Once again, much time has passed. It keeps managing to do that. I really enjoy writing about things that happen— but also to be enjoyed is the actual happening of the things, so writing has taken a back seat. Pretty far back, in fact, possibly hitched to the rear bumper of this metaphorical vehicle. And I think it’s fine that way. This particular word fest is a third attempt; the other two sit in the trash bin on my desktop as long-winded, nonsensical, and incomplete tries to recount an experience that continues to prove itself beyond recounting. Like most of the best parts of life, there's no way of putting it all down in words. In trying, I feel like a madwoman, sitting at a wheel and spinning ludicrous tales. Let me spin you some of my tales anyway— an assorted few that have made for themselves comfy and important spots in my memory. First is the tale of May (long over, according to my calendar, although I'm still looking for a second opinion on this). It was a month for the books. Four short weeks brought me to five different countries, while everyday life in Bulgaria still, somehow, wove itself in between. Sitting still at the end of it— all the planes, trains, boats, buses, and spaceships behind me— it starts to seem as crazy as it actually was. I have so many new feelings and favorite moments to spill from just those weeks that I could go for hours and still fall short in the retelling. There was May first, approximately three centuries ago, when school was out for International Workers Day and Reni invited Allison and I to the nearby village of Bozhuritsa for an afternoon. The atmosphere was anything but mellow— people buzzing everywhere, yelling, dancing, playing paintball and taking turns drifting skyward in a small hot air balloon, while the sun beat down and a giant grill covered everything in its radius with smoke and the scent of meat. But it was easy on the heart. Hiking up a hill covered in forest, sitting down in the tall grass and eating kebabche, talking with each other, and nothing more. The day had a really lovely quality to it. For all the farther places I’ve decided to go, it was neat to know that, even after nine months, there was still a place that could feel so new only half an hour down the road. And people to go there with like Reni, who takes care of my cat whenever I travel and always leaves my apartment tidier than it’s ever looked upon my coming home. Not only a superhero of a helper, but a genuinely good person whose company I love. She has made my time here so much better. There was Santorini— with a quick stop in Athens on the way, where sandwiches were constructed and devoured mid-metro ride as fuel for a speedy walk up to the Acropolis and back down again. Then the island itself, the uniform white of its buildings all crawling out to the edge of the water and bouncing back sunlight. The outsider-esque feeling of being in a dreamed-about vacation destination, but on a slightly more worldly budget than the median of the crowd around us. Hiking north from Fira to Oía, taking in the view from Skaros Rock along the way and guessing aloud at the per-night cost of luxurious resorts that dotted the path’s periphery. Retreating, at the end, from the spot that claims some of the world’s best sunsets to somewhere farther away from the mass of perched tourists with ready cameras. The sun still fell behind the clouds quite to my satisfaction, and all the while, we had enough space around us to breathe while watching it. There was a weekend in Cyprus. A bike ride to the island’s eastern edge, where the quiet and dry and awesome Cape Greco national park reaches out into the Mediterranean Sea. The vivid blueness of the water on the jagged shore was like jumping inside a picture on a calendar page. The ride back, rolling down smooth hills toward town with the road stretched out next to us, and watching the sun rise over the water before a morning bus to the airport. It was good in every way. Then there was Italy. A nighttime walk to the Leaning Tower (we were there on research— turns out it is, in fact, still leaning). Hiking through the five towns of Cinque Terre, paths framed by rows of grape vines, patches of flowers, and incredible coastline views. I never remember taking more than two steps on level ground; always laboring up or down, I was certain that my knees would stop working, and even more certain that I would’ve given up before the end if not for having someone to follow. It was beautiful and hot and a sweetly satisfying day. Moving south by train, trying to get to the Amalfi Coast but coming face to face with life’s Alternate Plans— like getting on the wrong bus, waiting three lightyears for the right one to arrive, shaking a fist at the sky and cursing our luck. And then, the best part, finally getting there and taking a huge breath. And taking two-hundred-something steps down to a small beach to sit, while the cold tide inched closer and the sun went down. It was a really pretty place to be— and that’s what sticks. Naples, wandering around with nothing on the agenda but to take in the honesty of the crowded streets. A city not so perfectly painted and dusted and chiseled to please every tourist’s darting eyes, but more true to life. Doors open to people sweeping up their houses, or cooking a meal, or shooing their kids outside to go play. It was plain and good, rife with hole-in-the-wall spots and pizzerias that didn’t leave a single thing to be desired. And what a hoot it was to sit down to a perfect meal, while watching a 2-hour line spill out the door of a restaurant nearby, all because Rick Steves dropped its name on his YouTube standup comedy show (sorry Rick). Then a train to Rome, and a ciao for now in the airport to the fellow traveler who made it all so much more worthwhile and good. Multiplied was the joy of the experience for being able to do it with someone else; it felt like two of life's best things colliding. There was Seville, Spain, where I battled with the weird loneliness of eating tapas by myself, and also revelled in the unfamiliar easiness of being my own company to journey through a new city with. Meeting a past coworker and her huge dog and her kind friends, watching a crazy religious parade pass down the street by her apartment, eating snails, and leaving— feeling like the city, in all its parks and markets and friendly people and purple flowered trees, had showed me everything it could. There was waking up in Portugal (possible band name/ adventure novel title), the bus station still silent at the crack of dawn, and the loopy signature of sleeplessness in my eyes. Roaming through Lisbon, Belén, and Sintra, and the wide, solid beauty and sunny easiness that I found there in things that just kept working out really well, though not due in the least to my own planning or skill. The world’s most perfect day to peer over the cliffside of Cabo da Roca; a definite moment of wondering how such extraordinary things keep landing in front of my eyes, and such a range of places under my feet. It was really over, I knew, when I slid onto the purple vinyl seat of my last Wizz Air flight after midnight on a Sunday. There ended all these travels; the incredibly fortunate (and admittedly ridiculous) chance to hop around Europe for ten months in between teaching, the actual job that brought me here. It all blends together into mesmerizing ribbons of boarding passes and train rides, long walks and Google Maps, monuments, rivers, and bridges, foods and drinks and parks and oceans, metro tickets and long waits, sunshine and umbrellas and buses and backpacks and rolled up laundry— and then it stops, and life returns. And life can make it feel, sometimes, like none of these things ever happened. I feel it most when I wake up to the same pale yellow of my apartment walls, moving through my day with the hum of a routine that doesn’t care that I just came back from somewhere completely different or incredible when it asks me to get on with the daily drumbeat of doing what needs to be done. But my favorite thing