THE WORLD IS NOT SO WIDE AS IT APPEARS letter series {#4}

“Children & Dogs”

I recently read an article entitled “Reflections on Infidelity,” published on Care2.com. Although not particularly ground breaking in content, it inspired a "forward on" to my current relationship with this brief communication: “::cringe:: long-term relationships scare me. Hmmmm, now polyamory on the other hand...” I included in a half-playful tone.

To which he double-responded:First, “: / Are u tryin to tell me something? U hate me huh. ::::lip::::” Then, upon further thought, I suppose, “Why would u say that? Are u done having both feet in?”

Originally not intending to make a conversation of this article, his response prompted these reflections which I've shared with him.

the letter: “Awww sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have included you on that email... : /but it's true. ::Ugggh:: Nothing about you of course. I love you; you're great. It's that forever thing. That domestic love. That stale familiarity as they say. There is so much of a high involved with meeting new people, doing new things, getting to know others intimately, bringing out a secret side in them, exposing yours. It can be intoxicating; something as hard to forget as that first sumptuous mouthful of your favorite dish which you can order over and over again. I've never been the type to desire the settled life. The marriage, the kids. Children and dogs. Well, the dogs, yes. You know this. We've spoken of it on end. Since being out here we know that I'm making deliberation a part of my life. I'm examining all aspects of it and redefining what I want, dismantling culturally adopted habits and hand selecting my preferences. This not only includes where I live, my work, my media intake, my consumption - edibles, gulpables or otherwise. This includes my definitions of social constructs like relationships and sexuality. In all honesty, change has become such a deeply seeded part of my life. Ever since my father died there hasn't been a home that's contained me for than two years, usually closer to one. That's 10 years now. The same for intimate relationships. And now I'm here. And have plans to be there, then there and there. I don't know how I'd do in any other circumstance. On one hand out here I feel like I'm getting this out of my system, getting ready to explore the settled side, even desiring it, yet simultaneously this seems to make me free-er, want to dive further into exploration - of myself, of other places, of other people, of me, myself in other places with other people. A part of that does stop once in a long-term traditional relationship. Of course there are other things that come to fill its space in such a bond. There are new curiosities - the mechanics of co-habitation, learning their quirks, your quirks, joys and satisfaction in caring for another, creating security for them, showcasing domestic talents, personal growth in overcoming challenges, compromising, communication, building a world of your own, etc. but it's the loooong-term of that which scares me. After the initial few years of that new exploration and learning, what then? The stale-mate? We discuss this often and that article ended on the same note we usually do. We know it takes two people to actively make the other feel special and loved and it is up to them to inject excitement, energy and adventure into it. And so far we've been extraordinary at that. Yet, this still pricks that twangy chord in me. I know I probably should keep this to myself. I know it bothers you and brings back that reserve. But this is who I am and I do possess these thoughts. You are my best friend and I just have to tell you everything. You must know the real me and not when entrenched into an eternity come to discover me. I have to share the knotty clicks of the gears in my mind. This is part of that intimacy thing that I do like. I like getting to share all my dark thoughts and hearing yours. These are the things which bring me closer to you more than anything else could. I'm not sure if it does the same for you... Maybe it's a good thing to have these thoughts. At least we're thinking of them now. Seeing their weight on relationships and scouting the potential landmines. Because we are aware of their presence does this mean one should not venture into the mine-laden field? Or should one be grateful for this knowledge and harness it to navigate around them?”Why am I sharing this private communication with you today? Well, I suppose I just felt like sharing one very human reaction to this article. One very late twenty-somethings reaction to relationships. Her fears. Her doubts. Maybe somebody out there can relate.

THE WORLD IS NOT SO WIDE AS IT APPEARS letter series {#3}

“You Will Make It”

It’s an interesting thing about these sheets. As I turn each page I know not what the message beholds. The text itself a momental prompt. The words atop the page conjuring unique meaning wholly dependant upon an amalgamation of self, state of mind, mood and current happenings. I inhale the words. Let it permeate and seek meaning.

Today these words penetrate the meninges of my mind, slink around the fleshy nooks of each twisted cauliflower fold of my brain, surge down my spine and radiate outwardly along each spindly tentacle of my peripheral nervous system seeking a way in. Searching for weakness, seeking an answer.

Today it found me. Today it has discovered the tracings of self-doubt that have been lacing my thoughts. At times more than lacing. At times accumulating to such heights as to form mounds. Mounds which demand traversing and surpassing.

Such are my thoughts.

As of late I find myself engulfed in a plan. A plan for a business. A plan in an attempt to help bridge the gap between rich and poor in America. A plan through which to help fight for our natural rights that have been so gradually stripped away. A right for which our government should protect but which has found itself in the sheets between power and greed. We as humans deserve the right to health. The right to life. The right to enjoy the natural born fruits of our earth; the roots of which gifted to the beings blessed with breath. This fundamental need has been stripped from all and relegated and re-gifted to the elite – for a price. The rest, repackaged in stomach filling vessels of chemicals, emptiness and low-value.

I have this plan and I’m working on it. Day by day. I add more to this plan. I enact teams on the ground to help me with this plan. I believe in it whole heartedly and am increasingly irritated by people philosophizing about our problems and not acting. Big words are great but are nothing without big action.

Such are my thoughts.

I move steadily through this plan, methodically addressing each question of its development. I’m engulfed. Then, in the midst of frustration or in the warming peace of a shower my questions change course. From, “how do I get there?” “what’s the most efficient way?” “the fairest way?” to, “what are you risking?” “what if you fail?” “will anyone even care that you’ve created this?” “will the populace appreciate it?” “can I even compete?” These questions mount faster than the methodical trudgings of building a concrete plan. Before I know it I’ve drifted down the slippery river. I look in on myself seeking harbor in a safe alternative; related to my field of interest but not exactly accomplishing my goal. It’s at this moment that I worry myself. I worry that perhaps I’m not strong enough to carry this through. I worry whether I’ll make it.

I wallow in these thoughts; in my solace.

Such are my thoughts.

Then, just as the shifting temperature of water, I incrementally find my way out. I focus on the “I can.” I focus on the “at least I’ll have tried” and am slowly warmed again.

As the droplets evaporate away, I recall a study from years ago. A study entitled “Message from Water” by Dr. Masaru Emoto. In this study Dr. Emoto evokes us to rethink our consciousness and its power. In this study he exposes the H2 and O molecules of water to various messaging from kind words as “peace,” “love” and “hope” to “hate,” “anger” and “war.” Through these studies Dr. Emoto has been capturing the structural reconfigurations of these interactions by means of microscopic photography. What he has found is nothing short of inspirational. The molecules align themselves in physical reflection of these meanings. The more inspirational and wondrous the words, the more beautiful and magnificent the structure; the more hate-filled and negative the message, the more grotesque and convoluted the configuration.

I take this and reflect upon myself. What evoked these thoughts in me? This self-doubt? What internal messaging am I creating? What are we saying to ourselves daily? Let us take a moment to reflect. A moment to listen. Are they positive or negative? Are they aiding in our quest to our heart or mind’s desire? Or are they merely serving as deterrents?

Outside of our being, what are we exposing ourselves to? The music we listen to, the media we watch, the friends we keep? They all have a hand in influencing the subliminal messaging of our minds. Let us take inventory of our lives. What are we really exposing ourselves to? It’s all within our choice.

I made this realization this week: I AM an entrepreneur. I AM working on my business. I’m no longer hopefully a future entrepreneur. I’m no longer working on this business idea of mine. I AM.

Whatever it is that you are trying to make it to, you will. You will do it and you will succeed because at least you have tried - and tried with all your might. Whether your struggle is in creating something, getting accepted to something, moving beyond something or surviving something.

We are more than molecules. We are more than H2 & O. We are humans and we have this capacity to surround ourselves with whatever messaging we want. We are not merely receptors. Go find the messaging you deserve and take the methodical steps towards what you want.

Take a moment to glimpse what Dr. Emoto’s studies revealed:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1-0ulKgmio&feature=related

My question to you: What are you trying to “make it” through? Is your internal and external messaging pushing you closer or further away from this?

THE WORLD IS NOT SO WIDE AS IT APPEARS letter series {#2}

“Do You Remember?” Two years ago if I’d have been asked to peer into my future I would have never envisioned myself 10,730 miles away living in an Eastern European country speaking Bulgarian. I could not have foretold of all the new things I’ve done and learned along the way. I could not have predicted the familiarity I’d feel at the sight of Rhodopian mud & brick homes and the scent of its wood-fired winters, Nor the acclimation I’d succumb to in walking through snow 20 minutes each day, each way, to and from work.

I did not foresee the regularity of crowded over-heated bus rides to get where I’m going, Nor the humor in hearing the occasional cock crow and cow moo in the middle of my “urban” city.

I hadn’t expected the awe of the ever-changing view from my balcony, The blessing of freely gathering fruits and herbs in the forest around me,Nor the purity of having locally harvested honey offered around the corner.

I could not have explained of the comfort that has grown in me in seeing the faces of my colleagues and in recognizing the sound of uniquely Bulgarian bagpiping.

There’s unanticipated magnificence in having slept in centuries old Thracian caves,And excitement in hitching rides through the tiniest of Balkan villages while engaging in crop conversations along the path.

The insecurities and frustrations of communicating the simplest of thoughts,And the exhaustion of dancing endless rounds of Bulgarian horo were unpredictable.

The burn in my eyes from swallowing homemade rakia,The craving I’d develop for salted yogurt drinks,And overabundance of love I’d feel from a Bulgarian grandmother, Were something of getting used to.

Nobody would have believed my acquiescence in foregoing the heels everywhere … anywhere … at all,

Nor my struggle in getting 5 cubics of wood up 5 flights of stairs for the winter.

I could not have anticipated the loneliness I’d feel in a crowded room,The constant confusion I’d face in learning to nod for “no” and shake for “yes,”Nor succumbing to tears whenever, wherever I felt them.

I could not have imagined my acculturation to eating food and working in smoky environments,Nor the bonding to be had in knitting at the workplace, Or how I’d try to satisfy my cravings for home in importing packages of masa for corn tortillas,And the joy I’d feel in making and breaking Mexican piñatas.

I especially could not have visualized myself holding meetings in a language learned just weeks prior,Nor describe the feeling of triumph in getting just one person to try a new method.

Most of all I could never have predicted the love I’d find 10,730 miles away.

These are the experiences that have changed me forever.

What I could have told you two years ago was how I felt, how I wanted something more, how my eyes were always facing outwards, and how I’d felt this deep tickling to find my inspiration since I was a child.

I could tell you how through a number of years of bland work I was afraid I had lost it; I was afraid that I’d lost that secret spark that I felt made me different. That spark that I thought most people could not have known in me nor felt themselves. That thing that I would secretly write to myself about, that in looking back at old recklessly scribbled notes, my adolescent self could only describe as a burning sensation that on its upsurge would ignite every nerve in my body from the bottom of my gut to the tips of fingers.

It was an excitement aroused in me that I doubted anyone could even suspect was present.

What I did almost two years ago was follow what was always there. I started my path of self discovery and search for inspiration. I wanted to learn what made me tick, what I really felt passionate about. I wanted to listen to what came to me from within.

In this, I was reconnected with the small things that used to please me as a child. The little activities that would occupy my time and entertain me so well - the painting of light switches and concocting of beauty products from what was left in the kitchen. (Do you remember this, mom?)

