All Forgotten

It's a Tasty Thing, Oshi Palav

2011-07-25T19:42:00.003+03:00

We've been listening to a lot of amazing Tajik pop music in class lately, but Suhrob Otaev is emerging as our most beloved Tajik singer. In addition to this song about palav, he also has a song about being nice to your mother-in-law. His career's ready to take off.

Oshi Palav is a dish made throughout Central Asia, usually featuring rice, carrots, and meat, with chick peas, onions, eggs, and hot peppers being optional. It is delicious, especially for lovers of oily food, such as myself.

Here is my translation of Otaev's song:

Chorus:
Everybody knows, everybody eats,
It's tasty thing, oshi palav. (3x)

We went to the Thursday Market,
We did a lot of shopping,
We enjoyed the teahouse,
Together with my friends.
Oshi palav is delicious,
Oshi palav is tasty,
A treat for the soul and the heart,
The Tajiks' oshi palav.

Chorus

Oshi palav is unique,
The traditions and customs are unique,
5 in the morning is unique,
The early morning ceremony is unique.
Oshi palav is delicious,
Oshi palav is tasty,
A treat for the soul and the heart,
The Tajiks' oshi palav.

Chorus

New Orleans

2011-01-04T01:32:00.006+02:00

As 2010 ended, I realized that I had a fair number of photos lying around that I haven't shared. Let's not call it a resolution, but I'll try to get some of those up.

As always, you can find more on my smugmug account here. Smugmug has an ipad app now and the photos look great there.

A Good Reason for a Triumphant Return to Blogging

2010-10-03T22:47:00.005+03:00

My life is approaching the ideal state that I imagined when I was Bulgaria. I'm in school and we have a dog! Meet Bartleby. His favorite treats are wasabi beans, he loves chasing a frisbee, and he likes flopping on the couch. In other words, we're soulmates.

Here he is on his first swim ever. It took a good deal of coaxing, but he immediately mastered an incredibly inefficient doggie paddle. He really likes wasabi beans...
And he can jump quite well for an old guy. I'll try to update further soon on non-dog-related aspects of things. Dog dog dog!

Reunited

2010-08-14T00:38:00.002+03:00

The journey was long. Soon I'll be adding pictures and perhaps even writing. But for now, a brief foray back to freshman year of college when I spent all of my time taking black & white photos of Olaf Mary.

More pictures from the Fake Wake here.

But i Know It Won't Be Long

2010-07-11T05:52:00.005+03:00

Consider this to be my first entry as an RPCV. Dre & Karen have done an intimidating job with their insights regarding the return to the States. As a result, I'm intimidated.

For the moment I've decided to stick with this blog for chronicling my future adventures and inevitably deep thoughts. The name of the blog allows me this flexibility, I think.

I've been staying for the majority of the past two weeks with my parents in Boxborough. This has effectively delayed most of the greatly feared culture shock, in that I've been mostly hidden from American culture. When it's been forced on me, it's mainly been bite-sized. Although it is great to be home and with family, Boxborough can't quite be considered an American experience.

All the same, I've noticed a few things. The first thing I noticed upon my return is that there's so much damn grass in America. By that I mean the yards that people maintain and by which they measure a great deal of their self-worth. The second is that, as predicted by many a Bulgar, American strawberries are indeed sour as poison (you'd spit them out, you would!). That's about it (other than the obvious...i.e. tiny expensive delicious beer). Not as profound as I might hope, but perhaps my upcoming month of wandering the States will rectify that.

And now my list of famous firsts:

1. First burrito: Ithaca, NY. Alone in the center, listening to a woman who was upset that an ex-boyfriend tried to friend her on facebook.

2. First IPA: Immediately upon reaching the home in Boxborough.

3. First Time Driving: Got in the car and drove six hours to Ithaca.

4. First Comic Book Store: State College, PA, guided by Mister Weiss.

5. First Indian Food: State College, PA, likewise.

6. First Ultimate: Crashing league in State College. Got a D and threw for a score on my first point. My first layout later on was less successful.

7. First freakout in a department store: T.J. Max, robot voice telling me which line to go to.

That's all I got for now. I still feel like an alien. Now I begin wandering American soil, having just made the first leg of my trip, Boxborough to DC. It took seven hours to reach city limits and then two more to conquer traffic and find my ultimate destination. I briefly experienced vertigo upon seeing a street corner that I fancied was among the last American street corners I saw before leaving. But I don't think it was.

