My favorite train ride in Bulgaria covers the stretch of track between София (Sofia) and Мездра (Mezdra) along река Искър (the Iskar River) and through Искърското дефиле (the Iskar Gorge). Wanting to take in the scenery at a slower pace, I recently spent a couple days walking the stretch between Лакатник (Lakatnik) and Люти брод (Lyuti Brod). I'm too much of a hack to do the place justice with photos, but you can get an idea of the beauty of the place and how enjoyable my two walks were.

Help her tidy up for the little ones. Snuggle a little. Sing and dance for her. And it's "Wham, bam, thank you ma'am."

Not what you were expecting? Such is life.

Last week was spring break in Bulgaria. I was low on funds and the weather wasn't the best, so I didn't see as many new places in country as I would have liked. I did, however, make a cross-country trip to Природен парк „Русенски Лом” (Rusenski Lom Nature Park) and Ивановски скални църкви (the Ivanovo Rock Churches). I'll write briefly about those places in a minute, but I want to start with something else.

In four months and a few days my time in Bulgaria as a Peace Corps volunteer will end. Last year at this time I wasn't ready for it to end, and, as a result, I agreed to extend my service. But now, the time is right.

Once upon a time, I met a girl. We had fun together and soon entered into a relationship. The relationship worked, and we stayed together for days which turned into weeks which turned into months which turned into years. It wasn't anything I had ever planned, it just sort of happened. Life was good, and, even though I knew deep down we weren't right for each other, things were too comfortable to sever the relationship and move on. As a result, we probably stayed together longer than we should have.

During the nearly fifteen hours I spent on trains going to and from Иваново (Ivanovo), I realized my relationship with Bulgaria is very much like my relationship was with that girl. Life is good, and I’m comfortable here. But we’re just not right for each other, and prolonging the relationship merely because it's comfortable just doesn't make sense. It's time to get out of the comfort zone and search for a better match.

Anyway, I digress ... back to Rusenski Lom Nature Park and the Ivanovo Rock Churches.

After securing lodging for the night, we wandered off, against our hostess's advice and blessing, in a light mist. We got wet and didn't see much other than some views like this one. But after six hours on the train, it was a good way to stretch the legs and to get our bearings.

Day two brought nicer weather, and we took full advantage. Some nice folks drove us to the village of Червен. We started at the medieval fortress overlooking the village and hiked more than 20 kilometers along the river to one of the rock churches. Here are some shots of and from the fortress.

The hike through the gorge was pleasant enough, highlighted by blooming fruit trees, dramatic cliffs, soaring vultures (the northernmost breeding pair of Egyptian Vultures in Europe) and Black Storks, numerous Hoopoes, and singing wrens, robins, tits, and finches, among others.

This is the rock monastery "St. Archangel Michael."

And these are some of the monastery's famous paintings.

While most people visit the park for the rock churches, these are some of the things I found just as interesting.

A small pig farm on the outskirts of one of the villages ...

a small cave used to dry grass ...

an old-fashioned well in one of the villages ...

an old school saw ...

a friendly shepherd with his flock ...

and, quite possibly, the perfect ping pong table and game.

We may not be a perfect match, but I sure am going to miss this place.

Yesterday,after my classes, I went into town to get a sandwich for lunch. After fillingup, I returned to school to check on a few things we've been working on.

Iwas met at the front door of the school by two students who made it a point toshow me some blood on the doorsteps. There had been a fight, "a very goodfight," they told me, between two of the other students.

Detailsas to exactly what happened remain sketchy, but this much is known. The fightinvolved two boys, an 11th grader and a 12th grader. Theyhad gotten into a small fight on their way home the preceding Friday. Theydidn't get out of their systems whatever they needed to get out on Friday, andbrought their hostilities with them to school on Monday. The boy whose bloodwas on the doorsteps was injured pretty badly, and he was in, and might still bein, the hospital because of some serious damage to one of his eyes.

Itwasn't my responsibility to monitor the hall or the front of the school, but Icouldn't help but thinking, "Would this have happened had I been around? And,what, if anything, would I have done had I been there?"

Teenageboys get in fights. I got in a couple fights as a teenager, and, even thoughI've diffused more than a few fights among students, I'm always tempted to justlet the kids duke it out, particularly when one of them needs nothing more thana good ass whipping. But, as a teacher, one of our roles is clear – to do ourbest to provide our students with a learning environment in which they feelsafe – and I always end up throwing myself in the middle of whatever scrapmight be about to erupt into something more serious.