Out here I found a theme. I found myself in a place with limited media inundation and stimulation, a place where moments of self-reflection were copious and it was up to me to plug in and select the messaging pleasing to me. Through this all I believe I have found it. I’ve found what I was burying those years and suffocating from life. I was on the track of success, yes, but at risk of being carried away with the current of the American routine.

This that I have found has re-energized me. Not only did I find the entrance to the path, I found the courage to follow it. No matter how my sub-conscious tries to trick me with doubt and fear I know I must follow and try. If it doesn’t work out, well, at least I tried. As they say “it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” To me that’s how I feel about my dreams. It is better to have fostered this burn in the hearth of my soul for however long it lasts than to smother it before it really began.

After all, a life of safety and regularity, tepid in nature can come along at any time.

If you ask me again in another two or twelve years whether I could envision what’s down that road, I hope I can again greet myself with an affirmative “no.”

All I can do is follow my instincts down every fork. I have set off to live in the “woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”*

I want to ask you now, “Do you remember?” Do you remember when that moment was for you? That moment you chose to take hold of your life and lead it rather than it lead you? If not, would you share why not? What obstacles do you or did you see? What would it take for you to overcome those obstacles?

*Thoreau, Walden (1854; selections) -- American Literature, 1800-1915

THE WORLD IS NOT SO WIDE AS IT APPEARS letter series

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

Surprised to hear from me? I just arrived back in Bulgaria. It seems I’ve slept all day and night since I left you. Though, I couldn’t tell you whose day and whose night. With all the flights and time zone hopping my body is finding it difficult to commit to any one sleeping schedule. In fact, I lived this entire day believing it was actually Saturday the 17th until when attempting to date this letter I discovered it was in truth Friday the 16th 2011.

Since leaving you at 7:45 Wednesday morning my brain has elated in moments of extreme overstimulation and endured hours of severe understimulation - from the anxious energy of expertly navigating ones way through the international flight process, to hours of mind-dumbing entrapment that overtakes in hour 7 of a 14 hour flight after exhausting all of your in-flight entertainment and no longer being subdued by eye-masked dreams to an 8-hour flash-excursion into an unexplored lay-over city. After all this I can still say you, my family and friends have laced every thought each moment of the way.

I’m still digesting my impressions and emotions from my trip back home but I do know one thing, my heart has grown an immeasurable amount. It hit me so vividly that I was stunned. I’ve always heard others speak of moments of clarity, usually credited to powers of the divine or some other higher consciousness. With a discreet roll-of-the-eye I’ve always discredited this to a self-righteous exhibition of devoutness, poetic manifestation of their own conscious thoughts or simply an overdramatic realization. I don’t know what to attribute mine to but for the first time I can say a change in me has occurred and this realization struck me at the most unexpected moment and with such force that it shook me. I felt it in every molecule in my body and in every inch of my soul that science has yet to explain.

This moment came to me in the early morning hours, amidst the deepest pools of drool and left-sided limbs dangling from the ledge of my sisters couch. I had returned from a spot-on night of two-stepping with my favorite (and only) dance partner. I was jolted awake. With vision filmy of a sleeper’s grog I searched the darkness. In reality my eyes saw nothing but the thick night punctuated by the electric green light of my sister’s television. As I closed my eyes I was overcome by an aching in my heart and stomach-dropping fear, something that I can only describe as ones soul clutching itself into the fetal position hoping to find stability and security. I recognized this immediately; this that I had experienced previously only once in my life.

In this cloudy state emerged images of my family and closest friends. Close-up images of their faces, one-by-one, as if through a Viewmaster, each warm with the brilliant expression of their happiest moments; the kind that one often envisions when conjuring up images of their beloved lost. But in this Viewmaster wedged between each such image, in opposing intervals, were much darker visions. With them the sharpness of which only death could bring. This feeling in fact I had not felt only once but many times throughout my adult life – though each episode rooted in that one singular event. Death, once rooted, brings a feeling, an acuteness of pain and longing, that punctures without warning throughout ones life. Like the heaviness of a rock in your pocket. You forget it is there, learn to live with its dull weight, until one day when you reach in and are pricked by its familiar malformity and flinty edge. You press against it feeling the pain in controlled amounts until after several minutes, a few hours or set of days you retract and there it lies dormant until the next.

I’ve thought myself lucky to carry but one such stone. I’ve valued and appreciated my remaining loves and have even grown closer to them through the acquisition of that first one. I must regrettably and un-regrettably admit that it was not until this recent trip, at that precise moment, that I had come to realize that though I may have loved my family and friends I had not truly cherished them. With each slide of that filmstrip, I meta-physically experienced the life and death of every loved being in my life. I was there receiving the warmth of their love and labored through the crushing agony of their loss. Each and every one. One at a time. With puffy eyes and swollen sinuses from the sorrow of loss, I experienced it. I cannot say what struck me at that hour to awaken me with such vivid thoughts or why. All I can say is that I know now I carry not just one stone but a pocket of pebbles and one stone. One for every cherished being in my life. One for each family member; one for each friend. When I travel I no longer do it alone. You are all with me.

This love worries me. It scares me. It makes me dread that inevitable moment when each of us is called away. Perhaps this is akin to the love and fear a parent harbors for their child. As with them, I would not fade this epiphany for anything in the world. Yes, I feel naked and powerless but in reality no more powerless than I ever was, just more conscious. I am thankful. It is not after death that we should cherish our loved ones, for what good would that do any of us?

This letter began as a way to pose a question to you and begin a little dialogue. While away I ran across a notepad. 36 designs. Each with a message at the top. It is my plan to write to you with every turn of the page to share my thoughts inspired by these messages. In return I will be anxiously awaiting your own thoughts on the message as well. As a cherished loved one I’d like to get to know you better and maybe through this we’ll get to know ourselves a little bit better as well. :D

Today I turned the first page and it read, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

Well, you’ve already received my answer. When I asked myself this question this is what I came up with: HOME. While I may (who am I kidding, WILL) continue to travel, I know that the place I will always return to will be home - in the warmth of my family and friends. With my pocket full of pebbles I will return to you with a squeeze of my palm.

Now for you, if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

Write some words, tell a story, post a video, link to an image or share a poem. I’d really like to hear from you.

Sorry I missed you on Skype Mama! I was hiking through the mountains this past weekend. We had such a wonderful time.

We visited Bulgaria's largest and most famous Eastern Orthodox Monastery then continued on to seven famous lakes of glacial origin. It was an arduous trip but magical. We slept in the monastery, attended service before the sun rose and headed off to a seven-hour hike up a very steep mountain (about one mile in vertical steepness over the course of the trip). It was quite the adventure, indeed.

This is the tale of a five-souled pilgrimage to Rila and their fates…

Day 1 - Saturday: Caught a bus out of my town to another called Devin. From there the plan was to hitch to a tiny village called Teshel (about 20 km apart). There, Whitney was awaiting. Together we were to continue by thumb until arriving in Dospat (an additional 30 km distance).

I know what you're thinking. Hitchhiking?! But it's okay, I assure you. Our Rhodopians are kind and tradition makes them hospitable to travelers of the sort. A Communist era remnant, people in the region became accustomed to sharing a limited resource - private vehicles. As those in need took their soles to the roads others stopped to help a fellow man in need. Thus was bred the spirit of the lift. This sentiment still lingers today. I am not naive to the dangers still, but it’s a near necessity of travel from village to village in our region.

In line with Rhodopian hospitality, no sooner had I ventured 20 paces from the bus in Devin did a humming motor rustle my inner ear. Before I could swivel my body and coordinate my thumb, the vehicle was veering over. To my luck it happened to be a microbus whose driver couldn't bear a lone female on the road. As it were, this bus was driving through Teshel where we picked up Whitney and continued to carry us further along his route, reducing our travel from 50 km to a mere 16 km.

After a 20-minute stroll in the afternoon sun we met with a mother and her 20-something-year-old son. They had originally passed us but then were detained by a coffee errand. The sweet mom explained how they had seen us on the road but their want to help was stymied by the absence of a back row of seats. Where there had at one time existed upholstered bench seating now remained a hollow trunk extension.

“Oh, we don’t mind,” we quickly assured her.With a smile, Whitney joined her and her cardboard carrier of coffees in the hollow cavern and I in the front at her son’s side.

What unfolded was the best of every unsuspecting hitch. Chats about who we are, praises for knowing their self-purported obscure language, recollections of volunteers they once knew and this year's potato crops.

Soon enough it was time for us to part ways - we exited and they continued on to meet their relatives in the fields laboring over their potato harvest.

We were on the rode a short while when another car zoomed past us, slammed on its brakes and reversed to pick us up. A local young man it was. Through him we reached our destination. That night we united with Swain who was to continue with us on our journey. We slept in the village of another volunteer and set-off in the morning for day two of travels.

Day 2- SundayThe goal: Arriving at the Rila Monastery. Our challenge: 125 miles of hitching before reaching the city of Blagoevgrad, the land of buses o’plenty.

We woke in the morning before the sun had shone, tightened our shoe strings and headed out of the village. In the small foyer filled with shoes and slippers we were stopped by Joe's host father and mother. No Rhodopian family would ever dream of letting guests sneak off without something in their bellies. And so, in a plastic bag was packed several hearty slices of fresh baked Banitza. Banitza by the way is the typical breakfast here - a filo-dough pastry filled with cirene (a feta-like cheese). Out of the village we passed the gauntlet of old men already perched on benches watching life in the village unfold, pairs and triples of Baba's hauling sacks of harvested vegetables or toting hoes to their gardens and patio awnings camouflaged by tight rows of drying tobacco leaves. Out of the village, it was we three, the quiet rode, and elderly couples with curved spines speckling the fields snipping their leaves to be added to their nicotine trellises.

It's interesting the things you realize on these walks. As it turns out, this was the first time I had ever actually seen tobacco growing (Like many realizations I’ve made about nature out here. I'm more of a city girl than I ever imagined.) Earlier this summer I asked a question. Where exactly did sunflower seeds come from...what part of the plant I mean? To my mid-western friend's chagrin, he informed me they came from the faces of the sunflowers. The faces?? What do you mean? Like if I looked into a sunflower I could see the seeds sitting right there? Some time later we were walking through my neighborhood and I spotted a brilliant-faced sunflower towering above. Hmmm...on my tippy toes I went, my friend nervous for what the Baba's chatting on the wooden bench of their porch might say. Pulling the head closer to me, there they were. Countless black seeds nestled tightly together like blackheads ready to be squeezed.

Back to reality. Just us, the road and some banitza. Our chats and peaceful admiration of the mountain views interrupted only by the occasional car and jolts from Swain thrusting us females to the forefront to wrangle up a ride.

After being on the road for about 20 minutes a familiar bus driver opened his door to us. This was in fact the driver who just a night prior had capped off our travels to Joe’s village. Off-the-clock and only running an errand he aided us, even if just for a kilometer or so. As a sign of appreciation we forced upon him a hunk of our fresh banitza before departure. In the Bulgarian ceremony of gracious refusals, we forced upon him the hunk, leaving it resting on a napkin in a nook of his dashboard.