in all of this is that these trips and these moments with people and these really cool things all did happen. Their memories are so good that they can either sting me if I ruminate on how I’ll never relive them, or they can bring me that crazy idea called gratitude for having lived them in the first place. I’m working on making it more of the latter. Now it’s the tale of June, and the thought that I’ll be home in less than two weeks is kicking me in the pants. Even June, though, and its rudely quick arrival has proven full and interesting. This month opened with a hike in Vitosha Mountain and a really good weekend I won’t forget. And then it let me slip into the gray of fear and confusion for a few nights, anxious over what I have and haven't done well and how in the world I’m going to say goodbye to everything and everyone here that I love. Then it found me in the park by the Danube, walking and eating ice cream and talking words with a fellow teacher, and one of the people who has been the most kind and loving and impactful to me since I came here— and my head felt kind of clear again, and I thought I could crank out a blog post. Then along came the Fulbright wrap-up conference: 10 hours on a bus to the other end of the country, two days full of watching the other grantees present on the achievements of their year and feeling like a little speck of dust in my chair, a slew of weird goodbyes that still don’t seem quite real, and 10 (hot) hours back. It wasn't altogether bad— I saw the Black Sea for the first time, which definitely cannot be complained about, and any chance to share air and a few moments to chat with these 30-something other people who have also been here and done this thing is a heck of a good source for laughs and strength. But it was hectic and overwhelming enough to take the calm out of my head, and so went another draft into the trash can. Megan made it bearable. Sitting at my side for 18 of those 20 bus hours, sharing my deep frustration at the man in the seat behind us who made loud and inexplicable sucking noises all the way from Burgas to Stara Zagora, cueing up the 90s Rap and Punk Goes Country playlists, and making fun of me for how I looked while sleeping. Listening, listening, listening to my feelings, chiming in with reason and insight, and listening some more. Pushing me along on that slow, rugged path to peace. When I questioned whether or not we’d actually learned or grown or made any kind of progress at all throughout this whole year, she pointed at a sign in Bulgarian listing destinations of the bus next to us and said, “at least we can read those words!" Everyone needs a Megan. And, of course, the tale of teaching. The school is getting hotter, my classes are getting thinner (attendance- wise, although maybe in size, too, from profuse sweating), and I'm growing a bit more nostalgic about leaving those who I've grown close to and will miss. My lesson plans are unspectacular; lately the name of the game has just been seeing how many students show up each day, and making sure I keep showing up also. In this way, my teaching journey may not have changed too much from the start— every week I prepare at home, walk though 16 different door frames with something to do, and walk back out with a level of success that’s all over the charts. What has changed, though, is my grip on it all. Funny moments and little connections now define a good day for me, rather than any kind of perceived success at teaching a concept or maintaining flawless control, and bad days seem to have a lot less of a lasting hold. So I guess I'll add that to the Growth List, right under being able to read Cyrillic letters, and I'll leave room for the ways I'm sure I'll realize I've grown in retrospect. It’s now my second to last week of walking the halls of Yordan Radichkov Foreign Language School as a celebrity who everyone loves (this is not true). I love them, though, and their loud voices and their goofy antics. Their attempts to get me to take them “outside” for class, then to keep walking on past the yard in a direction suspiciously similar to that of a nearby cafe. Their questions about people in America (are you all nice? Do you all have gym memberships? Does everyone live in a house?), and their willingness to express ideas and share openly about themselves in ways that I definitely never had the guts to at their age. I'll miss the ones who wave at me all around town and make me feel at home here, the ones who come up to hug me after class, even the ones (@ 9B) who put a giant "spooky!" sticker and a bunch of smiley faces on the cover of the register today, then all crowded around for the last ten minutes of class to help me scratch them off after I explained that the Director and the other teachers would definitely not find it as hilarious as they all did. I still sometimes think that, when the day rolls around for me to leave Vidin, they're going to have to pry this place from my cold dead hands. There will never be another year in this city, never another time where things are the way they are now. But, although I still have to re-convince myself of this here and there, life still has a lot more good and adventure and newness to offer, even if it'll never look exactly like this. I've thought so many times throughout these ten months that something incredible I experienced— some place or thing or feeling— would surely be the last of its kind, but then a new one would always come after. Then another, and another. And so will that continue, or at least I'll repeat it in my head to help me square myself with leaving this place. And while here, I was as absolutely lucky as I could have been. I don't think I had the best school, best students, best city, or anything like that— but I think all of these things were the best for me. I've paid my last electric bill, crossed all the Ts on Sharon's pet passport (she is going to America before me, the little trailblazer), and said goodbye to my mentor teacher who I won't see again before I go. With a cappuccino in my hands and a citronada in hers (I think she chose better in this thousand degree weather), we shared a final half hour, her calm and easy demeanor reminding me of the first time we met and how she's always made me feel comfortable. Dropping a major ego boost on the table, she gave me the push to finally tie together a final blog post— and I do suppose it'll be my last, based on my record. To any soul still reading, a hearty благодаря. I'm grabbing the minutes while they're still here.
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It’s been a hot minute since I last spilled my brain-words into an update. As always, it feels a bit like tipping over a can of alphabet soup and attempting to form a sensible story from the saucy mess— although often, I suspect, the original jumble of soggy letters might be more cohesive than what I actually end up writing here. Nevertheless, my fingers continue to hit the keys (mostly the backspace, as Sharon likes to throw in her two cents here and there). As far as hot minutes go, it’s actually been quite cold. And more like a couple of months, though the months do seem to pass like minutes sometimes. Recounting even a taste of everything that’s gone on is a hilariously lofty goal that I’ll never accomplish, so instead, I’ll share some highlights and lowlights and call it fair. To begin with the silly and trivial: winter. I’m just about over it. The calendar says spring, but the world outside hasn’t seemed to hear the news yet. Although enchanting in its early, pure, powdery white form, the snow did not take long to reach the point that scientists call disgusting. On the worst days, streets and sidewalks full of slushy muck made even a short trip of a few blocks into a comical misadventure; slipping and sliding and jingling all the way on dirty ground-Slurpee, I arrived to most destinations as a wet-booted, pruney toed, and slightly more frustrated version of myself. The snow melted away for about a week, bringing sunshine and teasingly perfect