It was a beautiful thing stepping outside around midnight and walking for only ten minutes before finding an open Mexican restaurant. An off-duty mariachi band was sitting in the corner and I got to order in Spanish, if ordering a burrito and cerveza can be considered ordering in Spanish. My third burrito since being back was probably the best, aided no doubt by the time of day and the Modelo Especial.

Now that I'm on the road and I believe that things will be happening, I intend to resume updating this blog. The next month is fully committed to a peripatetic lifestyle.

Finally, I've picked up Brothers Karamazov for the first time since high school. I think a high school English teacher might say, "Now every time you read the word Karamazov, just substitute Russian." For we Karamazovs are...

"For everyone strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realisation he ends by arriving at complete solitude... But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. "

The Look on Your Face Yanks My Neck on a Chain

2010-06-27T22:44:00.004+03:00

The First & Last Thing I Saw

2010-06-27T16:43:00.005+03:00

When I googled Bulgaria almost three years ago now, the first thing that came up was Pirin. It took me the entire two years to get there. Jason and Pavel enjoyed a tree older than Bulgaria. If you were worried, there is cell phone reception there. This was on the first day of the hike, before we were set upon by the forces of nature. The second day was somewhat more trying. We made some terrifying snow crossings, took the wrong path to the pass, and were greeted by a hail storm when we got there. Fog blocked our past and future.
Jason and I were later set upon by dogs guarding a herd of cows. In the end, we became good friends with them, provided that we didn't move forward or backward.

Finally, we made our way through the woods in a lightning storm, which was epic but couldn't be considered "team-building" while it was happening. Our final challenge came in the form of waterfall across our path. This is the path here...Jason crossed in admirable fashion.We defined ourselves as conquering heroes and drank wine & rakia until we passed out. It didn't take long.In conclusion, Pirin is awesome. Let's go again.

Babas & Dudes

2010-06-10T22:56:00.006+03:00

I'm not ready for reflection. I'm wrestling with the idea of leaving in a week and getting nowhere with it. Give me some time.

Meet the Sewing Ladies

2010-06-09T18:11:00.005+03:00

I've been neglecting this blog entry since the day I arrived in Golyamo Gradishte. As I try to piece together this entire experience, it seems necessary that I come back to the everyday things. Beneath my apartment, as many of you know, there is a group of sewing ladies who work almost constantly. They've always been available to drink some gritty Turkish coffee with me or to help maintain my decaying clothing. The sound of sewing machines has become a source of comfort.And, of course, there's one mysterious man...
I finally took pictures of my sewing ladies.

Mr. James in the English Classroom with the Textbook

2010-05-28T15:22:00.005+03:00

Using various revolutionary teaching techniques, I've managed to get somewhat ahead of the master plan of teaching English in a few of my classes. As we hit the final days of teaching, during which the weekly schedule is ravaged by a series of holidays and national tests, I've been looking for ways to amuse my students so that they'll remember me as being more fun than I actually was. I'd been toying with the idea of making a Clue board for about a year, inspired by an offhand comment from Ms. Illyria Turk, and a few weekends ago I decided to finally make it happen. Theresa and I spent a weekend hiding out and obsessively drawing and gluing. Although it's not really ideal volunteer work, I do best with such projects that can be carried out in isolation and silence. Many thanks to a few Thiel College students who were so good as to post some fine-looking Clue cards on the internet that I could steal for my set. I hope that they're at least somewhat amused that some Turkish children in a Bulgarian village will know their faces well, even if only as murder suspects.
In order to incorporate some TEFL activity into the project, I printed some pictures of furniture and had my third grade class place them in the appropriate rooms.
Finally I managed to put a game together in my tiny fifth grade class. They caught on quickly to the concept, but I made the mistake of telling them that it was their responsibility to keep their cards secret. This, of course, led to vast amounts of cheating, so much so that they kept writing things that they thought they might have seen on someone else's card and then that person copied the same thing back. By the end, several students had actually eliminated all of the suspects. I'd like to think they'd pick up a lesson there. In the end, I was pleased that Mehmed, who never attempted to cheat and defended himself by storing his cards in the opposite corner of the room, coolly revealed that it was, in fact, Mr. Green in the library with the candlestick. And he punctuated it with a spin and an "I win" (in English!). By forcing them to make their guesses in English, I might have finally cemented the words "think" and "with" into their brains, which they've never been able to get straight. I'll check next week.
I also played once with my eighth grade class and held the attention of 7 out of 12 of them for forty-five minutes. That's a victory in any country.