We continued on. The sun waking up and the fresh forest air keeping us cool. No rides? No problem. My new scouting eyes were busily scanning the forest for herbs and berries which I can now confidently identify after several trips to the forest with my counterpart. Ah-ha! And there it was. The holy grail of forest treats. Wild berries! Illuminated by this discovery and with a plastic bag of blackberries we continued on.

Walk, walk, walk, talk, talk, talk. Picked up by another car. A familiar face once again! Joe's host father (who handed us our bag of Banitza just a couple of hours earlier) on his way to work at the Mushroom Farm. In we go, off we go, out we go. A quick trip, a gracious trip. On the roads you realize, a minute for you in the car is tens of minutes on a hitcher's feet. Often we get the hand signal -- index finger pointed down, swirling from 12:00 - 12:00. The Bulgarian symbol for "just driving locally; you wouldn’t want a ride from me." Ohhh but yes we would! Any distance will do.

Next up, a small coup. With the sun halo'ing the car, three silhouettes were visible; our half-raised thumbs already on their descent. "Ohh they have three, no room for us of course." In mid-turn back on our path the car veers and in a jolt stops. The back door opens. "We're going to Blagoevgrad," we say in Bulgarian. A jumble of words come our way. We repeat, "Blagoevgrad or any where on the way. Is there room for us? Where are you headed?" This string falls on deaf ears.

What's happening? Why aren’t they understanding us? Wait, why don't we understand them? Not Bulgarian? I glance at the license plate, but they have local plates. What's happening? Nonetheless in the chaos we jump into the car and throw our bags in the back.

"Chi-le," "Chi-Chela," "Chi-cheli."

What? Are they going to Chile? Argentina? Are they from Chile? They must speak Spanish! Great, we three confirm. Let's try our Spanish.

Still nothing. A map comes out. The young man in the back points to Italy. Markings for a route across Bulgaria and into Italy are visible. Ah-ha! Chi-Cheli! Sicily! They're Sicilians! Italians! Okay. Close enough to Spanish. We can get something across.

Spanish, Spanish, Spanish. Only a few words are landing. Hmmm. This can't be right. They definitely aren't speaking Italian. What-the-heck-is-happening? We forget about figuring out this puzzle and enjoy the ride for a moment. Our driver is a maniac. Speeding through villages, slamming on brakes and tailgating carted-donkeys brimming with people, this man is hilarious and a little scary. His playful eyes dance in the rearview mirror as he tries to capture our reactions to his antics. Animated he is. A game a charades and broken sentences. Us: Bulgarian, Spanish and English. Them? Well....there is definitely somthing Latin-esque there.

"Viu sau mort?" the driver asks has he inches the car towards a dog lying in the middle of the road. "Viu sau mort?" ....

"Vivo o muerto?" we three say to each other... "Dead or Alive?" Wait a minute. Where are we? Let's see that map again. Check out their markings and yes! Romanians!! They're Romanians! It makes soo much sense now. Three Romanian men on their way from home, through Bulgaria and en route to Sicily! WHHHEEEEWWWWW. What a relief to solve this.

The antics continue. A Baba near a fountain on the side of the road, beating the water out of her rug with a sturdy stick. We zoom up, screech on the brakes, honk the horn and hail the Baba. Confused, naturally, she approaches the car. Within moments the concerned and kind expression on Baba's face turns to schoolmarm doubt and scold when she realizes this man thrashing his hands about in imitation of beating his passenger with a stick as a wet rug is nothing more than a overgrown elementary school prankster. And so it continued for the rest of the ride.

Destination reached. Blagoevgrad.

And there was our 127 mile hitch.

Day 2.5 - Still Sunday

I divided this day because, in writing as in reality, it truly felt as if day’s events were sunsets apart. Here in Blagoevgrad we took a break. Indulged ourselves in being in a larger city and headed to a nice Italian restaurant. Pizzas and a bottle of Muscat. Breathe.

1.5 hours later. On a bus. ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz. About 3 hours later and a bus change we finally arrive to Rila. United with the rest of our party, Cameron and Huelo, we absorb all that is Rila. A UNESCO World Heritage site and Bulgaria's oldest and largest Eastern Orthodox Monastery it is impressive. It was quite the honor and experience to be able to spend the night in one of the 18th century style rooms of this notable black and white striped monument. With smoozhing from the boys we even got the pilgrim rate. Score!

All that remained was dinner at a local restaurant by the river and dreamland.

Day 3 - MondayRise and shine with the morning rooster, literally. The high mountains surrounding the monastery on all sides allow it a late slumber from the morning rays. We however aren't spared. In the deep morning darkness we dress and enter the monastery for the 6:30 service and absorb the architecture, the intricately painted biblical scenes, ceremonial lighting of yellow-incensed candles, and murmured readings by black robed monks slightly hidden in the right-wing of the monastery. My words cannot describe the experience but hopefully the photos will service it more justice.

After some time we gathered our bags, fueled on a quick breakfast, ordered a lunch for the hike and headed on our expected seven-hour hike to the Seven Lakes. A steep climb it was. Burning rumps and tired thighs the likes no squatting routine could have produced. In our time we traversed through the multitude of terrains the mountain offered from forested pines, through shoulder-high dry grass fields, shaded green shrubbery baring late season raspberries, rolling hills nibbled down by flocks of sheep and cows led by lonely shepherds and through sand-colored moorlands of grazing horses. We lunched on a hillside near spring water troughs. With full bellies and half of our lunch of kebabche and kyfte (spiced meat patties), bread, and cucumbers and tomatoes left over we packed up and continued our journey.

Amidst a flock of sheep we spotted a weather beaten shepherd. His tattered clothing and meager stature connoted a man of half his true strength I'm certain. Euphoric by the outdoors and nearing the end of our day's journey, we agreed to greet this lone shepherd with the untouched remains of our afternoon meal. After a polite exchange he graciously accepted. And off we were. 1.5 hours from our overnight reprieve: Ivan Vasov hija (hija directly translated as cabin).

An easy walk it was. In a slightly downhill slope we arrived as a group with one extra member of the party. A well taken care of pup, a rascally pup free as the mountain range. That evening we checked into the hija and each retreated into our personal rejuvenation rituals. Whitney into the pages of her novel, the couple cuddling, Swain and his yoga, and me, a drooling slumberer sprawled out on the warm cement ledge in front of the hija soaking in the sun.

Once fully restored, our stirrings led us into various activities. A tall Kamenitza for Whitney and I over several games of Gin Rummy to be later joined by the rest of our party. As the time passed, the benches of the wooded tables in front of the warm pechka (wood-burning oven) filled and other guests began ordering meals. Not quite ready to eat, we continued our conversations and games.

This is where our evening slowly began to unravel.

- To the man running the hija, "May we have five bean soups?"- "No more soups."- "How about some salads?"- "No more salads."- "Okay, how about another round of beers?"- "All out of beers."- "Well, what DO you have?"-"Eggs. I've got eggs."-"Fine, we'll have some eggs. Oh, actually we have some bacon in our bag, can we go back there and cook it up?"- "Okay. But only one person ... and it has to be a female."

So Huelo fetches the bacon and got to work. One pan. Side-by-side to the hija caretaker.

Time passes and the evening grows dim. Candles and matches are handed out. We realize there is no electrical lighting.

The small wooded window flap connecting the kitchen to the dining hall opens. "Soup!" the caretaker cries out."Soouuup?" We look at each other in disbelief. "I thought there wasn't any more soup.""Well, maybe he didn't have enough for all five of us."Our stomachs grumbling and appetites teased by the fragrance of the others’ meals, "We would have shared a BEAN at this point!"

Withering quickly, the games cease. The conversation slows. The gazes into the glowing candle on the center of our table grow longer. Our breaths more exasperated and torsos slump and slouch supported by the table beneath our elbows, then forearms and, finally, foreheads.

We notice Cameron fingering the sugar bowl. "Good God Cameron! That's a public bowl. Here," we spoon a bit of sugar onto a napkin for him.

Shortly there after he made his way back to the kitchen.

Further we slumped.

"Salad!""SALAD?? Screw this guy. Forget it. We'll not eat any of his food.""Ya, food boycott. Let's just go to sleep," agree the ladies. "Wait guys. Don't be ridiculous. You need to eat. You need the calories for tomorrow," reasons Swain."Fiiiiiinne. Besides, Huelo is still back there with the bacon." Chin in cupped-palm, "We'll wait."

Sadly, this was not a posed photo.A mound of sugar is poured onto a napkin. My finger dips. A look of disapproval from Swain.

Minutes later....

"Eggs!""Finally. Our food is here." Another guest races to the window with just as much joy. "We ordered eggs. You too?" we inquire. The caretaker from the kitchen states, "Here are a few eggs. There are more eggs coming.""Okay, we'll wait. Take these," we offer.

Swain lurching over the bowl of sugar. A look of reluctance. An action of submission. Another sugar mound. A finger. A lick.

We wait. The giggles set in. Culinary masturbations commence."OOOHhhh wait, what about POPS? No, No, No, Lucky Charms was where it was at. But what about Cinnamon Toast Crunch?" The group swoons.

After a report of the unhygienic kitchen conditions - cutlery and dishes piled high under a constant stream of water, no scrubbing, cluttered countertops:

"What if we all got sick? All sick together. Then Peace Corps would have to send us to Thailand. Yeah! Thailand. Then we'll all get healed and be in Thailand. Pad Thai mmmm...."

In our last moments of sanity .... "EGGS!" This time from the sweet familiar voice of friend.

"Huelo! The eggs! The bacon!"Scarf. Scarf. Scarf. "Do ya'll want to help me with this neglected beer of mine?""Beer? From before?""Umm...well, that guy [the caretaker], gave me one. I guess it was from his stash."

Death to our hearts.

"Let's go to bed guys."

At 9:30 pm we retire. A wall of bunk beds. On the bottom: Swain nearest the door, me, then Whitney.On the top: Cameron and Huelo at the far end of the room.

11:30 pm.

My eyes awaken. Mesmerized by an ultra-bright LED beaming down. Frozen. Trying to computeI turn to Whitney.

"SWWAAAIIN," she cries.

In Bulgarian:"What do you want? Who are you?"Silence"Remove yourself from here. Leave."Silence"We're trying to sleep. Get out. What do you want?"Childish giggles. A waft of alcohol. "We, we want...we want slippers! Ahahhahaaaa!"With a slam of the door, the two men quickly scurried out.

"What the heck was that?""Just drunk Bulgarians. It's okay. They were harmless."

Our pulses slow. We lay back down and listen for mysterious lurking up the staircase.

I search for my pants.

"Give me a light."Gasp! Creaking of stairs. I hurriedly tuck myself back into bed. No pants.

Creaking turns into clumsy footsteps. The door jettisons out, a hand reaches in. Ping! Ping! Ping!

Something hits us. The door slams shut. Cackling trailing down the narrow stairwell.

Whitney and I sit up straight as boards. In the darkness we grope around. "What was that?""Is that...is this...is this haaay? A hay attack? Were we just victims of a hay attack??""UGH!"

"Okay. I seriously need to find my pants."Sought and found. Slipped on under the sheets. Now I'm ready. In case of a quick escape my bare buns won't trigger an illicit thought.

In bed we lay, nestled to each other, each with our thoughts, our own worries, our own action plans. Gradually our muscles relax and eyelids hang low. Into a light trance we slip.

Fools!

