I'm starting this blog post from my hard-as-nails mattress with a playful pink and blue flowered sheet on the bottom bunk of my all female dorm in the Thamel district of Kathmandu, Nepal. The Spanish girl readies her toiletries for a shower and the Finnish girl loudly crunches on chips and crinkles the bag.
I would take crunching and crinkling any day over that masturbating Belgian.
The incessant sound of honking cars, bicycles and motorcycles fills the background.
HONK
beep, beep
Screeeeech
beep, beep, beep
I almost feel like I'm back in the hornet's nest of Marrakesh. So much noise. So much dust. So much trash. So many stray dogs and cats and garbage everywhere. People trying to speak to me in seventeen different language to persuade me to purchase their 100% silk this or 100% cashmere that (which seem to be 100% codswallop) or their bananas (which aren't codswallop, but I still don't like being pressured into buying bananas).
"Namaste, hello!" vendors shout to me from the street.
Thunder buckets. This is one of those places where I will never blend in. Even if I'm not brandishing my Fujifilm and wielding Ellie and looking dismally lost. Because of pale skin and mousy hair.
My last few days in Bulgaria were beautiful. Days that made me wish very much that I was staying in Bulgaria and not absconding to another continent.
Misho.
Yana.
Vlad.
Beko.
Domingo.
You all made impacts on my heart and/or stomach that will not be soon forgotten. Or lost -- those kilos I gained in Bulgaria will sustain me through my vipassana meditation course in Kathmandu. So while I am not... err... grateful for the extra kilos at the moment, I'm sure I will be then. There are few places in the world wherein I've felt like I immediately just... fit. Ljubljana was one of those places.
Sofia is another. Not necessarily because I found the city itself enrapturing, but because of the whole crowd of people who touched my life in a meaningful way.
Beko and I spent our last evening together looking at street art, finding a sunset and playing cards.
As we strolled through Plovdiv, admiring the street art, I received a Couchsurfing message from Matt, the Kiwi in Pokhara with whom I hope to spend Christmas.
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| Graffiti portraits of famous Bulgarians |
After our sunset, Beko prepared his normal four course meal. As he does. Then we busted out the cards and a bottle of horribly cheap Bulgarian whiskey, and I attempted the impossible. Namely, learning to play a rather complicated Bulgarian card game when my Bulgarian didn't speak a whole lot of English. This activity required an unhealthy amount of whiskey and a magnificent sense of humor.
Beko won two out of two games.
I still haven't the faintest idea why or how he did the winning.
My stay with Beko ended on the morning of the 12th, with yet another enormous breakfast and several disappointed, "eat! Why you not eat fruit? Eat fruit! You do not eat..."
"Beko... I'm so full!" I rubbed my distended belly and groaned.
"You want take food with you?"
"No... no, it's okay. But thank-you."
I slowly walked to Small Library Cafe, smiling at myself a little for being "that person". You know. That person. The person who's leisurely strolling through fast moving crowds with headphones in and is blissfully rocking out, physically and verbally, to music no one else can hear.
I think I rather like being that person.
After a few hours of quiet, therapeutic writing at Small Library Cafe, Domingo rushed in to meet me, terribly apologetic for being ten minutes late.
"I was warm... I was happy... I was writing. And it was really lovely to have time to myself. No worries at all," I reassured my Spanish host.
I thought I was the only person who made a fuss over ten minutes. But I... I like that Domingo cares about being ten minutes late... makes me feel... valuable. Which is how I like other people to feel when I'm on time for them. Which isn't necessarily how they WILL feel... an Irish person would be bloody pissed if I showed up on time... but it's how I want them to feel. In my perfect world that doesn't exist.
Domingo had a quiet, easy-going demeanor, but he asked all the hard questions. The important questions. And didn't let me get away with easy answers. He questioned my answers to the hard questions and helped shed a bit of doubt on ground I felt was solid. Ground I had started to take for granted.
I believe that shedding doubt on a belief is one of the most loving, useful things humans can do for each other. As long as the shedding is done in a gentle, compassionate way. Domingo. You are a very useful and loving human being. I'm feeling the ground beneath my feet again. It's moving. Thanks for helping it move.
Misho had asked me to promise to try a Plovdiv kebab during my stay, so Domingo treated me to this monster:
I sent Misho the picture to prove that kebab times had definitely happened, saying --
Aimee: I did it! I'll be full for a week.
