me, two young girls, and six Chinese women who seemed to understand almost no English whatsoever. In any event, my girlfriend and the rest of the group went off with one of the instructors and headed up on one of the lifts. The young girls, the Chinese women, and I stayed behind for extra help.

One by one, my girlfriend and the others came skiing down the hill. While most of the others went back up the lift for more, the girl’s parents and my girlfriend came down to the bunny slope to check on our progress. At that point, the girls were deemed fit to go skiing, but the Chinese women and I were told we still needed some more work.

One again, my girlfriend went up the lift and then came back down a short time later. When she returned the second time, the Chinese women were let loose on the slopes. I, on the other hand, was told I was too big and dangerous to go skiing. I had no problem keeping my balance and turning. I just couldn’t stop using the wedge method. And until I could demonstrate an ability to stop by using that method, they weren’t going to permit me leave the bunny slope. They feared I might crash into and seriously hurt someone. Fair enough.

Despite some one-on-one lessons, I couldn’t get the wedge method down to the instructor’s satisfaction. So, when my girlfriend returned from a third run down the slopes, we called it a day and headed back to the warmth of our cabin.

Until this past weekend, I hadn’t attempted to go skiing since. But some friends invited me to join them in

Банско (Bansko), and I decided to give it another try. This time, I never even made it to the bunny slope. Unable to stop properly, I snapped off my skis and called it a day after bailing several times to avoid slamming into innocent bystanders on the hill at the base of the bunny slope. The folks in Utah were right: I am a menace on skis. I wasn’t fearful of my own safety, but I simply couldn’t justify putting other people in danger.

Everyone else in the group seemed to enjoy the skiing and had favorable things to say about Bansko as a ski resort. From my perspective, the town is extremely touristy and overpriced – at least in comparison to other Bulgarian towns. The setting is beautiful and the surrounding mountains spectacular. But construction and ambition (and perhaps corruption) seem to have outpaced reality, and many buildings remain unfinished and the restaurants and clubs appeared desperate to attract customers. It’s worth visiting at least once, even if you aren’t a skier, but there is very little authenticity to the place. It’s a version of Bulgaria that probably appeals to most foreign tourists, but it doesn’t do much for me.

Here are some photos from the base of the slopes and from the gondola ride up.

Това е рецепта за хляб от тиква (или кейк от тиква).

Съставки:

400 грама брашно

600 грама бяла захар

9 грама сода за хляб

9 грама сол

3 грама мляно индийско орехче

3 грама мляно канела

500 грама тиква пюре

160 мл вода

235 мл олио

4 яйца

60 грама нарязани орехи (по избор)

Инструкции:

1. Намазнете и набрашнете 2 тавички за хляб. Загрейте фурната до 175 градуса.

2. Премерете количествата брашно, захар, сода за хляб, сол и подправки и ги сипете в голяма купа. Разбъркайте сместа до еднородна. Добавете тиквата, водата, олиото, и яйцата (и орехи). Разбърквайте докато стане гладко.

3. Изсипете сместа в подготвените тавички.

4. Пече се около час.

Хляб от Тиква

This fall, I made a lot of pumpkin bread (or pumpkin cake as they call it) for Bulgarians. None had ever tried it before, and most liked it. Several asked for the recipe. Hence, here's a recipe ... in Bulgarian.

When I was a kid I often played with kids three years older than me. Every once in a while I’d cross some invisible boundary and incur the wrath of one of them. This usually resulted in me being put in a headlock or having my arm twisted behind my back. If I tried to fight back or squirm free, the pressure would be increased or the angle tweaked in such a manner to intensify the pain and remind me of my place. This would continue until the pain was unbearable, at which point I’d cry “uncle” and be set free.

Although I’ve mentioned this use of the word uncle a few times in my English classes, I hadn’t really given much thought to the expression until recently. To cry uncle is to acknowledge weakness, to surrender, to indicate a willingness to give up a fight. And that’s generally not part of my constitution. There are times, however, when there is simply no sense in fighting.

Nearly five years ago at this time I was in Savador da Bahia, Brazil. One day, I headed out for what I thought would be a leisurely Sunday afternoon at the beach. As is typical on Sunday afternoons in Brazil, the beaches were heaving with people. I first walked along the seawall from Praia do Porto down past Forte Santo Antonio. After exploring the area around Forte Santo Antonio, I walked back to Praia do Porto, enjoyed some coconut water, and headed down toward a rock wall at the base of Forte Santa Maria.