Another round ensues. The door swings open. Two men enter. A headlamp blinds us once more. Up and alert we sit.

More of the same.

"Now what do you want? Get out of here. Leave!" Swain demands in a calm and assertive voice. "Come! Come down and drink. Drink with us!""We don't want to. We're sleeping.""It's early. Come on. Drink!""NO. Get out of here. You're not welcome. Leave.""Let's drink. Just one drink. Come!""Are you dumb? We said no.""Dumb? You think Bulgarians are dumb?""No, that's not what I said. Just you. We told you already, we don't want to drink.""You're the Americans aren't you? Is this how Americans are? You guys don't drink??""We just need to get up early. We don't want to drink."At this point the sot's friend gains clarity and urges his friend to leave."Listen to your friend. Leave us."He considers this and turns to leave."Yeah, get out of here. Leave us alone," a voice from the top bunk chimes in.

NOOOOOO Cameron! Whitney and I grumble to each other.

The shenanigans are extended another few minutes, until finally, the two retreat.

End scene - undisturbed twilight, until 7 am.

Who knew we'd be safer on dirt roads in the kind seats of strangers than in our supposed shelter of reprieve.

Day 4 - Tuesday

We wake in the indigo blue of early morning sky. Our packs on our backs we journey outward, and upwards, then downwards. Towards the Seven Lakes today.

Tummies empty, we sneak out before the morning rumblings begin. With two cucumbers, spared from our moment of overzealous giving a day bygone, and a half eaten bag of sad apricot nuts, once snubbed, we know just what we have to sustain us until our next refuge.

The gang charges on, waggily pup by our sides. Protein supplement? Mayhaps....

Today, the weather has turned foe. The hidden sun fights to surpass the mountain peaks and provide just a bit of warmth, a respite from the head-on winds charging through the fabric of our clothing. I loop my tank-top around my neck as a paupers scarf. My nose transforms into a faucet and the force of wind makes the gradual incline nearly insurmountable at times. Whitney and I hold steady and bare the wind, relinquishing the forward fight. In moments of stillness we charge on.

We charge on, up the mountain, towards the golden sun. The warmth we imagine yonder, closer with each step. Triumph! Bask in the golden rays!But, but, where's the warmth? The wind has whisked it away before the chance to greet our stiffened skin.

We orient ourselves on the path and trudge on. Closer to the edge of the mountain come into view the glorious Seven Lakes. Fingers so frozen, I barely, they barely harness the nimbleness to grasp my zipper and reach for the camera.

A beautiful sight, the bounty of our determination, clear and blue the glacial lakes ripple with the wind. Traversing our way between the lakes we are greeted by a herd of horses. Friendly, yet intimidating, these majestic creatures block our path. Through them we must progress.

And so we do. Down to a new hija where warm food awaits. Down to the main road to a car which baits and onto civilization for which our worn bodies elate.

This was the tale of a five-souled pilgrimage to Rila and their fates…

Dear Friends and Family,

I have written separately to some of you regarding this but it’s really a matter I’d like to share with you all.

Tonight, January 14th at 10 pm EST, ABC’s 20/20 will air a program that may alarm you. The topic will be questioning the safety and security of Peace Corps volunteer service.

In the recent days I have watched a brief clip of what’s to come on tonight’s airing and have followed the public’s initial reaction through ABC’s related discussion forum.

Having only this knowledge and not yet being privy to the entire program, I am truly saddened to hear the first hand account of one volunteer’s appalling assault experience while in service. My deepest sympathies go out to her and any other person that has ever been victimized in any way -- within and outside of service.

My note to you is not to debate the tragedy of such crimes but rather as a current volunteer to personally express to you my confidence in the Peace Corps organization and the Peace Corps Bulgaria staff and Safety & Security team specifically.

In my observations our team is very proactive and fast-acting to any potential threats to our safety and security. I am fortunate not to have personally undergone any questionable experiences but those volunteers which have and to whom I’ve spoken have expressed their satisfaction in the responses taken by staff. Through their interactions with us volunteers, I have complete trust in their transparency, pro-activeness, acceptance, recognition, response, reporting and in what high-regard they hold such matters. So to you my family and friends, rest at ease; you needn't worry about me.

Again I must acknowledge the calamity of such incidents and I understand that it can be especially jarring when such crimes occur within a community or organization such as the Peace Corps but let’s remember to keep this in mind, an organization and system is only as good as its members. So while considering such events let’s remember to distinguish the difference between a systemic flaw versus one employee’s possible mismanagement.

In response to several contributors to the discussion forum on ABC’s website, let’s not throw the baby out with the bath water. 200,000+ Volunteers have served in 139 countries since the inception of the Peace Corps in 1961. Peace Corps operations and volunteers in each country of service are directly supported by its own country staff. Comprised of Americans and local in-country employees, these teams enable us to fulfill the vision, mission and goals of our service. With the assistance of these teams, countless international bonds, personal relationships, cultural exchanges, social causes and local needs have been met over the years.

Let me just say, I am grateful to be from a country where concerns such as these have a forum and that those victims are given a voice in a situation where they may have felt suppressed, but I’d just ask, when investigating and communicating such concerns, that our media do their due diligence to report a full story, from all angles, to consider the teams and employees which are rightfully fulfilling their duties and to present the findings within an accurate statistical context and that we as an audience be judicious in our conclusions.

I’ve written to you today of my own free will to share my personal thoughts and feelings on the matter. These are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.

Sincerely yours, AmberPeace Corps Bulgaria Volunteer2010-2012

Okay so I’m a little overdue for my 6 month update by ohhh about 2, maybe 3 weeks. Why I’m overdue I don’t know. Well, I do. It seems I’m still having trouble juggling everything I want to accomplish in a day or even a week. I really must get better at this.

In fact, rather than haphazardly summarizing my time in one post, I think it might serve us well if I divide up my experiences into separate entries. As such, here begins Part 1 – “Domesticity.”

I suppose I should begin where I last left off. If you recall, in my last post I shared that I was asked by my landlord to kindly find housing elsewhere. I have done just that. With the help of a local friend, I now live in a flat on the 5th floor of a nice building in a very active neighborhood. (you can see photos of my new place on my Photo Gallery page: http://amberintransit.blogspot.com/p/photo-gallery.html

I really love it. Again there is one extended family which occupies each floor but they seem to be a lively bunch (much more fitting to my style). You can always hear kids on the street playing, watch the old men gather at the next door café over the Bulgarian card game, Belot, see Babas chatting at the small “magazines” or neighborhood grocery stores and you can always hear people sawing their wood in the early morning hours in preparation for the winter season. My wood however is being delivered to my doorstep tomorrow. It’s then up to me how to get all 5 cubics of it up 5 flights of stairs!

To me, I’ve never felt like a place was really my home until I thoroughly showed the kitchen who’s boss. And that I did (and am still doing). I’ve always loved cooking but there’s no better motivation to keep at it than limited funds and limited “fast food” and well, to be honest, a limited social life. No more Taco Tuesdays or $1 beer Thursdays to temp me from my domestic responsibilities anymore.

Here are a few of the first-time dishes I’ve cooked up since I’ve moved in:

Banana Bread - This is the first thing I made in my new home; a little American treat to share with my new Bulgarian neighbors.

I was a little unsure how it would turn out since I’d never really baked before but when it emerged from the oven I couldn’t be prouder. The entire time it was baking I was so excited with the thought of sharing it with my neighbors but when the time came I was unexpectedly overtaken by an intense case of nerves. How was I going to explain the gesture to them? Would I be interrupting them? Would they think I’m strange? To try and settle my anxiety, I even wrote out a little script introducing myself in Bulgarian. After a several botched practice runs, I had almost talked myself out of delivering the treats. But why? For fear of a little embarrassment? Oh come on. Who is this coward?

So I then took hold of myself, gathered my strength and marched downstairs. As I knocked on the door below me, an older man opened the door and just as I had fumbled my way through my introduction speech, he directed me downstairs to where "most" of the family was before I was even able to offer him a piece of bread from my basket! Just what I had feared! Reeeejected!

So half confusedly I about-faced and timidly started down the stairs. He scurried ahead of me, rang the neighbors’ bell and left me at the doorstep like an abandoned bunny.

Finally someone answered the door. All I could do was muddle my way through my introduction speech once again, sweating and clenching tightly onto my little bread basket. (ß-this is not me writing dramatically. 100% true. Sweat and all). The next thing I knew, the door was once again being closed in my face as he yelled for someone else in the house.

I was then greeted by his wife and a curious pre-teen daughter flanking her side. As it turns out all of that discouraging and confusing shuffling me about was actually their attempt to alleviate my stress by funneling me to the only English speaker in the building.

Exhausted and embarrassed I cut-out my elaborate speech, introduced myself in English and shoved the Banana Bread in their face. I should have given them more but by that time you couldn’t imagine how much I craved the comfort of my warm kitchen again. Without attempting to visit the other floors, I retreated.

The next day I shared the rest of the bread with my co-workers. The word quickly spread that I had baked and you can bet I got plenty more visitors that day. Overall I think it was a success.

There are now a few new things I can say about myself through this experience: #1. I can bake. #2. I learned that it is possible for me to actually get this nervous. Never before in my life had I felt this nervous about anything. Not even the decision to move to another country and live abroad for two years, affected me this way. #3. This is the first time I think I actually felt courageous for doing something. I guess, you can’t really feel courageous unless something had so wholly taken you as to detour you from acting.

Oatmeal Cookies - feeling encouraged from my last baking success, I attempted Oatmeal Cookies later that week. With a few minor adjustments these turned quite yummy too. Though I must say the learning curve was not my fault, well, it kinda was, but only in so far that I should NOT have listened to my stupid friend and stuck to the recipe. He, not a fan of oatmeal (and never having tasted oatmeal cookies before) convinced me to go light on the oats. In my baking naivete, I hadn't the foresight to realize that other than the oats, there's not much "glue" to this recipe. So as you might imagine the first batch turned into hard sugary flat puddles. Then he had the nerve to criticize my American cooking! ::scoff:: Once I adjusted the recipe back to it's original form he finally conceded that these American Oatmeal Cookies aren't that bad. But according to everyone else they were a huge success again.

Flour Tortillas - By the way, most of my recipes are coming from a cookbook that Peace Corps supplied us with. It's called Don't Eat Brown Sugar and was created by a previous volunteer who was inspired to write it after one month where he ran out of money and had nothing in his house to eat but Brown Sugar! So now I'm working my way through the book to see what it's really made of. A lot of recipes were donated by other volunteers along the way. So in this book I found the Flour Tortilla recipe. What I can say is they were tasty, but I wouldn't quite consider them tortillas. They were so buttery and flaky that I'd put them into the flattened biscuit category (if there even is one). Towards the end I got a bit better at rolling them out so thinly that if I acted quickly while they were piping hot I could fashion them into a sort of burrito roll. I'll have to revisit this one. Mom, I think you recommended using lard instead of margarine like my recipe called for?? I was so excited for this day I even had some homemade refried beans and soap waiting to be scooped up. Turns out biscuits and beans aren’t so bad…

Curry Potatoes and Peas - In the Rhodopes (the region where I live), I've been told that during the winter we survive on beans and potatoes. To this end, I thought it might be a good time to start practicing some potato recipes. This one I too got from the Don't Eat Brown Sugar Book. I approve of this recipe :) It's definitely been added to my winter survival meal repertoire. Through this recipe, I did realize that the curry available here is a MUCH milder version than anything I've ever tasted back home. I basically had to use an entire spice packet on this recipe just to get it up to curry par.