Misho: Yeeeeeeaaah! (for a second there I felt like a proud parent... "Look at her, all grown up and finding a kebab by herself *single tear*")
Aimee: It was delicious. So... so... big, though.
Misho: Well Aimee, I detect a certain Bulgarian-ness a-brewin in you, considering your choice of kebab size! But yeah, they're huge -- even I'm having trouble with the big kebabs... And I love kebabs... We'll get you to eat like our tribe yet!
Aimee:.... Wait... there are different sizes? Thunder buckets. My host just picked one for me... and he's not even Bulgarian.
Misho: Gimme a second... can't... stop... laughing! Oh, this is precious. But sure enough -- I'm proud of you being able to handle the biggest one! And this is your very first kebab from Plovdiv.
Aimee: ... Dammit.
Domingo and I bundled up, bought some wine and went to catch a sunset from Nebet Tepe.
We didn't eat again that day.
Then we went to the dirty, smokey bar with the sewing table, wherein we ordered more drinks and challenged two random blokes to play us in foosball.
I feel like... two weeks in Bulgaria is compensating for the dismal dearth of partying during my four years of university.
I was on the winning team for all four games. Which made my wounded ego feel slightly less dead after the horrible treatment it had received during Bulgarian cards with Beko.
We also drank enough for the next day to be a slow day. Stand up slowly, sit down slowly, think slowly, speak slowly, drink coffee slowly, slowly, slowly. I scribbled some thoughts, read a few pages in a book about healing trauma through yoga and then watched a couple of documentaries with Domingo.
My Spanish host prepared a Spanish omelet for dinner that night. Served the meal with a luscious tomato salad and wine, even though he prefers beer. Just because he understood that I prefer wine.
What a kind little gesture, the wine warmed my body and the gesture warmed my heart.
I hopped on the eleven thirty bus to Sofia the next day, leaving behind Plovdiv's mountains, kebabs (which are pretty much the size of mountains), H&Ms with Roman ruins inside (just hangin' out), spectacular sunsets, about a million cats and two friends, Beko and Domingo. One of whom had stretched my stomach to a capacity I hitherto had assumed would explode with such force that it would cause the next Big Bang, and the other had inspired me to keep questioning, to find my doubts, to feel the ground shifting beneath me.
Misho met me at the bus station in Sofia at around one thirty that afternoon.
I'm getting far too fond of Misho meeting me at bus stations. I'll be looking for him in Kathmandu and no one will be there. Just a lot of taxi drivers trying to coerce me into their cars. But being able to take care of myself is important, too. I don't want to have to count on someone meeting me at the bus station. I always want to be the kind of lady who appreciates being met at the station, but can fearlessly take care of herself, should she arrive alone.
Misho led me to a cafe where the lamp shades were made out of... hats.
Yes.
Hats.
I could live here. Just me, the hats and the piano that looks like it's seen a thing or two.
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| The bicycle handles are to hold onto whilst... er... vomiting from overdoing the beer. The horn is to honk as soon as you've finished your business. Whatever business you happened to be doing. |
We shared half a liter of wine, then walked back to Misho's, where my friend resumed work on his homemade sourdough and I crammed my clothes into the washing machine (for the good of all mankind).
Misho knows I adore French food, so for my last night in Europe, Misho wanted to make me a French dinner. He'd searched the whole city over for duck, but upon discovering nary a duck, he settled on beef bourguignon. Yana, Misho's twin brother and a friend also showed up, so it was a proper dinner party. A dinner party that made me feel ever so cared about. A dinner party that lasted until one thirty in the morning, was flowing with wine, the hilarity that is Yana and the kindness that is Misho.
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| Beef soaking in wine. For a very long time. Happiness in a bowl. |
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| So much happiness on my plate |
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| Misho listens to his sourdough. |
Misho and I took it easy the next day, grabbing a cappuccino at Chucky's and then watching movies together until it was time for me to leave for freaking Asia.
"Can I go with you to the airport?" Misho asked.
"Please?" I pounced on the rare opportunity to have someone at the airport to whom I could say goodbye.
Maybe that's one reason I dislike airports so much. When I'm traveling alone, I usually depart alone, arrive alone. Like I'll arrive in Kathmandu tomorrow before noon sometime. Just me. Well, me and Ellie. But for as many feelings as I have about this bag, she doesn't do much to assuage my loneliness. I still want to have someone to hug goodby at airports and someone to hug hello.
Gosh, I'm emotional.
Misho was my goodbye to Sofia, to Bulgaria, to Europe.
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