There were many children jumping off the rock wall into the water, and it seemed safe enough. But I got a bad vibe while standing on the rock wall, and, almost immediately, several locals started staring at me. Trusting my intuition, I started heading back toward the beach.

One of the locals then called out to me, "Mi amigo, que pais?"

I responded, "Estados Unidos," and started walking away.

I stopped when he said he had "no problema" with the USA.

He then asked if I wanted any "maconha," which is Portuguese for marijuana.

I politely declined.

He then tried to sell me various and other sundry things.

Each time I answered, "Não, obrigado," which is Portuguese for "No, thank you."

With each "não" answer, I could sense his frustration growing. And as his frustration grew, so did my level of discomfort, so I started walking away.

At that point he jumped in front of me, put his hand under his shirt as if he had a weapon, and started yelling at the top of his lungs. Four of his friends quickly surrounded me, two on each side, and there was nowhere for me to go. While confident that he didn’t have a weapon, I was unsure about his friends. And he had the scariest eyes I'd ever seen. It wasn't as if they were filled with anger or hatred, it was if they were empty – reflections of a person with no soul. Being outnumbered at least five to one, I saw little benefit to resisting and raised my hands above my head.

As he went through my front pockets and found nothing but sunblock, his frustration grew. At once, I had to keep from punching in him the face and from laughing at him. Muttering to himself, he eventually hit my back pocket and found 14 BRL (less than $7) and some keys. After ripping off the cheap Timex watch I was wearing, he muttered again about having no problem with the USA and started to walk away. Before leaving, he reminded me I was in Brazil.

Not concerned about the money, but not wanting to deal with the hassle of getting a locksmith to open the locks to which the keys belonged, I grabbed his wrist. Somehow, I remembered the Portuguese word for keys ("chaves") and demanded them back. He resisted and tried to pull away. I tightened my grip on his wrist and took my other hand and attempted to pry open his hand, again demanding "los chaves." With that, he opened his hand and returned the keys, again muttering that he had no problem with me or the USA. As he handed back the keys, I said, "Obrigado," and walked away.

Where am I going with this?

Being mugged left me feeling violated, humiliated, and inadequate. To a lesser extent, teaching in Bulgaria, or trying to, often leaves me feeling the same way.

I started teaching English here in September of 2009. One of the first things I did was evaluate my students to determine their level of English. To this end, every student in the school was given a written and an oral test.

Almost all of the students had been studying English for several years. Some had studied English for as many as eight years and most no less than four.

Imagine my surprise then when, before curving, just twelve out of approximately 120 students passed the exams. Even more shocking was that the overwhelming majority of those who didn’t pass didn’t even know the alphabet or how to count to ten. It was if they were being exposed to English for the very first time.

So I started asking questions. What had they done for four years, six years, eight years? How was this possible?

The short answer seems to be that the Bulgarian education system is undergoing slow and painful changes and reforms which many folks have been reluctant to embrace. As a result, schools tend to be as political as they are educational, and there is an unhealthy imbalance of power among the various players. The government controls the purse strings, but, because Bulgarian schools are funded in large part based on enrollment, the kids and their parents act as the real puppet masters.

Where do the teachers fit in? Some fight the inevitable changes, thereby slowing progress. Others dance for the kids and their parents whenever they tug on the puppet strings. And others, including most Peace Corps volunteers, try to accelerate change without offending those fighting it and without getting caught up in the strings of the puppet masters and their dancers.

Of course, this is a nearly impossible task, and many of these teachers (including many volunteers) end up giving in to the system or giving up. But in a system designed for us to fail, most of us have one of two choices. We either admit to being failures, or we stop trying.

Admitting failure isn’t easy, but the simple truth is I am a failure as an English teacher.

Sure, there has been progress. The number of kids who were able to pass this year’s midterms, without a curve, increased to 59 out of 152 (that’s a nearly 500% increase from where we started). And it doesn’t stop there. The number of kids earning 6s, 5s, and 4s (the equivalent of A, B, and C) also increased significantly.

But that still leaves 93 kids who, due at least in part to my ineffective teaching methods, have not attained what I consider to be a basic level of competency in English. Many of these kids have improved significantly, but many others have not. Some kids simply don’t attend class regularly. Others attend class but don’t pay attention. Others have learning disabilities, such as dyslexia, which I simply don’t know how to handle.