Let's see what else notable have I cooked...oh Butternut Squash Soup! Well, I've made this one time before back home and it came out just as delicious the second time as the first. And good thing too because with just me here I had enough to eat for an entire week! My counterpart, Magi, told me in the past that she likes ginger and had never tried savory "tikva" / pumpkin soup. So I brought some to work in my recycled peanut butter jar and shared it with her. I told her it's best warmed up with a dollop of sour cream (or their closest version of it here). So I expected her to wait until she got home to taste. The next thing I knew I glanced up from my computer and with her back to me I saw her lean her head back near the window trying to slurp down the final dribbles. I'd say that's a SUPER success! This recipe was not from the Brown Sugar book.

Pumpkin, Pumpkin, Pumpkin - So as Halloween was approaching I of course felt the need to bake something pumpkiny like a pie or something. I've kept my eyes peeled for a good old orange pumpkin but couldn't spy any anywhere. I brought this up to my tutor Vlady (who by the way just called me her BEST friend this week) I really, really, really love her. She's my saviour and therapist. Though when we get together for my Bulgarian lesson I can't say we ever get much done. She's just too good of a friend to be limited to my crappy Bulgarian when we're around each other :) She used to live in the States for 5 years so she pretty much understands me, the American culture and our pumpkins! After I told her about my latest hunt, she showed up to my work with a HUGE pumpkin from her home in the village. While it wasn't the pure bright orange variety that I was used to, this new green and yellow striped pumpkin did just fine, but boy was it GIGANTIC. I had sooo much pumpkin I didn't know what to do with it. So I practiced several recipes that night. What a loooong night it was! I tried two different crust recipes for pumpkin empanadas. One more "bready" the other more "flaky." The flaky won that competition. (Though I’m going to need my Nona’s pumpkin empanada recipe for sure). Due to my limited cooking space, I also tried two methods to cook down the pumpkin - one: boiled on my one electric burner, the second: baked on my single oven rack. The Baked won here. The pumpkin ended up absorbing a lot of the boiling water making for a crrrrazzzy watery pumpkin filling which we had to keep adding flour to in order to thicken up. We ended up making custardy, pumpkin bars with that. I also had some apples that I had to use too so I made pumpkin empanadas AND apple pie turnovers. Those were the overall winners. I had soo much of this stuff that I traveled 8 hours with it through bus and train rides just to take it to our Peace Corps volunteer Halloween party. It was the perfect trick for late night munchies :) I was even contacted a week later for my recipe! Unfortunately I mixed, matched, and improvised so many things that I couldn't really give an exact replication.

wow, this post is getting ridiculously long and I’ve only talked about food! Sorry about that, but not surprisingly food is a big part of my life. What really inspired me to write this entry was my most recent cooking bonanza.

Since being here and living the Bulgarian way, I’ve seem to become more “green” than ever before (and I’ve always had a bit of it in me). I've currently made a commitment to myself to recycle and reuse EVERYTHING possible. Most immediately, this was prompted by the upcoming Thanksgiving event we're throwing for the kids at a nearby orphanage where I'm having them create a few art projects made entirely from recycled materials. To be honest it was initially a cost-control method but is also now an eco-friendly flagship that I hope to attach to all my future projects. I have plenty to say about me being green in BG and all which that encompasses but that's for another edition.

So how did I get from Orange Juice, to Walnut Banana Shakes, to Cream of Cauliflower and Potato Soup, Bread Crumbs and Orange Peel Facials in one sitting??

Well, in this line of recycling thought, I was led on a re-using rollercoaster last night that I just couldn't get off. The night started with some simple squeezing for some fresh orange juice. Then I was left with a pile of orange rinds. Soooo of course I had to find something to do with those. After some research, I finally decided I would dry the rinds, grind them and save them to use in a homemade facial scrub or bath bomb.

At the same time, I was getting a little hungry so I made myself a banana walnut shake. Not much else reusing there. Although I do know banana peels make excellent shoe shiners. Too bad I don't really have shineable shoes.

After this, I started thinking about lunch for tomorrow. So I boiled up some eggs. My thought here is that I will try to break the eggs very gently in half and hopefully be able to save the shells for later use as seedling cups. (Mom, I need those cilantro seeds!)

After they were all boiled up, I had this left over boiling water. So I took a look in my fridge to see what I could boil before it went bad. Lucky for me I found some almost questionable potatoes and cauliflower. So I googled a Cream of Potato and Cauliflower soup recipe. Oh. My. God. I can't begin to tell you how absolutely delicious it is!! superb! I brought some to work to Magi again and well, despite my advise it was dust before the day end. And now I'm pooooped and hungry.

Guess it’s soup for me tonight!

I’m at a loss for structure right now. Here are my open airings. In no particular order. Stream of consciousness, really. A true glimpse into my mind as it stands at this very moment – unedited, unrefined, uncomposed; points of thought without constellation as it were.

--- --- ---

Candles make me happy. I just lit my golden-rod yellow Slatkin & Co. Caribbean Salsa scented candle which was special delivered to me by my dear friend Whitney from her recent trip to the states. It’s been said we, volunteers, should have candles on hand and logs in the “furna”/oven for our “resiliency” during the long winter months. I don’t think this candle will survive that long.

I feel perfect right now. Laying on my stomach on top of my freshly made bed. Head facing the foot and feet at the head. Elbows and chest resting on my slightly flat, teal, feather pillow that persevered with me through international airports, hotel rooms and dirty buses to get me here. Gloomy skies are peaking through my balcony windows. Typing to you. Completely in my mind. Warm glowing candle to me left. Sheltered by my LA Dodgers cap. Wearing blue cargo pants. Hair in a half-braid resting on my left shoulder. Secretly happy the weather cancelled my hiking plans. Feeling completely at peace. Just hiding out with myself in my own little world. Listening to the Easy Listening genre in my iTunes. Sarah McLaughlin - Sweet Surrender playing at this moment. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2JWJYLNUq4>

Happy that I have this time to just lay here. And think. And be. No struggling to listen, interpret, and respond. No feelings of guilt to confront for breaking down and depending on the English skills of my friends to communicate. I am in my own shelter and am at peace.

I am accomplishing one of the tasks on my list which I’ve been neglecting for so long. To write. To document. To share. To blog. Before I know it this time in my life will have been a memory. Large events smooshed together. I want to remember everything. How I felt. How I thought. How I’ve changed.

I find it hard to find time in the day to do everything I want. Everything is important. At work I want to plan my day. Build on our website or finish building our database to track student enrollment in our community courses. Communicate with my colleagues – establish those bonds and take a coffee break or two when they do. I struggle with this. I want to participate but it’s so engrained in me to work while I’m at work. I want to make my time there as productive as possible to produce something for them. But it seems they aren’t concerned about when things get done. The pressure comes from within. As it always has I suppose. Two months into my work life here, I am no longer invited on the coffee & smoke breaks. I am relieved. Now I can get work done without interruption. But a part of me knows I should be taking those breaks with my colleagues. To integrate. They are my allies. How to blend my American corporate work ethic with my new "cpokoino"/relaxed Bulgarian life?

It’s slightly chilly in my apartment. I’m going to visit the kitchen. Start my electric tea kettle to make a warm cup of coffee. Well, NesCafe 3 in 1. Hardly a stiff cup of Joe. But something entirely new for me. Willingly drinking coffee. Before I arrived – 4 months ago – I couldn’t really stand the taste of coffee. And now here I am. Heating up my own cup. In my private home. When initially I had just bought the 3 in 1 packets for my coffee-drinking guests. Now, secretly, I think the 3 in 1s are a bit weak. Should I graduate to the real stuff? Am I integrating?

More things I struggle to balance my time with: I want to spend more time dedicated to learning this language. To study. By reading and translating short bits of text. By watching Bulgarian television. Reading the subtitles or just listening. By focusing on pure vocabulary memorization. Flash cards.

Splitting my free time among this and reading for leisure. I want to make my way through the classics while I’m here. During my stay I’ve so far finished Madame Bovary, Jane Eyre and am now half-way through A Farewell to Arms. Sitting on my bookshelf are Pride and Prejudice, a Tale of Two Cities and my friend Kevin is holding onto Don Quixote for me. But how do I read these when I should be studying the language or socializing with my Bulgarian friends and neighbors?

I also want time to escape the language. To escape learning and thinking. To put my brain on snooze sometimes and settle into some American junk TV like finishing up Season 2 of Entourage.

Mmmmm…my coffee is ready. A nice cup and a square of German imported Ritter Sport dark chocolate with whole hazelnuts which I splurged on for a day like today. Divine. My hands slightly warm up as I cup them around my teacup to take a sip. I gently roll my right hand from palm to fingertips against the siding of my teacup and flip my hand to warm the outer skin on the top of my hand which is now noticeably cold compared to my warm palms.

This is a day in my life. I hope I’m not boring you.

My mind wanders as I think of my friends here. My new Bulgarian friends. I recently posted photos of Camp Myle on my Facebook page and am getting messages from the participants right now. Camp Myle was a blast – 3 days of camping in the Rhodope mountains with 5 other volunteers and about 10 local high school kids getting together to practice their conversational English and learn job application skills. I'm excited that next year I’ll be able to take a more active role in the planning process. In general, I feel my Bulgarian friends are very demanding. Demanding of my time at least. I can’t tell if this is a Bulgarian characteristic – of not wanting to be alone, of being hospitable and worrying about my potential loneliness or just a result of the “new puppy” effect. But my friends seem to want to absorb every minute of my “cvbodno vreme” / free time -- even when I'm at my workplace. I love them for this but it does exhaust me at times. I can see this becoming even harder to manage as my new group of friends doesn’t seem to get along with my other group of friends. (I’m trying to “collect” friends from all aspects of this city).

A new country, a new language, new friends - it’s a bit much at times. I still feel like I have to entertain or “be on.” I can’t be boring ol’ me with them. Not yet. I miss those friends that I could visit or invite over and just do nothing. Just watch TV, run errands, be silent together. (I’m thinking of those afternoons at Erin’s house. Pizza Chalet. Pepperoni and cashew pizza. Sprawled out on two separate couches across the room from each other. Hair a mess and wearing old sweatpants). How cool would it be to do that with a Bulgarian friend. J

I did practically have a time like that with a group of Peace Corps volunteers (PCVs) last weekend. Four of them came into town for a music festival in my city and it was great. We, unfortunately, missed ALL of the music events but had some good times just hanging out, laughing, getting to know each other. Making food, mixing drinks, sharing music and playing my favorite dorky board game – Sequence. I love my PCVs! Unfortunately those times must temporarily come to an end. At least my hosting of such gatherings.

If you’ve checked out my Facebook status recently you’d have noticed that I’m going through yet another change here. I’m moving. Yes; again. For the third time in 4 months. It seems my landlords and I have a different viewpoint on living.

Damn. Out of coffee. I hate it when I drink the last sip without even noticing it. Don’t you?

Back to my landlord. Well, I’d secretly like to use the word “Evicted” for dramatic effect but I guess I’ve just been asked to move out. – Is that technically an eviction??