weather in the 50s and 60s Fahrenheit, along with a decidedly improved mood on the part of this bumbling Floridian. But then, just as my fingers and toes were starting to thaw… you guessed it, the snow came back. With great vengeance, and comically so, in the first official week of spring. Cue the sliding and the minute misery. Things are just now back to warming up again, and to celebrate, I am jetting off with two friends at the end of this week toward Germany and France (where it looks like we will get rained on every single day). In summary, Mother Nature laughs at me. Onto school-related things. Life in the classroom week after week brings continued challenge, but engaging with the students in other ways offers equal and constant reward. Thursday conversation groups— an only very recent success— are flourishing, so much so that we always annex tables and chairs from other areas of the small cafe, and may soon have to find a new rendezvous point for fear of irking the management. It turns out that a large, sometimes loud group of English speaking youngins isn’t always what everyone hopes to share a space with while enjoying their cup of coffee. Oddly enough. Another recent addition to my weeks has come about almost accidentally, and takes the form of an hour-long Spanish lesson with three sweet 8th graders every Wednesday after school. It’s a perfect time of fellowship and fun with a language I already love, and it feels like the exact opposite of work because these pupils are sharp as tacks and want to learn all that they can. At our first lesson, they all showed up with brand new notebooks that they had gotten specifically for learning Spanish, and they told me they hope to fill them up with words and phrases by the time the year ends. A tall order, I told them, but we’ll certainly do our best. Putting myself in their 14-year-old shoes, I can hardly think of a single thing that would make me want to stick around longer after 7 hours at school— especially not any sort of lesson. But these three are incredible in their enthusiasm, and even at my most Oscar the Grouch-like, I’ll admit it’s contagious. Whenever they forget a verb or don’t know what to say during our practice, they like to substitute commonly known, yet irrelevant, Spanish words— the occasional yo estoy burrito or me llamo piñata is a swing and a hit at making everyone laugh. I only wish I had known earlier in the year that they wanted to learn, but the formation of our own little Español club is certainly better late than never. Sometimes a full day’s worth of scooting around still leaves me with energy at bedtime. Others, I depart from the Colosseum after teaching only 4 or 5 classes— ripped clothing, dirt on my face, and enthusiasm somewhere deep down the toilet pipe— and am decidedly ready to sleep for three years without interruption. That becomes even more comical when I consider all of the actual teachers, who come every day with iron-like resolve to prepare students for important things like exams and certificates, and who work at their job for years, and don’t have Fridays off, and deal with far more rules and pressures and bureaucracy… I have it easy. Still, without much hesitation, I know that teaching is not for me. And as monotonous and discouraging and plain tiring as that can sometimes make the weekdays feel, I would also do good to remember that this year has been a great chance to figure that out with training wheels on. And at this point— 100% over trying to speak louder than the loud kids, and 110% out of lesson plan ideas— it’s easy, so easy, to look toward the end with heart-shaped cartoon eyes. Yet the same end will, too, bring an end to a year of adventures and companionship and such great joys. So, in that way, the end can take its time. On the topic of adventure, not many a weekend has found me at home in Vidin since January, as lots of travel has ensued. A February trip to Spain was sunny, blue-skied, tapas-filled and relaxing; the country left its mark on me, with green parks and Gaudí architecture and the sweet clarity of its beautiful language, and I returned the favor by leaving my cellular phone in a Barcelona taxi. And I’d leave it all over again if I could repeat the good times and re-see the pretty sights with my 3 familiar amigos. Recent weekend trips to Poland and Ukraine have made me happy to be alive— and specifically alive in Eastern Europe, where weekend trips to Poland and Ukraine is a geographically possible sentence to utter. Krakow’s highlights included a quaint and walkable old town, meat and cheese pirogies, and a sobering but enlightening tour through Auschwitz and Birkenau. The camps are chillingly well-preserved; a damning testament to the absolute extent of evil that mankind can achieve. The somber mood was only made better by a sunset over the frozen Vistula River, a good travel companion, and more pirogies. Kiev surpassed all expectations; a snow-covered haven of parks and overlooks, amazing food and cheap chocolate bars, and brightly coloured buildings and golden-domed churches that looked like someone must have woken up at the crack of dawn to re-paint them every morning. I would return in a heartbeat, especially in the spring, to see what it looks like freed from its ubiquitous blanket of white snow. However, the snowy conditions worked to our favor for a day trip to Chernobyl, making the former Soviet-era settlements seem even more eerie in their abandonment. Visiting the site of the 1986 nuclear disaster was something straight out of a history textbook, and was easily one of the top experiences I’ve had in Europe so far. From grocery stores with scattered pieces of bent and rusting shopping carts, to kindergartens with dolls and books still on the floor, everything seemed to be just as it was when the area was evacuated. It was certainly nothing I ever thought I’d see in my lifetime. And just as quickly, of course, it's back to ordinary life again. The tiniest things sometimes get me through the day, and other times, even tinier ones can drag me down. Spending a lot of time with my own thoughts often leads me to the conclusion that things are terrible and the world is positively ending; but, before too long, the dial always turns back around. A conversation with a friend from home, a genuine compliment on a (usually mediocre) lesson at school, a letter in the mail or a text from my sisters, the pizza lady's gracious 18th attempt to teach me how to say corn in Bulgarian; mercy pops its head up in a lot of unexpected places. On my most recent bus trip to Sofia— a route which I could now probably drive myself, with both eyes closed and one hand busy picking my nose— I was armed with my usual gear: a book, a snack, my headphones, and total readiness to conk out against the window and ignore the world. But, climbing on board, I was surprised by six of my students and two teachers from my school, who were also heading to the capital for different reasons (French language competition, soccer match, visiting family), and were all too excited to see me. When one of them beckoned me into the open seat next to her, I smiled and obliged, but internally pouted at the implicit agreement to chat with her for the next four hours instead of withdraw into my own sleepy and unbothered corner. Yet, as surely as life often flicks me in the nose when I think I know what to expect, it turned out to be such an entertaining time full of stories about her hilarious little sister (a regular guest at our conversation groups— and a total hit, at that), and thoughts on life in general. By the time we hit the halfway point, I told her I was feeling tired, and we both decided to rest our eyes. Five minutes into my slumber, she tapped me softly on the arm to wake me up and let me know that, if I would be more comfortable, I could lean over and sleep on her shoulder. And there's one of those tiny things that saves the day. These students— and the teachers, and so many other people around— treat me like such a friend, and I can't imagine a life where I didn't