And all of that makes me a failure. And it’s something for which I accept full responsibility.

But one person can only carry the weight of so much blame. And unless others are willing to step up and be held accountable, it probably won’t be long before I’m forced to cry “uncle.”

A couple other volunteers recently visited me at my site. One of the first questions they asked was, “What do your kids call you?”

I hadn’t really thought about it before then, but I quickly processed the information and told them, “Most kids just call me Brian, but some kids call me Чичо (Chicho).”

Чичо is Bulgarian for uncle. As in English with the word “uncle,” чичо is used not only for the brother of one’s father or mother and the husband of one’s aunt, but also as a form of address for an elderly man. So, when the kids call me “Чичо,” they are more or less mocking me for being an old man. I’m OK with that because I am an old man and there are far worse things they could call me. And I’ve come to think of it as a term of endearment more than anything else.

Very few of the kids I teach come from anything even remotely resembling a nuclear family. In some cases it’s because the father is an abusive, alcoholic womanizer. In other cases it’s because the mother is alcoholic and promiscuous. In some cases, it’s for both reasons. Other kids have one or both parents living and working abroad. While the situations differ from household to household, these “families” can’t be called anything other than dysfunctional.

As an example, we have a tenth grader who lives in an apartment by himself. For a variety of reasons, he can’t live with his mother. He used to live with his father, but supposedly his father’s live-in girlfriend hates him. The solution was to throw him out of the house and put him up in an apartment of his own.

The principal at our school has made it clear she would like me to extend my service and stay at least one more year. I hadn’t seriously considered it until recently. But knowing how my nephew had been hurt when I left him in Belgium, and knowing the rejection and pain that the kids here are subjected to by the people closest to them, I can’t help but thinking maybe I should stay. If I leave as scheduled, I'll be just another person who put in the bare minimum and then abandoned them. Is that the message I want to send? Or is it better to send the opposite message? Maybe for once what these kids need is for someone to say to them, “I don’t care if I can make more money somewhere else. I don’t care if my life will be easier if I leave Bulgaria. I don't care about a career or trying to start my own family. I don’t care about any of those things. I care about you, and I want to stay to try to help you.”

Maybe what they need is a чичо. Then again ... to be continued.

Me and one of my students. His mom works as a cleaning woman in Western Europe.

Three and a half years ago I was lucky enough to become an uncle. Two years later a second nephew came into my life. Unfortunately, my nephews live in Colorado and I live in Bulgaria. As a result, I see them far more often in photographs than in person and far less often than I’d like. But when I do have the opportunity to see them, I try to take advantage of it.

This year, they (along with my brother and his wife) visited their grandparents in Belgium for Christmas. I was able to find a cheap flight, so I decided to spend Christmas in Belgium with at least some of my family.

My flight out of Sofia was delayed by fog. As a result, I missed a connecting flight in Frankfort and arrived in Brussels several hours late. A blizzard in Belgium made for an icy runway and a somewhat treacherous landing and slick roads and a slow ride home, but we eventually made it no worse for the wear.

Hoping to see me before he went to bed, my eldest nephew had stayed up as late as his dad and his strength would allow. Sadly, he had fallen fast asleep long before we walked through the door, so our reunion would have to wait until morning.

The sleeping arrangements were such that he and I shared a bed. Weary from travel and full from the first of many delicious homemade Belgian meals, it didn’t take long before I joined him and passed out.

Morning came quickly, but I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed. As I laid in bed reading, my nephew began to stir. I turned to look at him. He was buried beneath a sheet and several blankets. Only the top of his head was visible. Perhaps subconsciously feeling that I was watching him, he pulled the covers down halfway past his eyes and snuck a quick glance before burying himself completely under the covers. I that split second, even though I saw nothing more than his head from his eyes up, I could tell he was smiling and happy to see me. I waited, and, sure enough, within a few seconds his head reappeared and he tried to sneak a second glance. When he tried for a third time, I buried my own head under the covers the instant our eyes met. This set him off giggling, and, after a short time playing this game, he was ready to wrestle.

For the next five days, I played my expected role: punching bag, human trampoline, and all-around glutton for punishment. On several occasions, my brother, his wife, and I went out to explore the nearby towns and countryside. My nephew was invited every time. Every time he declined, choosing instead to stay at home with his grandma.