So here’s how it went down: The Monday after my guests left, my counterpart gets a call from my Landlord to schedule a meeting first thing Tuesday morning to discuss the state of my housing. Whereby my Landlord, her husband, my counterpart, a mediating colleague of mine and I sat at around my landlord’s kitchen table where she aired a laundry list of reason why I am quote “immoral” and “unchristian” and a bad influence on her grandchildren who live in the building. It’s amazing how easily these words translate. (A little bit of background on my living arrangement: I live in a 4 level building which my landlords built by hand for their family. I am renting the entire flat on the 3rd floor. My landlords (husband and wife) live on the first floor, their daughter and her family live on the second floor below me and on the 4th floor above me live their other daughter and her son.) There is one main stairwell and we each have keys to our homes on our respective floors.

In general terms, the charges against me are:talking to loud on the phone or Skype when I’m in my home.being too loud in general. Examples given were dropping things on the floor like chairs.having guests over. Apparently she does not want me to have any guests over but if I MUST, they are to be cleared by her first.having too many male guests more specifically.and having overnight guests at all. Because of this I am moving out. I would have liked to have had the opportunity to compromise in some areas but if talking too loud on the phone is one of the charges then I will never be able to meet their expectations. I am disappointed to be leaving my little home. It was large, two balconies, had great views and nice furniture but this I can get over. These accommodations were nicer than I ever expected in the Peace Corps in the first place.

What is most disappointing to me is that there is now a family here who may leave this situation with a negative impression of Americans. Part of my job here is being a representative of my country. To integrate. To get to know the Bulgarian culture, to share mine and to build a life around the common balance. My local mentors here have expressed that the circumstances are not to be labeled as Bulgarian and that these are unique to this family. So I’ll be trying to keep this in mind through this process as I hope whatever image they hold of me will be confined to me as an individual and not my country as a whole.

I suppose that is the true challenge to all of this.

In the US, and especially for my generation, we were taught to be independent and to embrace our uniqueness. I take pride in who I’ve become as an individual. I felt my tendencies were unique to me. And now I’m in a situation where I am to be interpreted as the social norm and generalization of my culture. And even further – not just as an American, but as a Mexican-American. As I’ve learned “roots” are very important to people here, from a culture that still identifies themselves with the Thracian culture of 500 BC.

I ponder, what part of me is American, what part of me is a reflection of my Hispanic culture and what is uniquely me? And how much of each of these aspects should I adjust to my new local culture?

I'm here. I'm alive. I apologize for not writing sooner but I've been caught up with ... well ... a LOT of living. After taking such a long hiatus from writing I'm not even sure where to start. I've started work, made ties, broke ties, been frustrated, cried, burst out laughing, found my groove and fell out of it again, explored my community and generally undertake at least two emotional somersaults a day. I wish I could share an anecdote about each one of these experiences but now I feel my recounting will sound like a summary report. I am signing off now to try and figure out how best to catch you up to speed. In the meantime, know that I am alive and well. Muah~

Greetings, from your OFFICIAL Peace Corps Volunteer!

I feel like I've been tossed in a blender since our Swearing-In Ceremony 5 days ago on Friday 7/23. Immediately following the service two of my fellow volunteers jumped on a bus and headed to the great Rhodope Region where we will be living for the next two years.

In that first night in my new apartment I was again given one of the best gifts of this experience: the company of my fine volunteers and friends. That evening Whitney, Ryan and I were greeted by my counterpart Magi, her husband Lachazar and my Landlords with their family. Wary from the 8 hour journey (yes, it should have only been 6 but we managed to watch our bus drive off without us in it. Thank you Whitney for navigating your way through the language to get us replacement seats at no extra fee), we crossed the threshold into my new home and settled into a sustaining meal of hard boiled eggs and a tomato and cucumber salad courtesy of my ever thoughtful Baba.

After a restful night in my home, Whitney and Ryan set-off to begin their own unique journeys. So now, here I am. In Smolyan. In a land of a foreign tongue. And I ask myself the same question I have heard from the lips of my friends and family, “So what exactly will I be doing here?”

When I was selected for this assignment I was given a brief description of this site, which I will share with you now:

Site Description

Type of AssignmentCulture Center – 8 permanent staff people, various number of volunteers and part-time associatesPrioritiesProvide better opportunities for utilizing the spare time of local youth through arts, education and sportsExpand the network of partners on local, national and international levelMobilize the efforts of local intellectuals for enriching cultural life in the townCultural education and exchange, maintenance of library, art activities, language classesPrimary AssignmentDevelopment of small community projects focused on culture topicsBuild administrative capacity of colleagues – English, computers, project design and managementTeaching English classes for adultsAssistance with the improvement of the building and equipmentAttracting young people in town and the region to culture activitiesOrganize events to present the American culture to local community membersCreation of internet page of the centerAssistance with the activities of the theater club, 2 rock bands, singing and dance classesPromotion of the bag-pipe group, who makes the bag pipes on their ownComputer literacy trainings

Opportunities for Outreach Project/Partnering OrganizationsProfessional Art School – strong partnership (promotion, assistance with organizing exhibitions)Bulgarian Red CrossLocal kindergartensYouth Information CenterEmployment office – projects for starting a career for young people

ExpectationsCommunicative and flexible personSome experience with project design and management, marketing, creation of promotional materials will be very usefulPersonal or professional interest and knowledge in arts, crafts and culture

It is Peace Corps’ ultimate mission to promote world peace and friendship. Its goals are to: help people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women, helping promote better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served, and helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

It is our job as volunteers to fumble our way through the type on this page and decipher our path. There are no road maps to get this done.

Now is the time to bare down, build relationships, be creative in utilizing our resources, struggle our way out of our comfort zones and produce change. A change in ourselves. A change within our community. An elevated impression. Or perhaps an inspiration amongst people.

However intangible the change I know I am taking on a tremendous feat. I will stumble. I will feel defeated. I may even feel weak. You are my jury. Hold me accountable to this commitment and despite my frustrated airings never let the thought of my giving up entertain your minds.

Here’s to the transformation.

Today is Wednesday July 21, 2010; 11:30 p.m. (delayed post)

I’m laying here on my bed, in pink cotton pajamas, hair wrapped up in a violet towel after my wood-heated shower, in a room that has become so familiar to me. I look around and see two large pieces of luggage. I can’t help but envision the last time I packed these bags. Memories of the gigantic mess strewn about my mom’s living room floor now make the corners of my lips curl in grin; I envision her tiny stature and her illuminated face and am provoked to hold back sweet tears. My thoughts wander and I wonder if, at this moment, she’s missing me as I miss her.

I reflect on how clean and orderly she likes to keep her home and remember how our stress levels raised as I moved back home the week before my departure. How my “little messes” began accumulating into “trails” as usual and how this strained her. I remember how for the first time in my life I was able to pacify her about this subject. “You know mom, these are the last of my trails that you’ll see in quite a long time. You’ll miss this eventually. You might as well relish in the moment now,” I said in my devilish little way.

These thoughts are brought on by the disbelief I feel tonight: How could it be that I must pack these bags yet again?

The first phase of my Peace Corps experience has drawn to a close. After 10 weeks in this shelter we are soon to be released to our “official” Peace Corps lives. During this Pre-Service Training, we have been exposed to the local culture, built bonds with our host-families, community and fellow trainees. We’ve accomplished approximately 150 hours of language training, received program-specific instruction and have tried our hand at numerous cultural exchange and community immersion projects.

After receiving positive results of our language proficiency testing, we will, in two short days (Friday 7/23) be off to our permanent sites. I am now a mix of emotions. In one respect I am very excited to experience a new face of Bulgaria. The forested region of the Rhodolpe mountains will be a refreshing change from the flat plains that surround me now. The prospect of moving to a 35,000 person city, with its nooks and resources to explore, from a 700 person village has my curiosity peaked and I fantasize about having a place to call my own again.

On the other hand, I’ve begun to look upon the sweet little eyes of my Baba hidden behind her eyeglasses and the light-hearted, yet mischievous smile of Slavi, with a pang of sadness. They have opened their hearts and home so completely to me that I can’t help but feel sorrow in leaving them – even despite the adjustment challenges I’ve faced. As it often goes, at times like these, the prickly edges of my experiences have begun to be sanded away into smooth reflections.

Tomorrow (Thursday) we have our last Pre-service Training meeting with all 80-something remaining volunteers (two among us have already discontinued their service). At this meeting we will receive the final information needed to successfully begin our service as well as share final presentations of our accomplishments during this pre-service time.

My team has decided to create a short film to briefly highlight these events. I invite you to partake in these experiences as well. (See video below) And yes, we are quite aware of the cheese slathered on it. I hope you enjoy.

As a final seal to this phase we will gather once more in the historic city of Vratsa for our Swearing-In Ceremony this Friday – that’s where we take our oath and transition from the title of “trainee” and are henceforward honored with official Peace Corps Volunteer status. I know, you probably already thought I was a “volunteer,” but oh well. After this three hour event, to which are host-families are invited, we each set out in divergent directions canvassing the country for our permanent destinations. Mine, a six-hour, southbound journey through winding mountainsides, beyond the capital city of Sofia, passed ancient towns and winter resorts to my new home just one hour from the Greek border. This will be my new home and I can’t wait to share with you my first days there and program assignment.

Until the next entry. Mnogo Tseloofvki {many kisses}.

I write this post hesitantly. You just met my family and village a few days ago and here I am, about to air my chonies on the village clothesline.

Had I more consistent means of communication I’m sure I wouldn’t be so reluctant to share these thoughts. For by now we would have been traversing this journey together.

You too would have felt the excitement and novelty that commences any great adventure. Together we would have been awed by the simplest of things – like our first glimpse of a pine covered mountainside, such that you might find an hour’s drive from L.A. You would have been thrilled by your first heaping spoonful of the Bulgarian yogurt you’ve read so much about (after all this is said to be its birthplace). And you would have been tickled by the sight of a horse drawn cart being used as a legitimate form of transportation on the main street of your village.

Even more so, you would have had the energy and spirit of any idealistic explorer. With your plenteous list of reasons for embarking on this journey tucked securely in your left breast pocket you would have looked forward to challenges and faced new experiences with the open-mindedness of any appreciative guest.

You would have intently listened to descriptions of Bulgarian life and culture and surely felt prepared for what was to come – in fact, you were anxious to discover some cultural contrasts of your own. You thought the idea of long family dinners and coming home to a prepared lunch everyday quaint and refreshing and were excited to have a Baba who would love and tend to you like one of their own. And you thought it charming to embrace cultural superstitions - like never allowing your purse or bag to touch the floor for threat of losing your wealth.

But alas, an adventure wouldn’t be considered such without moats, rickety bridges and ciphers to decode. Two and a half months into this journey, I have frolicked through the lush meadow of romanticism and have reached the steep steps of reality.

My cultural tendencies and personal characteristics hidden in my knapsack have slowly begun to reveal themselves. Despite my efforts to keep these thoughts zipped away, in a whole-hearted attempt to embrace and integrate into the new world around me, bit by bit they make their presence known and have begun tinkering with my psyche.

I am now finding it quite difficult to keep these two worlds separate. My inner-self, the person I’ve known for so long, is pounding on my cavity to get out and express herself.