These Are the Last Days

2010-05-10T20:09:00.002+03:00

We're in the second week of May. Being nearly done with my service in Bulgaria isn't something that I think about constantly but rather something that strikes out of the blue, much like waking up in the middle of the night and wrestling with the idea of your own mortality. It's something that can't really be called good or bad, but rather simply is. Perhaps this is what makes it difficult to write about.

Perhaps it's a sign of my failure to connect with people properly or to really excel in teaching the way I would have liked, but the only time nostalgia hits me lately is when I'm running. Specifically, it's at the precise moment when I hit the top of my hill and am faced with the choice of continuing the run into town for a half's boar's head or descending again into the woods and running the full one. It took me several weeks of struggling with this hill last year before I could hit the top of the hill running and weeks after that before the idea of turning around ever hit me. The moment is perfect. The woods are behind me, to my left the fields roll on toward Ruse, to my right there are often a few shepherds, and ahead of me is a valley with a few horses loosely tied up and above that you can see the village, looking as perfect as a Bulgarian village can be. Let's forget about the pile of trash that is also in view and also assume that it's a day that no dogs are chasing me. I breathe in the clean air that I've been told about for two years. It is indeed clean (now assuming it's not a trash-burning day). Strange as it sounds, I have been close to tears more than a few times at this moment. Ever since I started running here about a year ago now, these have been times when things actually seem to make sense. Whatever I'm struggling with becomes manageable, simply because I ran up this damn hill. My few victories in the last year here were born while I was running. It will be hard to capture this feeling again.

While two years have shown me that they definitely are not for me (at least, not for a long time), I have gained a deep love for Bulgarian villages. For this reason, I have been saddened lately by their seemingly unavoidable fate. Recently people have been telling me about the Big Little's heyday and I am sad that I never saw it. The school footage that I'm going through hasn't helped this. My director told me that as few as thirty years ago, there was a man who gathered strawberries in the village and every week flew his plane directly from the Big Little to the Ukraine to sell them. Looking around today, such a thing is inconceivable. Simply hearing about these things, it's impossible not to feel that everything is in decline. If you look at the enormous school, which towers over the village, you cannot imagine the time when it was actually utilized at capacity. Further, with the people in charge of Bulgarian education deciding that eighth grade will now study at secondary school, my school's days are numbered. I'm infuriated with this arbitrary decision, because it seems designed to do nothing except destroy villages.

I think that what gets me about leaving is that I know that I will never be able to return to it as I knew it. I'm further saddened by the understanding that I never knew it at its best. Perhaps I'm being overly fatalistic, but the chances of the Big Little bouncing back are almost non-existent. One wonders what Bulgaria will look like as the villages die away.

The Subject of Our Most Recent Teacher's Meeting (translated to the best of my ability)

2010-04-29T16:10:00.002+03:00

"The optimization of lesson-planning through a sustainable and purposeful strategy from innovations and technologification of positive tendencies, connected with qualified actions."

BEAST

2010-04-14T19:09:00.003+03:00

[Pointless introductory paragraph about the disproportionate amount of pressure on a blog entry after an extended hiatus]

Now that's out of the way. Following a fantastic eternal spring break (pictures etc. at a later date) I'm back in school, where the kids have become strangely placid for the moment. I remember spring bringing waves of discontent at being shut up indoors, but not this year. Perhaps the new bars on the English classroom's door are getting the point across.

We're going over character adjectives with eighth grade. It's always one of the more manageable lessons because it lends itself to discussion that's relevant to the students' lives, unlike the lessons on Celtic Camp and British television shows that I've never heard of. At the end of class, after having written a few sentences about themselves and their friends, Feim handed me a piece of paper. On it was written something to the effect of "James is modest, passenger [meaning traveler, same word in Bulgarian], athlete, funny, and a BEAST." So that's quite possibly the most flattering thing that has ever been written about me. After a moment, Feim asked if it was good to be a beast in English and I told him that it was and asked if it was good in Bulgarian. His face lit up and he exclaimed "Много добре!" Feim, by the way, is one of my favorite students, not least because he always writes funny, self-deprecating essays. After calling himself greedy, selfish, and every other negative adjective that we learned in class one day, he finished his essay with the following: "But my worst flaw is that I am honest." He'll go far.