Insuch situations, there is no moral dilemma. I know I'm doing the right thing. Idon't feel good or bad about it. It’s just something I do instinctively withoutemotion or feeling. I had a very different feeling a few months ago when Idealt with a slightly different issue.

Iwas teaching after school English to a couple elementary school kids. One ofthe kids, a boy, asked if he could go to the bathroom. I let him go, but hecame back crying. When I asked him what was wrong, he initially refused toanswer. After calming him down and telling him everything was going to be fine,he told me that one of our students, a 9th grader who was playingping pong in the hall in front of the bathroom, had pushed, hit, and bulliedhim.

Thisinfuriated me, and I went out and confronted the 9th grader. When Ifirst approached, he knew why I was coming and just started laughing. Thisinfuriated me even more, and I grabbed him and asked him what he had done. Atfirst he denied doing anything and said he and the other boy were friends.After yelling at him until he had no doubts I didn't find anything remotely amusing about what he'd done, I dragged him into the room where we were studyingEnglish and demanded that he apologize to the other kid. He did so, and genuinely,but I was still seething.

Laterthat afternoon, I encountered the 9th grader on my walk home. Atfirst when I saw him I felt nothing but anger. But as I got closer I saw in himthe same fear I had seen in the younger boy earlier. At that moment, I realized I had bulliedand intimidated the 9th grader in exactly the same way he hadbullied and intimidated the young boy. And I felt like shit.

I'dlike to believe that international politics is somehow more complicated thanthis, but it's really not. The time for the bullying to end has long sincepassed.

If you've seen the movie Groundhog Day, you get a small idea of what winter was like here this year. Every day, I'd wake up, look out the window, and see snow falling and a couple fresh inches of powder on the ground. Or so it seemed. Since Баба Марта popped in, snows have become somewhat less frequent, and it's no longer accumulating to the same degree. But it's still happening. Snow is still falling.

I'm trying to say positive. One good thing about winter? Frozen waterfalls. This is Боянски водопад (Boyana Waterfall), the largest waterfall on Витоша (Mount Vitosha).

Lastyear, I wrote about some of the differences between how Bulgarians and Americans celebrate birthdays. What I didn't mention is that my birthday fallson a very important day in Bulgaria(and many other places around the world) – International Women's Day. Largelyan afterthought in the U.S.A.,International Women's Day is a big deal here: combine Mother'sDay and Valentine's Day and you pretty much have International Women's Day. As such, it's not a great day to have a birthday.

Bulgariansalso celebrate Valentine's Day, but February 14th is equally wellknown in Bulgariafor another celebration – Трифон Зарезан (St. Trifon's Day). On Трифон Зарезан,grape growers theoretically go out and prune the vines in their vineyards, poursome wine over the vines for good luck, and then proceed to celebrate by drinking lots andlots of wine. The folks who I know who celebrate Трифон Зарезан generally skipall but the last step. Since I didn't have a valentine and wasn't up for anight of heavy drinking, I didn't celebrate anything on February 14th.

Last fall, however, I did return to Крайници (Krainitsi) to help some friends pick their crop of grapes. Between eight of us, we picked approximately 700 kilograms (1,500pounds) of grapes. Those grapes were subsequently used to produce a winter's supply ofred wine and 150 liters of Bulgaria's national drink, rakia. At some point, I'll provide step by step instructionson how to make rakia. In the meantime, here are some photos from our weekend ofgrape picking. Let's hope 2012 is equally productive.

The process was fairly simple. From 8:30 a.m. to 3:15 p.m., we picked grapes. We picked big purple grapes, pink grapes, white grapes, green grapes, tiny purple grapes ... at least seven varieties in all.

The grapes went from the vines to buckets ...

and from buckets to crates ...

then the barrels were prepared ...

and the grapes were mashed ...

and then transferred to the barrels.

By 7:15 p.m., all the grapes had been mashed and dumped into the barrels, all the buckets and crates had been cleaned, and we were sitting down enjoying a sampling of the previous year's efforts. It would be a couple months before this year's hard work would pay off.

There were lots of bees and wasps enjoying the nectar from the grapes. I got stung a couple times, but it wasn't a big deal.

There were also a few harmless butterflies enjoying the nectar.