“I need SPACE!” I secretly scream to myself at times; the unanswered echoes resonating in my head. “NO, I’m not cold and if I WAS I’m capable enough to get my own jacket.” “Aaagghh! NO more food please. Maybe you didn’t hear me when I said I was full the first 5 times?” “I’m 27 years-old; you don’t need to walk me to and wait with me at the bus stop ACROSS THE STREET every week.”

Without the language skills necessary to gently express the intricacies of my needs, I am relegated to groaning and begrudgingly surrendering to the superfluous treatment heaped upon me.

Ugh! I know what I sound like. I remember her. I too thought I had lain 15 year-old Amber to rest 12 years ago. It’s funny how she found a way to emerge here. Apparently an adventure like this was too enticing for her to pass up as well.

I’m sure you read my above rant and said to yourself, “hmmm those don’t sound like big problems; seems like someone is a little non-appreciative of her new life.” But please let me assure you I know there are bigger problems in the world and that in reality I’m lucky to be dealing with such issues. I mean, I did join the Peace Corps after all. This is a far cry from the boiling African sun and desolate sub-Saharan roads I had imagined myself on. I knew challenges were to come but perhaps I didn’t quite expect them to take this semi-familiar form.

One day, maybe during the snowy and lonesome Bulgarian winters in my new home for one, I will look back upon this time and long for the love and attention being forced upon me now. But, as it stands currently, I’m just now commencing to recognize my personal traits that seem to clash with the Bulgarian lifestyle as I know it.

Anyone who has lived with me, or has even known me, knows, for better or for worse, I am a fiercely independent soul. It is a HUGE part of my identity. I value my space, my freedom, my privacy, my quiet time. (Since I’ve been here, I ponder: Is this the American spirit or do I take it a step beyond?)

I like to do things on a whim; I like to cook and I like to read. I normally don’t eat three full meals a day, I don’t like to eat large portions and I don’t particularly care for sweets or bread. (You have no idea how much of a relief it was just to type that right now.)

These are the simple things in life that I’ve taken for granted. And these are the things that I’ve lost complete control over under the “Baba-cracy,” as my fellow volunteers and I have come to term it.

What exactly is a Baba-cracy, you ask? Well, please allow me to explain. You may have heard that Communism ended in Bulgaria in 1989. That is true. But what you might not have heard was that the iron curtain of Communism was quickly replaced by the iron ladle of Baba. Under this rule, Baba is the Omni-nurturer. Her heart is large and her intentions nothing but pure, unfortunately for me, this rule is in direct opposition of my personal nature. We (the volunteers and I) have learned quickly that nothing is done in the village without a Baba behind it. Where there are fields to be hoed, chickens to be raised, or goats to be milked, Baba is there.

Babas know all and see all. While we volunteers are studiously learning the language or planning community projects, the Baba informant circuit is busily working; for by the time we’ve returned home they are already well aware of what was served at our meeting with the Mayor or if we’ve ventured to buy ourselves snacks during the day.

Babas are also quite the gamesmen or women I should say. They spend copious amounts of time and energy observing us, analyzing us and committing these notes to memory in order to compete with other Babas - the victor, of course, having emerged from the conversation with the highest esteemed volunteer of all. An opening bid might be something like, “My volunteer runs every morning,” to be matched by a “Well, MY volunteer helped me ALL day in the garden,” and finally to be conquered by a “Mine said she’s going to come back 3 times a year to visit.”

We’ve also learned very quickly, even in our broken Bulgarian, to be very mindful of what information we divulge. A simple, “Thank you for all the fruit; I love it. Volunteer XX told me he wishes he had more fruit” is just enough vindication for a Baba to waive her triumphant flag tauntingly in her counterpart’s face for days to come.

There is not a moment’s rest while a Baba is around. While her deepest intentions might be to relieve you of any duty and serve your needs, if you’re anything like me, her presence can sometimes be more burdensome that negligence itself. I have been lucky for I’ve not been sick since I’ve been nestled in this iron ladle but I have heard and seen stories of Baba’s barging into a patient’s bedroom literally every 15 minutes demanding that the only way to health is a hearty meal, when the best medicine of all would surely be some deep and undisturbed sleep. Also, do not think for a moment that a Baba’s force is relegated to her porch gate. I have personally witnessed a fierce Baba storming into a live classroom session to check on her precious 20-something year-old child while whipping her head around to scold the Language Trainer about the right way to tend to this angel of hers.

I, for example, have been called from my bedroom numerous times during the course of writing this post to be questioned about the temperature in my room, to be fed some sweet bread or to chat on the corner with other neighborly Babas. Again, anyone who knows me, knows I need my own space, my own time, my own way to decompress from the day, (Thanks Dad for that trait), and the most frustrating thing a person could do to me is interrupt me while I’m writing. Grrrrr….but how do I explain this to my dear Baba?

With all that I’ve described above I still haven’t divulged my heftiest challenge under this regime: FOOD.

It has always been an important part of my life, nay, a joyous and fulfilling part of my life. I like to cook – a lot. It’s a form a creative expression for me as well as a relaxing stress reliever at times. I love trying new food and couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into some tasty Bulgarian cuisine. I can truly say I loved practically everything I was fed the first couple of weeks here. Unfortunately, this pastime of mine has now become somewhat of a chore. As in most women’s homes, the kitchen is their domain. I’ve not been able to cook but one meal in our kitchen and the extent to which I am trusted with their meals is relegated to the menial tasks of chopping, peeling and grating. And that’s IF the task doesn’t get taken away from me after being spotted cutting the pieces of cucumber to large. Although that shouldn’t surprise me much, after all, this is the tradition in my very own mother’s home, as it was the same in my kitchen back home as I’m sure anyone who has been my helper may be able to attest.

I have no control over what I eat, when I eat, how much I’m served, etc. What’s even more frustrating is that any preference I express regarding my food is ignored.

I tried to tell her I normally don't eat a lot but she still insists. If I grab one apple then two more are inevitably shoved into my "chanta" (schoolbag). Eating with the family is another big aspect of this culture; so every morning I wake up to a full breakfast at about 8:00 a.m., then come home about noon from school to another full coursed meal, then at about 7:30 it's dinner time.

In between they're always trying to stuff me with food. The first day or two I didn't come home for lunch because she packed me a sandwich (of salami & cheese on french bread), a chocolate wafer bar and two pieces of fruit. When I got home I was scolded for not coming back for lunch. I was like “ummm....you gave me lunch, remember? I ate it at school.” Then she explained, "NO, that wasn't lunch. Those were just snacks. You eat the sandwich at 9 a.m., wafer at 10, and the fruit at 11." WHAT THE HECK!! Can you imagine if I actually ate that much!! I'd be flying over football games during halftime!

Truth be told, sometimes I don't come home during unexpected school breaks for fear of being fed. Another non-confrontational work-around I’ve adopted is only eating a meal until I’m half full. This way when I do get offered those inevitable snacks I can at least accept some of them. Also, I’ve expressed my love of fruit (which they generally eat for dessert here). So now at least she feeds me copious amounts of fruit in lieu of those previous bon-bons and chocolate wafers. I think we might have struck somewhat of a balance – though the scales are still tilted to her side.

Speaking of scales, I even took up running to help burn calories and build an appetite. Now I've learned to put my foot down a bit - hence my food strike. Sometimes I'm actually hungry for a snack but keep my mouth shut because then she'll go over board. If I say I want one of something I’m prodded until I accept two or three. If one is good, three must be better, right? Yuck.

Oh, hahahaha, ALSO bread is a BIG part of the meal, but like I said, I really don't like it. Never have. So it's kind of a game for my Baba. I've told her how I feel about bread, but everyday she still sneaks a piece on my plate then giggles to her husband. She's nutz! But super cute so it's hard to hold a grudge too long.

So between my non-confrontational work-arounds and light food strikes I’ve managed to lose 10 pounds during my two month stay. (Don’t worry too much; I’m just back at my college weight). I’m sure if it was up to her I would have gained 20. By the way mom, since I told her you like to do “fitness” too, she has decided to put you to work in the garden when you visit. Hahahahahaaa.

As volunteers we are asked to have patience. I believe I am trying. But again, as anyone who knows me could tell you, patience isn’t a virtue of mine. I recognize this and am attempting to cope. I have found small ways to accept these issues – slowly but surely. At times these new strains – loss of privacy, loss of control, cultural differences and lack of communication, among others, seem to corner me all at once but at the next turn, the soft smile of an adoring Baba, a jog to the next town accompanied by Mr. Tom Petty, belly-dancing around a neighbor’s kitchen or a comforting beer and pink nail polish night with a fellow volunteer seem to provide just the relief I need.

I think to myself, “I wanted a challenge. Now here it is. You can’t always pick ‘em but I trust someone out there in the great cosmic expanse knows what their doing; right guys?”

Check out my "Photo Gallery" tab - I'd like you to meet my host family and village :)

http://amberintransit.blogspot.com/p/photo-gallery.html

It’s 36 degrees Celsius and the moisture seeping from my suffocating pores beneath the folds of my breasts is rapidly accumulating into beads and forging their paths wildly down the length of my torso. There they linger until by a movement of my body they are absorbed into the threads of my white linen blouse.

At 2 p.m. the air is still and somehow magnifies the desolation of this tiny town. My only reprieve from this dusty heat is the verdant grape vines draping the trellis overhead. More so today than on any other, the sun seems to be baking the scents of the village into consciousness as the aroma of rising yeast would permeate the air from within a warm oven. Unfortunately, the tang of poultry excrement does less for ones appetite than the former. It is obvious the hens have not been spared this discomfort either. Today, their chatter seems to have reached a new veracity; their squawks only intermittently shushed by the domineering crow of Petel, our rooster.

Before me rests a daunting pile of emerald peapods with which I have found myself in a rhythmic pattern. Pick, snap, twist, scoop, toss. Pick, snap, twist, scoop, toss. I think to myself, “So. This is life in the village.”

My Baba (grandmother) sits beside me on this rickety wooden bench as we shuck peas together and gossip like housewives about the village neighbors. I nod and emphatically repeat “Da, Da, Da” in an effort to display my engagement in this conversation in a foreign tongue. (My only hope is that I have not just unknowingly agreed to an obscure farm chore or enlisted as an ally in a neighborly quarrel.)

How did I get here?

When I wrote you last it was Sunday, May 16, 2010. On this day, 87 doe-eyed Peace Corps trainees were dropped off, luggage and all, on the concrete steps of our main training school. Here, we were equipped with half-sheet pieces of paper inscribed with nothing more than the name of our future training site and a vague description of our host family. Clutching my pink sheet, I embarked on my hunt. It seemed I was the last to join my group as I found my five fellow site-trainees posing for photos with their new families around a table covered by cookies and soda. Soon enough I was met by the joyous smile of a white billow-headed woman. “BABAAA!!” I shouted as I dove in for a hug generating laughs from the family. After copious photos I was ushered off into a car with Baba and her son-in-law while her daughter and 20 year-old granddaughter followed in a separate car.

So here I was. Alone. In a car with two virtual strangers. Not having more than “hello” “my name is…” and a handful of food items in my arsenal of words. This was EXACTLY the moment about which I had built up so much anxiety.

After a 30 minute drive from the “city” into the countryside my head was already spinning. “What the HECK are these people trying to say to me?!” Pointing here, pointing there, all I heard were strange sounds coming from their mouths. I would attempt at communicating or guessing at what they were saying until finally giving up and falling back on a nervous smile with the hope that humor would get us through this.