This week, quite unexpectedly, I've started hanging out with Emo, the seventh grader who is considered by all teachers and students to be the worst kid in school. He's been held back a few times and he was at least tangentially involved in breaking into my apartment. But he's been quite calm and pleasant in class lately, although he remains the scapegoat for seventh grade, which is the worst disruption of all. Any seventh grader whom I reprimand will immediately protest, "But look at Emo." It's a habit I've been battling for two years. Anyway, this week he helped me fix my bike and we rode around together and conversed about this and that. He's a far better conversationalist than any of my other students. Later I was pulled aside by a woman in the town who told me that he's a thief and I shouldn't spend time with him and trust him with my bike. My clever response was that whether or not I should be hanging with him, it's probably good for him to be hanging out with me. You know, because I'm such a good influence and stuff. Today we rode our bikes to the хижа and back.

Being Useful

2010-03-30T14:27:00.002+03:00

Yesterday I was in the enviable position of translator as my friend here worked out his tax problems from his time in the UK. A few months ago, I got to surprise him with the fact that he did not, in fact, owe any taxes but instead would receive four hundred pounds as a refund. He came to me yesterday because he hadn't received it. So I got to talk on the phone with someone from Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs, producing an exchange that required a fair amount of patience from all parties. Apparently, when using a translator, one still must make all the statements in one's native tongue. So my friend would have to say his name, address, and such into the phone and then hand it to me and I would say the same thing. It slows things down considerably. Fortunately the operator was as amused with the ordeal as I was and it all worked out as well as could be expected.

Also, I finally put in some proper editing work with my seventh grade directors. They've taken to the editing process much more seriously than to the shooting, which leaves me kicking my self for not getting to it earlier. One hopes that as we patched together what we could that they were learning the importance of excessive shooting. Still, for the first time, it seemed like they were finally doing all the work.

We Aren't Who We Are

2010-03-18T18:46:00.002+02:00

My rather limited experience of being in a position of relative power or authority has led me to the conclusion that, both in order to be effective and out of happenstance, we leave a significant degree of ourselves behind when performing our duties. As I said, my experience is limited as is my understanding of human nature. Therefore I cannot guarantee much truth or astuteness here.

In essence, in order to survive my classes and hope to perhaps be a successful teacher, I can't be the James Quill that a few of you know and love. As a crude example, I doubt very much that many of you have heard me yell. I'm sure that there are weeks here where I've yelled in anger (or mock anger) than I had in my life leading up to Bulgaria. My intrinsic character, in fact, rarely plays well in an elementary school class. In general, I enjoy loose connections and abandoning the matter at hand in favor of absurd flights of fancy. Needless to say, this doesn't work out well in class and must be kept in check as much as possible, especially considering the children want nothing more than to distract me. It isn't always fruitless, in that sometimes these divergences trick my students into learning something, whether or not it's English-related. Anyway, it's taken me a long time to become comfortable with the person I need to be in class and to be able to leave that behind in my other activities with kids. They may never learn to make this distinction. I remember it being easier during my nightwatchman days when I simply removed my hat to signify that I was off-duty and ready to drink with my rowdy co-workers.

All of this is fairly obvious, especially to those of you who have been in positions of authority (however minor). Perhaps there are people who were, in fact, born to be bosses, teachers, or leaders and who feel more comfortable in those positions. This isn't me.

The interesting part is the person that we're perceived to be. Especially as a new element in people's lives, one is often seen as a loose conglomeration of other authority figures. As such, people will sometimes treat me as a stand-in for some other figure in their lives. When I was coaching tennis on college, I remember one particular member of the team who bizarrely seemed to be trying to rebel against my authority. It was clear to me that she was using me as a substitute for someone or something else, although I would never hazard a guess at who it might be. Similarly, my middle-schoolers come across as mildly schizophrenic as they wrestle with how to relate to me. I'm a teacher, but I don't act much like the other teachers. And it's weird, for them and for me.

Perhaps my most tumultuous relationship in the Big Little is with two seventh-grade girls. For about a year and half, we've had on-and-off conversational English classes until they got angry with me for one reason or another and they stopped coming for weeks or months at a time, only to resurface later to accuse me of abandoning their classes. The confusion about who exactly I'm supposed to be is largely responsible for this madness. I'm happy to say that things have largely stabilized lately and we've met for the past three weeks, often for hours at a time, and just generally been English-speaking fiends. It's satisfying for me because I can finally make use of all these interesting lesson plans that simply do not fly in my regular classes because it's impossible to expect independent work or thought.