get this chance to know them. To pilfer a quote from a universally admired source, the huge actin’ Hugh Jackman, in his most recent production: "Ladies and gents, this is the moment you’ve waited for!” But rather than a finger-snapping musical and a comely Zac Efron in ringmaster’s garb to follow, it’s me, sitting in front of my laptop; a tiny ant before a large blank page, balancing a humongous, unwieldy mental pen and attempting to scratch down a coherent tale about the events of late. The days laugh at me as they race by, and life’s tenacious wind turns the figurative pages out from underneath me before I am even able to think about what I will write on them. I should also remind you that ants are usually never taught the alphabet or any sort of grammar— we have a long way to go as a society— so my thoughts are that much more difficult to express. All of this drivel is to say that time has moved swiftly and brought such good things that it feels like any attempt to report it all is doomed to inadequacy. But I, aware of both the scant number and merciful character of my readers, will soldier on into this blog post, if for no other reason than to help myself remember some of the good and important moments and perhaps spark a chuckle or two along the way (reader: please chuckle here in case it doesn’t happen later). I spent the week of Christmas in England with Christen, my like-minded and funny and dearly close friend from home, who selflessly invited me along to meet her extended family and mooch off of their love and kindness. I’ll call it Christenmas (at her request), and it was the most unique and perfect holiday adventure that could’ve come to pass. It was my first Christmas away from my own family, and I got to spend it with another one who made me feel like I wasn’t a stranger at all. That’s a marvelous thing; the sort of openhanded benevolence that makes the world a place worth being in. It’s quite amazing to be on the receiving end of it, and it certainly seems like it’s already happened to me more than it should have in 22 years. I really hope I'll wind up somewhere on the giving side one day, too. After a somber goodbye in a London bus station (bystanders everywhere were reaching for their tissues… not a dry eye in the room), Christen was off to Germany, and I to Ireland. There— like a confident and bright-eyed beacon guides a floppy, tired barge to safety— Claire waited for me at a bus stop and walked me to our temporary home base. This took the form of a bizarre, extremely fire-safe Catholic-school-turned-hostel, upon which we wound up looking very fondly after later experiences with alarmingly low ceilings and smelly co-habitors. But to return to the story at hand, the next four days brought churches, parks, rain, pub food, fireworks, sheep, donuts, the Lucky Charms leprechaun, and everything else you might expect to find in Ireland. Dublin was hip and pretty and fun, and a day trip west to Galway and the Cliffs of Moher gave us a gorgeous (and wildly windy) venture into the country’s more typical green, serene, bucolic side. New Year’s morning put us on a flight to Prague, and if such a thing is believable, this leg of the trip was even greater. Claire and I took one official guided walking tour, and about 13 unofficial, self-guided, “this city is beautiful and navigable and every building on every block looks elegant enough to be the main attraction— how are there so many pretty things all in one space?” ones, frequented the several still-running Christmas markets around the city, and just enjoyed each other’s company. I ate more chimney cakes than I will admit to (three. The answer is three. But two were filled with ice cream and one was filled with mac and cheese, so please adjust your rating scales accordingly), along with plenty of other delicious fare that lives fondly in my memory, and quite probably still in my digestive system. As for the less edible activities, we trekked through the New and Old towns, and up to the elevated portion of the city across the river where Prague Castle and the Royal Palace sit. We ogled over some of the most creative and downright pretty street crafts I have seen in my time, set up all across the St. Charles Bridge, and next day watched the sunrise from the same locale in what was overall one of the most memorable moments for me. I love sunrises anyway, but this particular one took quite a bit of convincing myself to eventually look away from. The light hit the water just right, bouncing back off of the city in all directions so that, for a few minutes, there was no single square inch of world that wasn’t completely striking in appearance. I hope to visit Prague again, but I think I'll be hard pressed to find a better experience or better company than I had this time around. And now school is back in session. Morning alarms, pop song bells, dry erase marker dust all over my hands, no Christmas markets outside the window… alas, this must be real life! But even this side of life is a treat— and I remember it most when Zhivko sticks his head out of the third floor window to yell hello to me in the morning, or Ivelin hands me a really funny drawing of a new year’s resolution, or Reni takes care of my cat for two weeks and then leaves a gift for me when I get home (seriously, in what world does someone do you a huge favor and then give you a present?). I remember it when I walk into the teachers’ room, and the inherent confusion caused by the constant soundtrack of Bulgarian conversation takes a backseat to a firm feeling of welcome; to smiles and conversation with the teachers around me who have become friends. This could easily be a very different situation— I’m the stranger in their school, after all, but they choose to be extremely warmhearted anyway. Again, the kindness thing. And I remembered it yesterday afternoon, trudging home from school through the first day of actual stored-up, white, packed, powdery, not-even-dirty-yet snow, which transformed a familiar route and a city I thought I knew pretty well by now into a totally different, momentarily magical world. “Too cold for you, Amanda?” one of my students yelled at me rhetorically, probably observing the scarlet hue of my face and my complementarily wincing expression. “YES,” I yelled back— a bit more of a ymmhff from beneath my stylish and exquisitely warm new scarf— and it really was, but I also wasn’t all that upset about it. I’ve never walked home through snow before, and I’ve also never called home a place in Bulgaria, and for all the strangeness of these things, they’re quite amazing. Funny, serious, confusing, cold, routine, awkward, or exciting, nearly every moment here reminds me that this is where I want to be. So step aside, Hugh Jackman— THIS is the greatest show. The day is Thursday. The class is 8G. The activity is— well, in fact, it doesn’t matter what the activity is. Whether group work, class discussion, a game, or pretty much anything under the scant winter sun, one student of mine never fails to vocalize his excitement for what is going on in class. “Yes, yes, very good!” This is often accompanied by some light clapping, or at the very least a wide, winning smile. He sounds genuinely thrilled; the same student, the same phrase, and the exact same tone of voice, every class without fail. For weeks, this is nearly all I heard out of him. It served as his response to questions, feedback on other students' thoughts, or even just as a friendly interjection to fill the air during no particular moment at all. I assumed— erroneously, as it would turn out— that he did this simply because he did not know very much English. At least this behavior, while indeed unconventional, was harmless, which is more than can often be said in such a scenario. Two weeks ago in class, the students discussed music and their favorite songs. I, in the style of an amateur circus clown, pretended to use my dry erase marker as a microphone and made my way around the classroom to hear what each one had to say. As I approached the back left corner of the room, my mind involuntarily prepared itself to hear the previously discussed familiar phrase from its usual point of origin. I was already brewing up a silly way to respond (most probably something like, oh, your favorite song is called ‘Yes Yes Very Good?’ That’s cool, who sings it?). But to the great surprise of all of my bodily systems, the student of interest instead began by sarcastically complimenting me on my fake microphone, then proceeded to tell me— in excellent English— all about his favorite song. Hm. This time, I think I may have been the one to utter a, “yes, yes, very good,” after pausing for a few seconds to process the unfolding situation. I commended him for his answer, then mentioned (perhaps too bluntly) that I didn’t expect him to say something so… out of the ordinary. Upon hearing this, he grinned ear to ear, raised his voice about 2 decibels, and let it out like air from a balloon: “Yes, yes, very good!” Very good, indeed. Now that I am wise to his true level of fluency (only a good 10 weeks into the school year, mind you), I realize he has simply made himself the volunteer hype-man/ class comedian. And now that he knows I think it’s hilarious, he has recruited a little barbershop quartet of boys to join him in the cheerful chorus of his catch phrase. I laugh every time— and once Thursday rolls around, that laughter is usually really needed. Occasionally they modify their script (sometimes I hear, “very nice!" or, “very of course!”), and I only laugh more heartily at these amendments. In all, though, whether young Nikola in 8G knows it or not, I think his favorite phrase is quite apropos. Life as of late has brought its usual mix of stresses and joys— the latter of which, I still maintain, outweigh the former. I perceive (whether this is correct or not) that I am losing the attention of several of my classes, and/or don’t have the strong voice and years of experience necessary to handle a rowdy room and be engaging enough to actually reach my students. In fact, sometimes I’m positive that I’m doing a lackluster job and was certainly not cut out for this role. But sometimes that feeling turns on a dime— usually after teaching one of the better classes— and I decide I’ll keep on showing up and giving it a try. It’s fairly easy to tell when a class enjoys my being there, and in return, it’s the students and classes such as these that remind me how much less enriching my life would be if I had never met them. Yes, yes, very good. On Thanksgiving, along with several of my Fulbright peers and myriad other guests, I had the sweet opportunity to dine with the US Ambassador to Bulgaria at his residence in Sofia. The locale was unique, the conversation enlightening, and the food was out of this world (I think I’m still digesting it). A completely American spread— right down to the turkey, which came from a US base in Kosovo, as the Ambassador boasted— was just what we were all craving after being away from home for a few months, and I believe I ate enough of everything to last me for the remainder of my time here. It was a bit too early for visions of sugar plums, but I guarantee that visions of sweet potatoes, stuffing, and mini pumpkin pies danced in my head that night. Just afterward, it was on to Veliko Tarnovo with a small group of good people; a city of historic structures, beautiful views, and steep elevation, and a great place to recall all of the things that there are to be thankful for. Yes, yes, very good. Coming up next week is my school’s Christmas production, and rehearsals have been wrapping up with haste, success, and a dash of chaos. In one particular moment during last week's practice, I— standing in the school’s multipurpose room while Bulgarian chatter, stage direction, giggles, and musical chords bounced off the walls— really felt the sweetness of being here. This year, my inaugural listen to the classic ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ wasn’t broadcast through a car radio or piped through the speakers of a store in the mall, but rather sung beautifully in-person by one of my 10th grade students, there in our slightly chilly ground-floor schoolroom (by the way, @Mariah Carey, you have competition). With the 100-day mark now in the rearview and Christmas break close ahead, I have little to complain about, except that maybe time should stop moving so quickly. Of course it's true that some days I wake up to the dark and the cold and I’d rather do anything but go to school. Others, I’m completely over the 'outsider’ feeling, and I just want to be around friends and English and familiar things again. But there will be a time for all that, and I’m sure when it gets here, I’ll feel like it came too quickly. So for now, everything is good. Yes, yes. Very good. After two-ish months of living and teaching in Vidin, life has taken on a familiar groove, but a welcome and exciting interruption to this daily rhythm was the arrival of the sweet phrase 'fall break' on my calendar pages. In true Newtonian spirit, I was happy to balance things out by departing— on a bus (then plane, train, metro, and taxi) to Austria and Hungary with three lovely companions. We did joke that it took us every possible form of public transport to get there, except perhaps a boat— but then we stopped talking about it, because it was pretty rainy and we also weren’t far from the Danube River, and I think nobody wanted to jinx it. I did wear the same pair of pants for seven days in a row, as a combination of airline baggage size rules and basic physics forced me to remove the rolled-up pair of jeans from my backpack. Space was precious, the budget was low, and I was ready to wear and re-wear and re-re-wear my leg garments for the sake of a good adventure. And the adventure was, indeed, really good. Easily worth every day in my low-fashion, high comfort vestment (for the record, I did pack clean shirts). As an aside, my three companions were far smarter packers than I— with bags impressively smaller, they still managed to look functional and put-together every day. I have much to learn. Vienna was busy and beautiful; bare trees, high churches, ridiculously ornate palaces and twinkling cafes (few of which we neglected— food was a serious part of our expedition) made a big impression on me. We also took a day trip to Salzburg to voyage through some sites from the filming of The Sound of Music, and it was just like walking through a scene from a post card. I kept waiting for the fake scenery to fall down around us and reveal a real world that wasn’t so impossibly quaint and winsome and colorful. The lakes district just outside the city offers breathtaking overlooks, many of which you can peep in the movie, and I’ll testify that they are even more magnificent in person. The hills really are alive. Then it was on to Budapest, where we learned upon arriving that they do not, in fact, use the euro in Hungary. While the line at the airport ATM grew longer and longer behind us, we sarcastically patted ourselves on the back for being such informed travellers, and never quite managed to find peace with the strange currency for the remainder of our trip. Even though the rate of exchange seems like it would be beneficial (1 US dollar equals almost 268 Hungarian forint), paying 800 anythings for a cup of coffee is both alien and disorienting, and it threw our budgeting skills out of whack just a bit. However, the city of Budapest is enough to charm the monetary frustrations out of even the saltiest traveler, and I think we all found our visit there to be beyond expectation. Our walking tour was exceptional— beautiful day, amazing guide— and it helped us get our bearings in the city. Nearly every moment there was a favorite, but a few stick out in my mind: taking a dip in the famed thermal baths, visiting the Terror Háza museum on Hungary’s Fascist and Communist eras, finding a ruin bar with a (confusing and amusing) Soviet-themed basement, walking along the fantastically-lit Danube after sundown, and chowing down on chimney cake with three