When we all finally arrived at the house we met yet one more person. Slavi, my new Diado or “grandfather.” With him, we set off on a tour of my new home for the next 3 months. Chickens, ducks, a rooster, the outhouse, a flower garden and a very large vegetable plot. Oh, yes. I sure did say we have an outhouse. (Makes for great times in the summer heat – like battling flies as they attack from the bowels of the pit or seeing how fast I can pee before running out of breath). I didn’t know what they were saying at the time, but it turns out we grow our own tomatoes, carrots, celery, cucumber, corn, strawberries, dill, onion, parsley, garlic, cherries, pears, apples, plums and a variety of other things I’m sure I have yet to discover. That’s not to mention the fresh eggs our hens lay for us.

This is the part of village life I was looking forward to. When I first arrived one of our hens has just laid some eggs that were hatching that week. For the first time EVER (or at least that I can remember) I held an egg that was barely cracked by a baby chickee trying to break free, held a day old chick and collected warm eggs that we cracked open for dinner no less than 10 minutes later.

After the tour of the yard they showed me to my room. I live in a three bedroom unit that includes one shower. In a separate building right next door is the kitchen where both Baba and Diado sleep. Apparently it is common in Bulgaria to have two separate structures like this and to sleep in the kitchen in lieu of a bedroom. After all, many hours are spent in the kitchen between homemade cooking and looong dinners, and with a wood burning stove it’s often just less expensive and easier to sleep by the warm fire.

In the introduction of this journal entry I described to you a summer day with my family in my village. The events of that scene could easily have been replaced by any number of common activities in my new life – like escaping, for a moment, from the constant swirl of this new language into the comforting pages of Jane Eyre; whereby between the turnings of pages I glance up to find my Baba and Diado each schlepping a bucket carrying the upside down, steaming corpses of two of our plumpest ducks. They then proceed to sit beside me and pluck and blowtorch away the remaining feathers from its tender flesh.

Or perhaps I could have described the scene following my positive response to whether or not I liked walnuts. The subsequent afternoon I was equipped with a burlap sack of whole walnuts, a hammer and a tree stump on which to smash the shells.

Which leads me to my first precautionary note: When in a country as hospitable as Bulgaria proceed with caution when exhibiting any “needs” or lack of resources.

One might for example, by the sheer inquiry of whether there is honey in the house, send their Baba into flight throughout the neighborhood (mid-meal mind you) to return to the table 10 minutes later with a brand new jar of golden gooeyness.

Or at the probing of where one could purchase a pair of summer shorts provoke a duty in their Baba to phone their granddaughter in a nearby city to bring over some clothing to lend to their new guest.

Dually, in this innate Baba desire to fulfill others’ needs, comes by far my BIGGEST challenge in my new Bulgarian life. IN FACT, I have so much to say on this subject that I feel it deserves its own journal entry.

Stay tuned for the next chapter… "The Baba-cracy"

Zdraveyte! (that's hello!)

I don’t even know where to begin.This update is looooong over due. It’s been just about five and half weeks since I first landed here in Bulgaria but it feels closer to three months. I wish I could have updated you earlier; unfortunately internet has been a scarce commodity to come by. (I’ll explain later.)

Well, I guess I’ll just start off by saying I MISS YOU ALL my lovelies! I truly do. I could never have wished for a better group of people to be surrounded by. A HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who helped me in getting me up and ready for this journey – the boxes and moving supplies you provided, your sweat and muscles, the storage space you lent, the late nights of last minute cleaning, the front yard for my liquidation sale, your promised administrative capacity, the ear you lent and advice you offered, the comic relief you revived me with, and all the love and support you displayed during the final farewells. I love you all and think of you often.

So much has happened since my last post and I’d really like to catch you up on all the main events as of yet. So at the risk of boring you, here’s the chronology of events thus far:

My Peace Corps journey began on Mother’s Day Sunday, May 9th. With my life condensed down to one carry-on and two pieces of luggage (weighing no more than 80 lbs total) I boarded the plane leaving LAX in route for Philadelphia, PA where I met the 26th group of Peace Corps trainees to volunteer in Bulgaria – also known as B-26.

Apparently we’re the largest group as of yet, resting at about 87 men and women. Approximately half of the group is dedicated to Teaching English in Bulgaria while the others are divided between the Youth Development and Community & Organizational Development programs. I am of the latter and there are a total of 23 of us - the fewest of all groups. I also found it interesting to know that the average age of our entire class is 28 years old.

After two days of form completions, meet & greets, and ice breakers during this “Staging” event (May 10-12), we were off to JFK and soaring above the clouds for almost an entire day.

On May 13th, I breathed a sigh of relief after a somewhat tumultuous flight and received a warm welcome to Bulgaria with the news that half of my luggage was left behind in transit. Fortunately/unfortunately it wasn’t just my luggage. I’d say about a third of us had at least one piece missing. I was lucky enough to have had at least one of my large suitcases in hand. (Oh did I also mention that I managed to learn the Bulgarian alphabet during the flight?)

From the airport we drove approximately two hours through endless green fields, past quaint villages with red tiled roofs and terraces entwined with the early blossom of grape vines, and up through winding mountain roads until we finally reached our destination, the Planinski Ezera hotel, and my new home during our first week of orientation.

Brimming over with activities such as group information sessions ranging in topic from the always exciting Peace Corps mission, Goals and Core Competencies, to Bulgarian Language Training, Health and Safety, Volunteer Expectations, team building activities and three chow hall eating sessions a day, the experience truly felt like a hybrid between summer camp and Freshman year dorm life. All in all, the energy was high, the Peace Corps staff seemed well-prepared and encouraging and I left orientation a bit light headed, confident in the program and filled with positive anticipation to meet my new host family for the next three months.

The Host Family meeting…..until the next posting…dun dun duuuuunnnnnnnnn.

Wow. I can't believe it. As my friend Laurie so graciously reminded me on my Facebook page this morning, four days left until I'm on that plane to meet my new Peace Corps family.

The anxiety of not having things ready in time has begun to lurk my mind. I have half-crossed-off lists of Things-To-Do everywhere. It takes me double the time to fall asleep as my brain reels and throughout the day I get that warm, stomach churning sensation that used to be reserved for nights before a big work event or meeting. But this is all part of the fun, isn't it?

People often ask, "Why are you doing this?" While there are many logistical reasons - international travel, the security of the Peace Corps, and the post-volunteer benefits including decreased tuition and non-competitive application to Federal jobs - it all boils down to one main motivation. I am looking for an adventure and to be challenged in new ways, but most of all I want to start a life of the unknown.

I know well the path to success in the United States -education, a great career, good work ethic and a trusted network of family and friends with the prize of settling down and starting a family of my own in a town similar to the one I myself grew up in. I feel as though I can see the end of the road. While, don't get me wrong, it will be a wonderful life, I just need more. I've felt this in the pit of my being as a child.

I want to be inspired. I want a chance for these key components of success to manifest themselves in new ways. I want a chance to live the "unknown."

The Peace Corps brings opportunity and inspiration. I will be exposed to so many new things - international travel, a new language, new cultures, international business experience, complete cultural immersion, and a career of in-depth philanthropic work. I have read essays of other Peace Corps volunteers and I'm often brought to tears by their experiences and by the lives they've been empowered to lead afterwards.

Another question people always seem to ask is "What will you be doing after the Peace Corps?" My answer to that is "I don't know." And I take pride in that answer. For the first time in my life I'm excited by this prospect. To a person who's always had a five-year plan, this is truly invigorating. The thoughts of potential outcomes after the Peace Corps swirl through my head and I've made it a point to not get stuck on one vision, on one idea. Perhaps I will immediately begin grad school and begin a Federal career. I could start a non-profit, extend my Peace Corps assignment, work within the Peace Corps abroad or domestically, begin a fair trade import/export business, work with the UN or even choose to finally settle down and start a family of my own. The possibilities are endless and I'd like to keep it that way -- for a while.

I mean, my adventure hasn't even really begun.

In college I realized something about myself. I realized I'm addicted to achieving goals, which overall is a good thing I suppose. But what I really realized is that my pleasure stems from the process of achieving that goal and that once achieved my sights flash forward and onto a new one. I've hardly allowed myself to enjoy the prize which I've worked so hard for.

Late one night in my old bedroom, up the narrow and windy stairs of my Auntie Yoli's house, I came across a small sentence in a book while nestled in my bed sheets. This sentence was my savior. And I knew it as I first laid eyes upon it. It is one of the mantras I consciously focus to follow. It was, "Simply luxuriate in where you are right now."

So while the excitement of getting accepted into the Peace Corps and preparing for the journey has been a thrill, I will now, as this adventure truly begins, focus on relinquishing myself to simply luxuriating in where I am right now. I hope to take the ebbs and flows of this assignment in stride. I hope to find joy in all things frustrating and maddening. I hope to bare in mind it is all part of the adventure.

Thanks to my family, friends, and mentors throughout my life, I am equipped with the armor to succeed.

Things will all work out in the end and whatever happens was meant to be.

My mom asked me the other day, "Where did you get the courage to do something like this?" I looked at her in surprise. I suppose I never thought she would ever question such a thing. I turned to her and said, "From you. You and my Dad and my Auntie Yoli have always told me I could do whatever I wanted. And, I believed it."

Mail

Airmail can take 3-4 weeks to arrive.

Packages sent via surface mail can take 2-6 months to arrive.

Due to the inconsistent mail service it is recommended that you number your letters and include "Airmail" on the envelopes. (For letters, the Peace Corps recommends global airmail, available at US post offices.)

For my first 12 weeks in Bulgaria (May 12, 2010 - July 23, 2010) I will be in training and staying with a host family. It is recommended that you hold off on sending any packages until I am re-assigned into my permanent residence. I will send you that address when I recieve it at the end of my training.

Telephones

Although it is not guaranteed, I will most likely be living in an apartment or flat which may or may not have a landline telephone. I WILL however be issued a cell phone. I will be able to make international calls however long conversations may prove to be expensive. Most volunteers and Bulgarians choose to communicate via text messaging.

If you really want to talk over the phone, there are a few providers that offer calls for just a few cents per minute from the US to Bulgaria and from certain major cities in Bulgaria to the US including "Foneca". You can search for such services online and usually purchase minutes using a credit card.

The Country cod for Bulgaria is (359)

Internet, Email, Video-chatting

I will be bringing my laptop with me but it is not guaranteed that I will have internet access. If I DO have internet access in my home we will be able to email fairly regularly. My laptop also has a webcam so that I can video-chat with you. I utilize SKYPE (www.skype.com) - it's a free service that allows you to video-chat with me through your computer. You will need a webcam in order to use the video feature. You will have to set-up your Skype Account to communicate with me. Once you do this, you can search for me in their search directory. My Username is amber.valenzuela. I believe you can also search for me by email address which is listed as ambervalenzuela@hotmail.com.

If I DO NOT have internet at home there are internet cafes that I can visit - they may also have webcams set up.

In Case of Emergency

If there is an emergency back home, such as serious illness or death of an immediate family member, you must contact the Peace Corps Office of Special Services (OSS). The 24-hour number is 800-424-8580, ext. 1470. (Please don't die while I'm away. Take your vitamins and wrap yourself in bubble wrap every day:) )