Recently we spent a class listening to Regina Spektor's "Laughing With:"
Amazingly, they liked a song that I like and we managed some basic middle school theological discussion. In short, it went well and for the next class they requested Vampire Weekend. I was impressed because, as far as I know, Vampire Weekend is a band with more than its fair share of hipster cred. It became clear when they explained that they knew of this band only because of the Jonas Brother in the video.

It was a strange class of trying to explain nonsensical indie lyrics and telling them who Rza, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Lil Jon are.

Sorry for the long rambling entry with no real conclusion. 5 points for the identifier of the 90s television reference of the entry title.

Meet the Present Continuous Tense

2010-03-17T17:58:00.002+02:00

Once again, the fourth graders are the most productive young film-makers in the school. One can credit their malleability, their cuteness, their boundless enthusiasm, and their generally good vibes.
Anyway, this is intended largely as an example of potential educational use of the camera. My counterpart dreams of this video being used in all Bulgarian schools, but I'm trying to explain to her that the idea is more to trick our own students into speaking. My fellow teachers have met these projects with casual interest, but it's hard to see them making use of the camera in their own classes.

In completely unrelated news, I'm in the midst of Week 8 of Southworth's jumping program and I managed to touch my ceiling on a straight vertical leap. So I've added at least a few centimeters to my jumping capabilities and I'm only halfway through the program. The reps are getting rather out of control at this point.

Immortal

2010-03-15T14:22:00.002+02:00

A little more than a month ago I received probably the most exciting news of my Big Little existence. Hassan approached me with a maroon box and opened it to reveal a mess of unreeled super 8 film. He told me that he'd found it recently and had fixed the projector and that we should project and film it to see what's what. The possibilities ran through my head, none of which would turn out to be accurate, of course, but I knew that there was no way this 30-year-old could not be cool.

The first time we got together, it became clear to me that Hassan and I have different values. He consistently tried to skip over what I consider the good stuff, like shots of flowers and bees and lakes. He was interested only in people. Honestly, it is indeed exciting to see so many familiar faces, but I just don't see how you can skip anything.

He quickly lost patience with the entire project (especially since we'd spooled all of the film upside down and backwards the first time), so now I'm going through this stuff alone in my apartment, which is probably for the best. We only have two reels, so I spend my time manually rolling up the film and I allow it to spool onto the floor after viewing. It seems unlikely that anyone will ever look at these again, at least in this form. Ultimately, I will deposit it all on the school computer for posterity. But really, the possibilities are endless.

As I mentioned earlier, there are familiar faces in the archive. So familiar, in fact, as to be downright eerie. I recognize many of my students and co-workers to the extent that I am convinced that the Big Little is inhabited by immortals. Further, the way the film is shot leads me to the conclusion that I have always been the caretaker. I must have shot this film.

But really, I do want to find out who shot this film, because we clearly have the same artistic sensibilities.

Anyway, here's an early favorite, featuring more than a few of my students' doppelgangers.

Despite my new-found love of the digital and the possibilities that it offers, I do miss the selectivity that was once required of even the home video cinematographer. Lack of limitations has led to lack of standards.

Also, recognize this guy on the far right?

When Things Go Well

2010-03-15T14:10:00.002+02:00

Having fallen out of the habit of blogging, I'm often finding myself without much to say. However, Jason's recent blog flurry has inspired me and I'm going to attempt to stay focused for the rest of my time here in Bulgaria. The day is coming when I will be venting my frustration in America, so I must be sure to say all that I need to say.

Last week, strangely, went well. Over the weekend, I spent 16 hours in Turkish class, which injected me with some degree of confidence. Language is remarkably less intimidating when it is spoken clearly and is kept at an understandable level. For the first time, I felt like I could speak a little Turkish.

My classes all passed smoothly and I accomplished what I intended to and, occasionally, more. This rarely happens. Anyway, this is a vague lead-in to some more specific entries that should be forthcoming. Forgive the blandness. Some passable stuff is on the way.

The Holiday Flurry

2010-03-05T12:30:00.002+02:00

With the pending arrival of spring, the Bulgarians are beginning to show their true holiday-loving colors. Through the winter, my general mental state was reinforced by the downtrodden vibes. Perhaps you've noticed that I've been blogging infrequently and poorly lately. Here's hoping spring brings some inspiration to fill the next three and a half months of blogging. I remember this time of year as my happiest in Bulgaria, full of bunker walks and picnics and wandering.