fellow Fulbright friends who were also passing through. This last one was especially sweet— and not just the cake— because we hadn’t seen these certain companions since orientation in early September, and we all had so much to share. Classroom experiences and hilarious stories (often one and the same), the goods and bads of life in our cities, and everything in between. I think it’s pure joy to have these others to laugh with and lean on, and I already can’t wait for the next time we all meet. In all, it was a magnificent trip that I’ll remember fondly, and one made even greater— like many things in life— by the company of such easygoing, adventurous, and hilarious comrades. As a note of comedy, on the eighth day I did find an extra pair of pants that I had fit into the bottom of my bag after all, and I felt like a new woman. Now back in Vidin, life carries on as usual, but persists in entertaining me in many different ways. With few exceptions, I really enjoy my time in the classroom, and out-of-school hours bring their own joyful busyness as well. Crafting oratory pieces and practicing poems with the speech team, running room to room in my apartment while Sharon chases a cat toy and climbs my legs like scratching posts, playing spectator at my students' weekend basketball game (xайде видабаскет!), or even tiny stuff like feeling the (very non-Florida) change of season outside while I plan a lesson for the week ahead. I do, of course, fight with the “what next?” worries— they creep up fiercely and often— but I’m doing my utmost to fend them off so I can really have this time to its fullest. It’s probably one of the most unique years I’ll experience, and I do refuse to let it slip out from underneath me. Although I have no idea what comes next, I’ll most likely land on two feet somehow, and that’s all I’ve got for now (but I will take any suggestions). Regarding the esteemed and honorable Sharon, she has recovered outstandingly well. All that seems to remain of her troubles are a slight fungal infection in her tiny nose, and an insistence on scratching and biting everything and everyone (a.k.a. me) around her. But of course the latter is more of an Amanda trouble than anything else, and I suppose it’s normal kitten behavior, frustrating and exhausting though it may be. But, I maintain that she is the dearest companion and grandest confidant that I could have around, and I am exceedingly glad for her health. Not quite so glad, however, is the toy mouse on a stick that she daily maims and disrespects— but he had it coming, I’m sure, and it’s never long before Sharon moves on to other endeavors like pulling my earrings out or jumping into my washer. Ah, the joys of cat parenthood. Much is afoot these days. I recently adopted a kitten, as many among my esteemed colleagues already know due to my overgenerous sharing of her (objectively adorable) face on various platforms. I named her Sharon, in what I believe is a comical departure from the usual archetype associated with such a name. It’s also just hilarious to refer to a cute, pocket-sized fuzzball, who’s never raised children or held a 9-to-5 desk job, as Sharon. Unbeknownst to me, sweet Sharon was aboard the express train to Struggle Town; I found out quickly after taking her home that the cruel hands of fate had dealt her both respiratory herpes and a bacterial infection. She worsened quickly over my first couple of days with her, and upon coming home from school to find her oozy-eyed and shaking with fever, Amanda in a Panic (2017, oil on canvas) threw her into her carrier and turned to Google to look for a vet nearby. With the most inexplicable feeling of relief, the first picture to pop up on my search featured a storefront that I had seen all too many times— it was right across the street, mere spitting distance from my flat. When I arrived, despite efforts to keep my cool, it was the most classic of uncomfortable situations. Locking eyes with the first person I saw, I said, in English, “I think my cat is very sick,” while holding out the bag of random meds that were given to me when I got her. It turned out I was indeed speaking to the veterinarian, who got up from his chair after a brief pause and began asking me questions (by grace alone, he knew English as well). How old was the cat, when did the symptoms start, what were each of the medications I was holding, et cetera— and to all of this, all I could answer was, I don’t know, I just got her from a friend. And I quickly realized how incredibly stupid that sounded. After examining the cat, he threw the aforementioned bag of meds in the trash and diagnosed her with the herpes virus and resulting infection, for which they would be totally ineffectual. The kitten had a high fever at the time, and I watched the head atop the doctor's tall, intimidating form shake back and forth while he reached for a pair of scissors to shave her leg and stick a catheter into her paw. He told me to warm her with a water bottle, wash her eyes out, feed her baby food through a syringe, and come back in 2 hours so he could measure her temperature again. I felt overwhelmed by his instructions, ashamed that I had brought in such a sick cat, and completely unable to explain myself. At one point he asked me if I was trying to take her back to America, and I was so confused by the question that I answered both yes and no while trying to figure out what he meant by it. When I left, I thought of what a dunce I must have seemed, barging in and speaking English with a sick cat that I didn’t know how to handle. I barely crossed the street again to reach my door before mother nature’s waterfalls of frustration began to leak from my eyes. Through sniffles, I called two friends to tell them how incompetent and overwhelmed I felt. That helped a lot; just being able to say what was going on made my chest feel lighter. I couldn’t stand watching Sharon shiver and wheeze through her tiny, clogged nose; she was suffering and I couldn’t do a darn thing for her, and that just doesn’t make for a happy situation. I also couldn’t un-hear the vet’s warning that her immune system might be too weak to fight the virus off, nor could I un-remember the humiliating and graceless nature of my interaction with him. After a lot of negative thought (Why did I have to go and adopt a cat? I didn’t think this out all the way, etc.), I decided to cool my jets and try to change my frame of mind about what was going on. I did think it out, and I did everything (within reason) that I should’ve done to prepare for getting the cat. A part of me has known since I got here that I wanted a pet to keep me company; living alone is abnormal, and it certainly has its perks, but it also gets quite lonely. And add onto that the impossibility of making friends with any neighbors due to the language barrier— my interactions with them are limited to an occasional dober den! in the stairwell, and that’s not a lot, all things considered. I didn’t know my new feline friend would be so sick, and the best I can do is keep my head and try to help her get better. For now, that means fighting her tiny fidgets and squeals to push food in her mouth and drops in her nose, and letting the vet stick shots into her infant booty every day until she gets healthy again. I can’t imagine how parents of actual humans must feel in a crisis situation. But things are certainly looking sunnier now than they were at week’s beginning, and I believe Sharon's ending will be a happy one. Her catheter is out, and she’s begun to eat on her own and move around a lot more. She even beats me up a little bit with her tiny talons and baby teeth, and I’m not sure at what point this should be considered abuse, but I will report back. To everyone with whom I’ve talked throughout the week about Sharon’s struggle: thank you. It’s been a knot in my stomach that I wouldn’t be able to deal with on my own. Outside of kitty-related matters, school has been moving a mile (ehem- kilometer) a minute. Many extra-curricular things are picking up at once; the BEST team (Bulgarian English Speech & Debate Tournament) is beginning preparation for a competition next month, and the school’s Christmas production is in the works. Regarding the former, I will fulfil the traditional role of the Fulbright English teacher in coaching this team for the year. It is made up of extremely motivated and talented students, and I predict that I will learn far more from them than I will give in return as a coach. As for the latter, I have been assigned both a singing and a piano part in the production, and I am positive that I am very far out of my wheelhouse. Again, the talent among this cohort of students is magnificently plentiful, and I’d just as soon remove myself from their company with my off-key singing voice and poisonously dusty piano knowledge. The pieces include "Ludo Mlado," a traditional song in Bulgarian (for which my pronunciation is, needless to say, laughable), and Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon," which has reminded me of my inadequate recollection of basic piano chords. But it’s what I’ve been asked to do, so I keep telling myself that I’m in this one for the adventure. Its humbling to watch these students pick up guitars and casually strum beautiful melodies as if it were common knowledge, or jump into a song with perfect rhythm and tone as if they had been warming up their whole lives. Overall, spending time with students here has been nothing short of uplifting. I enjoy seeing them outside of the classroom, learning about what they like to do, and hearing their perspectives on life. They're mature and funny and surprising, and they treat me with kindness and welcome. Because of them, I really do feel like I'm in the best place possible. Of course I also occasionally miss home. On my walk back from school yesterday, a mindless listen to a song by Needtobreathe (my very favorite band) was interrupted by the realization that that night was the night they were playing a show at the House of Blues in Orlando— a place that I have been so very many times, but was so very far away from at the moment. Of course, I was saddened for a bit on remembering this; I would have loved to be there right then. Some of my fondest memories involve seeing them in concert, and the thought of not being there when they were so close to my home made me shrivel up a little bit inside. But when I take stock of everything, I think it’s excusable. I’m in Bulgaria— cool air (with the signature hint of cigarette smoke) coming in from outside, Needtobreathe playing honorarily through my computer speakers, and a tiny cat on my lap. I have students I get to teach every week and places I get to travel, dances I get to learn and mountains I get to see out the windows, and perhaps I’m just trading one good experience for a different one. I’m planted in Vidin, where life feels very different from the Sofia bubble. I have my mentor teacher here— the fun, kind, and intelligent Ani— who has been my ever-present help in the resettling process. I think I won the lottery to get her. My apartment— old, endearing, and very reminiscent of Communist-era design— is finely located close to the city square. I am getting used to its subtleties, and it’s starting to feel a bit more like home as I perfect my routine for opening windows at different times of day to avert rival gangs of flies and green stinkbugs (is there any other definition of “home," after all?). But I know that in a matter of weeks I’ll be laughing at such warm-weather worries, as winters here are supposed to be pretty extreme. Thank goodness I’m not from Florida or anything! That would just be hilarious. The Friday before last was the official first day of school, but by tradition, it was strictly a celebration rather than an actual day of classes. I really enjoyed myself, which probably made me stand out even more than I already did among the stone wall of thoroughly bored student faces. They see the same thing every year, so, understandably, it’s nothing special for them. And although I don’t know enough Bulgarian to understand nearly anything that was said during the several speeches, it was eloquently explained to me by one of the 12th-graders that it’s, more or less, an hour of "different people saying the same thing” (cue a sassy eye-roll). Even so, I thought it was fun to see everyone gathered in the schoolyard. Students raised the flag and sang the national anthem, an Orthodox monk chanted a blessing while bestowing a healthy dose of holy water upon lucky spectators in the Splash Zone, and several very talented students gave vocal and dance performances. I also got to give a small welcome, and I proudly knew exactly when it was my time because I heard the key words, “Amerikanka,” “uchitelka po angliski” (English teacher), and, helpfully, “Fulbright,” in case those introductory vocab lessons failed me. I should also mention that someone was shuffling me toward the microphone, so I absolutely could not have messed it up. I began by muddling through the phrase I had been repeating in my head all morning after Ani taught it to me: chestit parvi ucheben den (happy first day of school!). After that I don’t really know what I said, but at some point I left the stage, and soon enough I was at a celebration in the teachers’ room eating minced meat balls and banitza. So it certainly could’ve gone worse. I also got 3 flower bouquets— one from an actual student, and 2 others from the extremely generous teachers who were slowly disappearing under their own large quantities and decided to share with me. “Pity bouquets” or not, I am happy to have them dress up my windowsill. This brings me to the noche loca to which the title alludes. I went along with the other teachers to their celebration dinner, which took place at a restaurant overlooking the Danube (one of my favorite things about Vidin so far). I am so glad they let me join, even though I’m such a newcomer to their school, because I had a blast. It was a chance to get to know a few of them better through conversation (the English-speaking among them, at least), and to jump into their dancing circles even though I knew none of the steps. I broke a sweat learning a few of the very basic folk dances, after much repetition, but all present were accepting and encouraging (and probably quite entertained). After several traditional songs in between courses of food, I was thoroughly amused to hear the opening notes of Enrique Iglesias’s “Bailando,” and even more so to watch the teachers effortlessly transition from their flawless folk form into a fun freestyle. I really enjoyed the luxury of not thinking about footwork for the next few songs. I’m nearly certain I ate enough food that night to shorten my lifespan, and, although my memories in Bulgaria are still few, I think I can count that one among the favorites. I have learned, to my amusement, that I’m more conspicuous than I’d like to think around town. On multiple occasions, I’ve recounted to Ani something that I did the previous day (walked in the park, went to a coffee shop, etc.) only to have her reply, “I already know that. People saw you.” I think that’s hilarious. I suppose I’ll be on my best behavior, then, and perhaps pocket those plans to spray paint Amanda wuz here 2K17 in bubble letters on the city gates (kidding— and why waste the spray paint if everyone already knows where I am all the time?). Nevertheless, I’ve had a lot of fun getting my bearings in the city, and I always seem to end up at the park or by the river (scroll down for pictures and you’ll understand why). In the interest of honest reporting, the noche loca really stretched itself out into more of a semana loca, although I will decline to change the title in order to stay true to the lyrics of the aforementioned Enrique song (strictly a matter of respect, given the high likelihood that he is among my readership). Classes kicked off smoothly overall— some, of course, more smoothly than others— but I believe it will be an exciting year, and one in which preparedness, persistence, and a very animated