The time went all too quickly, and it was soon time for the ride back to the airport. Knowing, perhaps instinctively, that this would be the last time he would see me for a while, my nephew chose to come along.

When we arrived at the airport, my brother got out of the car to wish me well and say goodbye. He then asked my nephew if he could say “goodbye” to me. My nephew said nothing, gave a very brief shake of his head to indicate “no,” and turned from us and stared straight ahead.

My brother then asked my nephew if he could give him a “high five.” My nephew turned to his dad and gave him a high five.

My brother then asked my nephew if he could give me a high five. Once again, my nephew said nothing, shook his head “no,” and turned from us and stared straight ahead.

It was a powerful statement and an awkward situation. One of my main motivations for going to Belgium was to see my nephews. Yet, in doing so, I had clearly hurt at least one of them by leaving so quickly to return to Bulgaria. It would be easy to say, “He’s just a kid. He doesn’t understand. This is life.” But I couldn’t help but thinking maybe he had it right and that I was the one who didn’t understand.

And then I started thinking about my kids - not my kids, my students - so many of whom have been abandoned by one or both of their parents … to be continued.

My eldest nephew.

The little guy. He wasn't walking when I saw him last spring.

Papa chasing the little one.

This is my big brother. I hadn't seen him in almost two years. It's a good thing he didn't spend Christmas in Wisconsin. He might have been mistaken for a bear and been shot. Gotta love the pre-oyster look versus the post-oyster look. At least he didn't ralph like my other brother did when we got together (of course, there was no rakia drinking this time).

Did I mention the food was amazing? I ate two of these guys.

Over a year ago, I wrote a short piece about Sofia. I've come to know Sofia better since then, but I have nothing more insightful to add. At some point, I'll post more photos from Sofia but to better understand the history of the city and of Bulgaria, watch this promotional video. The host is a bit insufferable at times, it is essentially a paid advertisement, and not everything is accurate (check on the elevations of Mount Olympus and Mount Vitosha), but the video reinforces much of what I had written about Sofia - things which most folks, Bulgarians included, are unaware.

If you've followed this blog at all, you know I enjoy living in Bulgaria and that I feel forever indebted to the people here who have made my life in Bulgaria so interesting and enjoyable. One thing, however, which I've yet to come to terms with are all the long faces I encounter day in and day out. I wrote about these sad faces almost a year ago to the day, and most of what I wrote then is still true today. I do see more smiles now but most of them come from my students, many of whom I'm quite certain are smiling only because they think I'm crazy.

To the untrained eye, far too many Bulgarians appear to be in a perpetual state of misery. And as someone who enjoys living here, I just don't understand all the gloom and doom. There are far "worse" places to live. Indeed, not to long ago, after a brief trip to Germany for Oktoberfest, I wrote about some of the differences between Bulgaria and Germany. My blog entry generated a response with a question I’ve been mulling and losing sleep over ever since I read it. Broken down to its simplest form, the question is rather straightforward: how could you possibly prefer life in Bulgaria over life in Germany?

At some point I’ll try to answer that question. In the meantime, I’d like an answer to this question: Why is Bulgaria, relative to its income per person, the saddest place in the world?

Someone wrote a long time ago that we travel to do things we take for granted and never do at home. There is some truth in this statement, but when I travel I generally do the same things or types of things I do back home. I know how I like to spend my time, and I prefer to spend my time doing things I enjoy rather than wasting it doing things I don’t.

This past weekend, however, I did something I had never done and probably would never do back home. I attended a carpet weaving demonstration.

Nestled in a small valley a little more than a stone’s throw from Serbia, Чипровци (Chiprovtsi) is world famous, at least among collectors, for its carpets. Since learning of these carpets and the local weavers who still make them, I’d been curious about both the process and the final product.

The carpets are nothing short of amazing, and the process is quite interesting. Unfortunately, as I should have known from failed experiences with latch hook as a kid, my lack of skill and patience precludes me from ever becoming a carpet weaver. Nevertheless, it was a worthwhile foray and I’m glad I experienced it.

The town. The ridge on top of the mountains in the background is the Serbian border.

Chiprovtsi carpets.

Getting a demonstration.

Time to weave.

We woke up to a dusting of snow the next day.

And then the goats took over the town.