But, as I said, holidays. March 1st is the ever-festive Baba Marta, involving martenisti, which you may recall from last year. So I'm wearing my red & white bracelets and keeping an eye out for storks. Further, the 3rd was Bulgaria Day or whatever you may choose to call it. Jason explains it well. As my director told me, it's Bulgarian July 4th. And then he asked me what happened on July 4th. I got to the only 13 states at the time part and he asked me who was in LA at the time. And then he asked me what happened to the Indians. It got a little awkward. I do love talking US History though.

To celebrate March 3rd, we had a short presentation from the seventh grade. It was them taking turns reading from the textbook. A little dry. I'd like to think that my part salvaged the whole thing.

Then we had Wednesday off and I barely left my apartment. Wednesdays off don't help me much.

The One Act

2010-02-25T20:44:00.006+02:00

As many of you are already aware, a small group of us volunteers approximately ten months ago started a writing group in order to while away our darkest hours. Recently we gathered to film some one-act plays that we wrote to celebrate our fin de siecle, by which I mean, everyone having given one writing prompt. Although motivation had been fading steadily over the past few months, we had record-breaking numbers, many arriving script in hand. Time constraints and beer prevented us from completing many of them, but I think we can fairly call the weekend a success. Pavel's mustache dissertation was one that we managed to complete and here are pictures from a second, which unfortunately contains too many adult themes to post on this blog.

As you can see, it involves coffee, cigarettes, and a plastic revolver.

Those of you wishing to view the video in its entirety should submit an application in writing stating why you think you are prepared for such intense material.

The Endless Debate

2010-02-24T11:33:00.002+02:00

One characteristic of winter classes in the Big Little is the endless commentary on the room temperature. Our classrooms are heated by these monster pechkas:If these were ever to burn at full capacity, we could probably have a decent sauna going. In terms of heating a room normally, however, it's a challenge that, fortunately, is not mine. But it happens everyday. Last year it infuriated me to the point that I banned the use of the words "hot" and "cold" in the classroom. Everyday my students begin class by complaining that it's too hot or too cold. To this day, there has never been a comfortable temperature. Of course, the days that come close are the most interesting because kids just start yelling at each other across the room stating their opinions. Is it too hot or too cold? It's irrelevant, of course, because by the time class has started there isn't much we can do.

As I said, it used to drive me crazy. I would try to remember my middle school days and think about how we never used to complain about the temperature. But then I remember that we had central heating that maintained whatever temperature it is that kids don't complain about. So now I just to make sure the debate is in English.

Also the CO output of the pechkas keeps the kids relatively docile.

And You Shall Know Us By Our Mustaches

2010-02-21T19:12:00.001+02:00

Mastering the Vague

2010-02-19T13:54:00.002+02:00

Village life in Bulgaria lends itself to a profound vagueness in communication. While at first I found it confusing and annoying, I've come to see it as liberating, albeit still confusing. I was fetching some wood just now and one of the school babas asked me, "Is that for up or for over there?" I responded, "um, it's for my apartment." To which she responded, "ah, over there." Any of the places I could have been carrying wood to could accurately be described as either "up" or "over there," and yet there was no question in her mind regarding the specificity of her inquiry.

As probably a particularly private American, I've had some trouble dealing with the lack of anonymity in the village. However, by embracing this vague method of communication, I've managed to stay somewhat more sane. When people ask me where I'm going or where I live, it turns out that they're perfectly content with an answer of "over there" or "up" along with a completely non-descriptive wave of the arm. In fact, I find I can answer almost any question this way. Actually, it probably isn't a village thing so much as people accepting that I can't answer questions well. As a result, my Bulgarian has deteriorated lately. Too many gestures and evasive answers, I suppose.

Sometimes Things Happen

2010-02-12T13:54:00.002+02:00

My birthday gathering yielded the following videos, making for a solid weekend by all accounts.

Here are google translate's words. I'm confused by the Mrs. Grundy part. The title of the song, in my opinion, translates roughly as "I don't give a damn." The singer, youtube assures me, is one Ajda Pekkan.