This is Rexy, the family pitbull.

Far more menacing was this mouse murdering hen.

A few other shots from around the village.

Coldbeer. Grilled meats. Fried fish. Cotton candy. Candied apples. A variety ofother sweets. Girls all dolled up. Boys eyeing up the girls, wooing them, andvying for their attention. Adults mixing, mingling, and chatting.

Theso-called "Gypsy Bride Market" seemed to be several things rolled into one: afair of sorts, a reunion of sorts, a prom (or debutant ball) of sorts. Whateverit was, it was nothing like the cattle auction it's been reported to be by themedia. I expected to be uncomfortable, and I was. Not because this was somearchaic and patently offensive sale of young women, but because we had no businessbeing there. We showed up uninvited and brought nothing to the party other thanour presumed moral superiority. Despite this, and even though we were there at least in part to judge, we weren't shunned or otherwise made to feel unwelcome. On the contrary, everyone was accepting if not overly accommodating and friendly. What made me uncomfortable was the voice in my own head that kept asking, "Who the hell are you to judgeanyway?"

For more on the market, read my friend’s post.

Here are some shots from the event.

These two girls were at the center of some controversy. A freelance reporter from Spain wanted to interview them (and any other girls hoping to be "bought" at the market). The reporter couldn't understand or speak Bulgarian, so without help from a translator she was useless. Anyway, an elderly gentleman claiming to speak on behalf of all Калайджии said no one could be interviewed or photographed until an official translator showed up. The girls' grandmother took exception to this and a small pissing contest ensued. In any event, maybe the girls found love because a few hours later they both were with boys.

This girl was one of the "lucky" ones. She and her new husband both seemed pretty happy.Gotta love the media getting in someone's face to "get the story."

Alas, I didn't find a bride worth purchasing. Instead, I bought a horsewhip at this stand. A 5 leva souvenir from my first and, in all likelihood, last visit to a bride market.

Five of us had jammed into a taxi for the short ride from Стара Загора (Stara Zagora) to the nearby village of Могила (Mogila). We were pretty excited, perhaps too excited. We were, after all, only going to Могила because we were curious to see the village's infamous "Gypsy Bride Market" for ourselves. Our excitement grew as we passed horse-cart after horse-cart of Roma people along the way, all presumably headed to the bride market.

That excitement quickly turned to disappointment upon learning that there would be no bride market. Although traditionally held on the first Saturday of Lent per the Eastern Orthodox Christian calendar, the market had been pushed back a day due to a conflict with Тодоровден (St. Theodore's Day or Horse Easter). We made the most of it, lingering a bit until a chilly wind got the better of us and sent us back to Стара Загора.

Here are some photos from the festivities.

With all the horses running around, we had to pay close attention to avoid being run over. But that was nothing compared to the mob scene that developed after a guy showed up with a miniature horse and allowed the three American girls to climb aboard to pose for photos and take a short ride.

Unlessyou're an active Peace Corps volunteer or a returned Peace Corps volunteer, oryou have an unhealthy obsession with the Peace Corps, you've probably neverheard of the Posh Corps. The vision many people have of the Peace Corps is ofvolunteers living in mud huts, cooking rice over an open flame, bathing andwashing their clothes in a bucket of cold water they have to walk three milesto get, reading by candlelight, and sleeping in mosquito netting. To some,volunteers who don't live in such a manner, or something reasonably similar,are not true Peace Corps volunteers. They are members of the Posh Corps.

At aminimum, Posh Corps volunteers are housed in homes or apartments blessed withmodern conveniences such as electricity and indoor plumbing (think running waterand toilets). They live in towns with grocery stores, cafés, and restaurants.They not only have kitchens, but the kitchens come with refrigerators, stoves,and ovens. Most have hot water heaters. Many have televisions hooked up tocable, and most have internet not only at their worksites but in their homes.The truly lucky ones even have washing machines and dish washers.

Atour close of service conference, we all drew questions out of a hat. They werequestions we were likely to be asked at some point by people in the USAwhen we returned home. We formed a large circle and a volunteer started byreading her question, which another volunteer of her choosing had to answer. Wewent around the circle until every volunteer had asked and answered a question.The question that I was asked was something like, "You served in Eastern Europe in a country that’s part of the European Union? That musthave been real difficult (sarcasm)." At the time, I responded with an answer inline with the question, saying something along the lines of, "Yep. They don’tcall it the Posh Corps for nothing." My response drew a smattering of boos andhisses from my colleagues and rightfully so.