attitude will likely be my closest friends and most important accessories. Of my 16 classes, many are engaged and well-mannered thus far, and make the day go by quickly. Still, a few seem as if they’d rather fight Goliath on a tight rope with nothing but a slingshot and some 1-ply toilet tissue than let me hear them speak a single word of English. And that’s when the 45-minute class period becomes something more like a scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: a knight (me) walks toward the horizon (the end of class), yet the horizon, somehow, keeps getting farther and farther away. Nevertheless, it’s quite early on in the year, so I won't yet mount my imaginary horse that is actually just two coconuts and click-clack away into the distance. Many of the students may still be in summer-mode, or perhaps just not as comfortable with their speaking skills (and/or the new clown at the front of the classroom) as I hope they will be with the passage of time. On the extra-curricular side of things, this past weekend brought me to the not-so-far-off city of Vratsa to spend time hiking, cave-exploring, evil spirit-banishing and story-swapping with five fellow Fulbrighters. The togetherness seemed to be a perfect prescription for all that ailed us, and now lesson-planning and other incendiary responsibilities for the week ahead nip at my ankles as I stretch out my break for just a little bit longer to type up this incredibly important, State of the Union-status blog post on which my faithful followers depend. I will conclude with some photos of various things that have entertained me and some of my favorite spots around town. This is Vidin! If you're wondering how this blog post will differ from the acclaimed Agatha Christie novel, Murder on the Orient Express, I will spoil it by letting you know that there has not been a murder here. In all other ways, however, critics find both works to be on relatively equal footing. Even despite the lack of heinous crime and lawless misdeed, our orientation was a whirlwind; full, intensive, and just plain lengthy. Eleven days of seminars and language lessons and buzzing around inside the same walls with the same flock of humans is, as it turns out, exhausting. In many ways, it really wasn't my jam. At the worst moments, I felt Earth’s atmosphere rudely shrinking in around me and pushing me into this herd of people— way smarter, more well-traveled, and far better conversationalists than I— and I would have loved to climb into a hole or blast off into space or something equally as dramatic just to get away from the pressure-filled commotion. I craved a break from all the talking, sitting, listening, remembering things, writing them down and doing it all over again the next day. Show me to the rocket ship, cried the introverted parts of my brain, already clad in my mental space suit and imaginary oxygen helmet. At the best, though, I felt a newfound place among an incredible hodgepodge of people that I would have probably never met under any other circumstances, and with whom I got to share several rare and extraordinary moments. We’ve learned enough to make me feel prepared for the year ahead (and possibly more), and have been treated with kindness and esteem. Between everything, I’ve already seen some parts of Bulgaria that make my stomach flutter. And, no, that’s not traveler’s diarrhea. In all, very opposite reviews of the same two weeks. But with such long days and a schedule that flung us from one thing to the next at 100 km an hour (extremely smooth attempt at blending in to the metric system), the dusty crevices of my wonderfully human brain had bountiful opportunity to switch from one feeling to another and everything in between. Speaking of dust (editor's note: I lost my train of thought, and it turns out this is not relevant to dust at all), one part of the hubble-bubble (not an academic term) of orientation was an introduction to several service-related organizations throughout Bulgaria, aimed at helping us find ways to volunteer our extra time. We are firmly encouraged to get involved outside the realm of teaching, which I think is not only admirable but crucial in order to have a purposeful experience here. It’ll surely take some time getting settled at first, but I look forward to exploring that side of things once I get a handle on life in my new community. And alas, today is the day most of us leave Sofia in the dust (perhaps this is how I meant to start the previous paragraph) and jet out to our separate cities all across the country. Currently, I stare at my 2 suitcases— may God bless them— and one comically overstuffed backpack, experiencing this rare phenomenon called "down time" before heading to the bus station. As everyone filters out, hugging and see you later-ing in a manner very reminiscent of the end of summer camp, I’m positive we’re all bound for great and strange adventures. It is a group both smart and strong, and we are lucky to be where we are. More to come! The time finally has finally come for me to get the heck out of town and start my Fulbright year in Bulgaria. “Good riddance!” says the New York Times; “I thought the day would never come!” complains the Wall Street Journal. After an exceptionally smooth trip over, the first hiccup of my journey to this fine new country greeted me at the Sofia airport, where I showed up, but my luggage did not decide to do the same. Real independent thinkers, those suitcases can be. As a result, my first two days were marinated in a little frustration. The travel-weary and physically grungy version of myself— who had been either in an airport or on a plane for the previous 20 hours— was not quite zen enough to be alright with the idea that everything I’d packed up for the next year of my life was currently missing. Of course it wasn’t permanently lost. At the time, though, that little voice that lurks in the corner of my mind reserved for worst-case-scenarios was chanting in my ear, as I washed my one and only outfit in the hotel sink, that I’d never see any of my stuff again and would somehow have to get by regardless. And to pour salt in the suitcase-shaped wound, we all woke up the next morning to several emails about how to dress and what to prepare for orientation, a Fulbright reception, and host family dinners coming up over the next couple of days, and despite efforts to distract myself, I was very much aware of my necessitous and garment-less state. I despise the feeling of being unprepared, so having nothing but the two-day-old clothes on my person and a couple spare t-shirts from my backpack felt like a mini-doomsday. But to fast-forward, my elusive luggage did make its way to me in the nick of time, and I have since stayed busy exploring Sofia (fully clothed) with fellow Fulbrighters as they all filter in. So far it has proven to be joyful. They are an interesting and diverse group of people— 32 ETAs and 6 student researchers in total— and I will know a lot more after spending the upcoming (very long) days with them during training. The city is a great place to be as well, and has greeted us with nice weather and lots of scenic parks/churches/streets to walk around. Some other highlights included a free food tour, where a sprightly guide led us to several spots to sample Sofia’s best traditional foods, and a Museum of Socialist Art, to where most remnants of Bulgaria's communist era have been moved. It seems like a mature compromise— preserving the history, yet still moving the statues and memorials of communist leaders from their former places of prominence/reverence throughout the country. Perhaps something can be learned. Our training starts tomorrow and supposedly covers everything, to include language, managing a classroom, language, getting around the country, safety, a taste of folk dancing, language, and also language. SparkNotes version: Am I going to find any good memes out here? I don’t know, but I’ll keep you posted. наздраве (cheers)! |
A play on blagodarya
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