July August September
Stop laughing at all seasons
Believe life is too short
Maybe I'll go to summer

Boşvermişim boşvermişim
Boşvermişim world
Do not want to cry

And you forget the world

Ahmet Mehmet Süreyya
All free all hülya
One day life will be finished
Course, I saw a dream

Boşvermişim boşvermişim
Boşvermişim world
Do not want to cry
And you forget the world

They deceived the eye open
Forget the past yesterday
Every evening with separate fine
And you spend every day

Boşvermişim boşvermişim
The world I boşvermiş
By Allah I do not mind
Mrs. Grundy say miserable

And here Jason performs Ween's classic "Buenas Tardes Amigo," featuring Theresa on the castanets, David on the harmonica, Emily on backup vocals and chicken, and myself on guitar. Jason scares me a little.
It's strange how naturally serendipity comes so long as you do something. Jason and I more or less randomly stumbled upon Ajda Pekkan's song while we were making our sped-up castle video and I can't imagine a more appropriate song. Makes one want to make more movies. All the time, in fact.

Advocate

2010-02-11T12:26:00.002+02:00

A few weeks ago I was spacing out during a teacher's meeting as I usually do about thirty minutes in. Two years of listening to these things and it doesn't seem to have become any easier. But I started paying attention when the discussion turned to my favorite rapscallion, Kader. It seems that she, unsurprisingly, has exceeded the permitted number of unexcused absences, meaning that we have either the right or the obligation to issue a formal reprimand. This would be delivered in front of the whole school and a second one would allow us to send her to another school as part of the delinquent exchange program.

After the circumstances had been spelled out, the question was put to the soviet of who would like to be Kader's защитник, which means defender. This was met by silence and much eye aversion on the part of the teachers. Finally I spoke up and asked what exactly that would entail. The director replied, "Excellent, James will be Kader's defender. Second?" It was seconded as are all proposals from the director and then voted unanimously for, again as are all proposals, in our beautiful puppet soviet that is just how I imagined Communism.

And so began our mock trial of sorts. The prosecution stated that Kader had violated the rules and therefore should be punished as it is laid out in the rules. And then all eyes were on me, just as I was beginning to understand that I was a court-appointed defense lawyer. So I mumbled my way into an argument, which fortunately was something I've spent time thinking about before. First I argued that the public shame aspect of the punishment was counter-productive in that the students already show a disturbing lack of respect for Kader and this will not help make school a more desirable place for her to be. Following this, I opined that Kader is not really guilty for many of her absences in that her mother regularly disappears leaving her (a 10-year-old) in charge of caring for her three younger siblings. Therefore I couldn't see any benefit in administering the proposed punishment.

I neglected to mention the absurdity of possibly sending her to another school, because if she can't make it to a school that's three hundred feet from her house, there is almost no way she would get on a bus for the next village over.

In the end, the director sided with the defense, opting not punish Kader and instead we are sending a letter to social services regarding her living situation. This is significant in that the attitude of everyone in my village about such things has always been to not get involved. I was surprised that things turned out this way, but I don't pretend to think that my stirring defense had much to do with it. The director's solution seemed carefully-considered in advance.

Also, I'm skeptical of much coming to pass from the supposed letter to social services. Still, it felt good to defend my favorite student in puppet court.

I Guess Following Virgil Around Didn't Cut It

2010-02-10T20:11:00.004+02:00

With the release of Dante's Inferno, I believe I am for the first time feeling the absence of a Playstation 3 in my life. I am far from being a video game connoisseur since my general MO is to periodically acquire one and be consumed by it for a period of time ranging from a few weeks to a few months. This happens every few years. I broke down for the first time here and started playing Age of Mythology and have been thoroughly enjoying it by knowing just how obsessed I would have been with this game in middle school.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing this is to share Amazon's plot synopsis of Dante's Inferno (the game):

The Italian mercenary Dante returns home from the bloodletting that was the Third Crusade to two pieces of soul-crushing news. The first is that although he was assured that he was absolved of mortal sins committed in the form of wartime atrocities in the name of the churches interests in the Holy Land, that is not actually the case and his immortal soul is in grave peril. The second and more terrible is that his beloved Beatrice has been murdered, and her soul pulled down into hell by a dark force. Vowing not to accept the damnation of either souls, he gives chase, vows to get Beatrice back and descends into the infamous nine circles of hell. For weapons, he wields Death's soul-reaping scythe, and commands holy powers of the cross, given to him by Beatrice.