Noquestion. The volunteers serving in Third Worldcountries face different challenges than we face. But, having talked at lengthwith our former country director and our current assistant country directors,all of whom are former Peace Corps volunteers, as well as some other volunteerswho have served in less developed countries, the primary challenges we face asvolunteers – corruption, apathy, indifference, malaise, hostility, jealousy, mistrust– vary little from country to country. The work volunteers in less developedcountries do might fall lower on Maslow's pyramid, but that doesn't necessarilymean it's more difficult.

Somewill undoubtedly disagree and cling to the perceived distinction between real Peace Corpsservice and Posh Corps service. But how does one make such a distinction? Let'sstart with a list of ten. Without putting too much thought into it, here are tenthings (all of which I've experienced during my service) that make one a Posh Corpsvolunteer:

10.You know you're in the Posh Corps when you heat your kitchen by opening yourrefrigerator.

9.You know you're in the Posh Corps when liquids, if left out of yourrefrigerator in your kitchen, freeze overnight.

8.You know you're in the Posh Corps when frozen locks prevent you from leavingyour home.

7.You know you're in the Posh Corps when frozen locks prevent you from enteringyour home.

6.You know you're in the Posh Corps when frozen pipes prevent you from bathingfor more than a week.

5.You know you're in the Posh Corps when you have no idea what's happeningoutside because two inches of frost have formed on the inside of all your windows.

4.You know you're in the Posh Corps when you teach less than five days in anentire month due to mandatory school closings ordered first as a result of aninfluenza epidemic and then as a result of temperatures well in excess of -20° Celsius.

3.You know you're in the Posh Corp when "breaking the seal" means peeing on andbreaking up the ice that forms in your toilet bowl overnight.

2.You know you're in the Posh Corps when you sleep in long underwear, sweats,insulated socks, and a stocking cap in a sleeping bag under several woolblankets and you still wake up chilled and shivering because you're so cold.

1. You know you're in the Posh Corps when you lose any and allmotivation to do anything other than crawl as far under the covers as possiblein an attempt to stay warm.

Честита Баба Марта!

The view from the inside looking out.

The way things have looked outside (even after a fair amount of snow melt).

Sixmonths from today, I’ll be leaving Bulgaria.In terms of work, we’ve got a lot to accomplish between now and then. Goodthings are happening, and I’m probably more excited now than I’ve been at anypoint during my entire service. But the clock is also running out on me to seeand experience things on my Bulgariabucket list. Knowing this, I’ve started making a concentrated effort to knockoff such items one by one.

Lastweekend, I knocked off the first: теснолинейка Септември — Добринище (the Septemvri— Dobrinishte Narrow Gauge Train Line). I’d wanted to take this train ride forsome time, and an extended weekend provided the perfect opportunity to do it.

At the advice of a friend who has ridden the entire line, I started twostops from the end of the line in his town, Разлог (Razlog). As someone who loves a goodtrain ride, I thoroughly enjoyed everything about the trip. The scenery was bestduring the first hour or so of the ride, when we were surrounded by toweringsnowcapped peaks jutting into blue skies and puffy white clouds, and again nearthe end before reaching the Upper Thracian Plain, when we followed meanderingrivers and were surrounded by precipitous cliffs. It’s not as scenic as the stretchof track through the Iskar Gorge on the Sofia to Mezdra line, butit’s far more interesting because of the Помаци (Pomaks) who live in the villagesalong the line and hop on and off the train all along the way. Knowing someBulgarian and eavesdropping on their conversations will enhance yourexperience, but it’s a ride worth taking even if you don’t know any Bulgarian.

A few shots from Razlog, Bansko, and the train.

A while back, I spent a couple hours wandering around the village of Боженци (Bozhentsi). The place has an interesting history, and all of the buildings are from or are consistent with the Bulgarian National Revival. It's an extremely touristy place which I'd want no part of during the tourist season. Fortunately, we visited in the dead of winter, and encountered only a handful of other tourists. If you want to experience Боженци at its best, that's when I'd advise visiting. Bring a lover, a good book, cozy up next to the fire, enjoy the offerings from one of the many механи (taverns), and drift away into yesteryear.

Here are some shots from around the village.

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