Sounds incredible, right? I can't help but wonder how faithful they've been to Dante's conception of Hell and whether you spend the first couple circles hack-and-slashing through virtuous heathens and victims of love.

To its credit, the video game comes with a digital copy of the Longfellow translation of the Inferno.

From the screenshots, the art looks damn cool. Do I have any friends back home with a PS3?

Diversions

2010-02-09T14:53:00.007+02:00

I'll try to ease back into the blogosphere with some photos from a winter's sunset. When I venture outside, I'm often reminded of the beauty of my village, something easily forgotten after two years.
Writing hasn't been coming easily to me this past month. In fact, not much has been coming easily as far as mental work goes. I suspect that my new pechka is sucking the oxygen out of my room more than I'm used, causing something akin to altitude sickness when I'm in my home. Either that or I'm merely losing energy to winter itself. Spring cannot come soon enough.It seems I have only four months left in Bulgaria. When I say it, it sounds like nothing. And yet America still seems far from me.

A New World of Warmth

2010-01-28T18:31:00.004+02:00

Many of you are familiar with this fellow.This is my wood & coal-burning stove, which I will refer to by the Bulgarian word, pechka, because it is vastly more relevant to my life. Not many of you have visited during the winter months and experienced this particularly stressful pechka. It has the unfortunate design flaw of being top-loading, which is a style that, as far as I know, has no advantages. Further, it doesn't really allow air to enter in any effective way. The school babas have always been able to magically set it up, light it, and walk away confident that it will continue burning. With a full winter under my belt, I reached the point where I could be confident that the pechka would be lit by my fifth or sixth attempt. Recently I abandoned my efforts to learn the magical baba method and instead tried to essentially create a campfire in the pechka. This worked all right, but it was still like trying to light a fire in a vacuum. This week, however, the school janitor was doing some work in my apartment and tried to light it. He decided that it was an unacceptable situation and a few hours later, I met my new best friend. It's changing my life. A little paper, some small pieces of wood, and a match and it's burning. I don't worry about the wood to coal to air ratio. I just add more wood or coal when I feel like it and it burns. And it's warm in my apartment, such that sometimes I actually hold off on adding more wood. Now if the water in my kitchen will just thaw, I'll be living in a paradise of sorts.

Coldest Day of the Year

2010-01-25T11:37:00.003+02:00

Contrast to the Previous Post

2010-01-24T16:24:00.003+02:00

Motivation has more or less failed since I theorized about running and exercise for the winter. The cold set in. So did piles of snow, as Kader demonstrates here.
The past few weeks have been slow. Now that winter is actually here, the reasons to get out of the house have been dwindling. I'm not running and I've finished applying to grad schools, so the deadlines that were in my life have vanished and my motivation along with them. Therefore, I'm trying to give myself new things to do.

1. Study Turkish actively again. Start going to tutoring again, even if it isn't helpful.

2. Begin Darren's Improve Your Vertical Leap Program. Right now, I can just barely not touch my ceiling jumping straight up. I will update on this in fifteen weeks.

3. Stop neglecting this blog. Try to get three entries a week, even when I have nothing to write about. Like now.

Here's a picture of me and Dre, who is now in America, enjoying American things. Like burritos.

Motivation Test

2010-01-18T09:32:00.003+02:00

Last week I hit my running trail for the first time in a few months. Three factors contributed to my burning desire to run. Perhaps the most immediate was a fellow volunteer's mention of the possibility of the Prague Marathon in May. I know I said when I finished the Athens Marathon that I wasn't doing another one any time soon, but that was probably not the best time for such considerations. Of course, nothing's for sure. I'd venture to say that the Prague Marathon is doubtful for me this year, given the various things that could stop me such as money, vacation days, and lack of motivation against the cold. But it's in my mind. Of course, another factor was the weirdly warm weather, which made things substantially more feasible. And of course, last week I'm thinking, "yeah, whatever the weather's like, I can get out there. Who cares if the morning's will be dark? I'll feel better in the long run." That logic failed this morning in the face of the cold and the dark and the snow. Can I train in the winter? Ask me tomorrow. Anyway, the last reason that I went running was to try out my new Vibram Five Fingers footwear that I purchased in Sweden. As I mentioned some time ago, I want to experiment with barefoot running and training and apparently these shoes are the next best thing. It was an extraordinary feeling. You can still sense everything beneath your feet, the roots and the rocks, but they won't cut you. It was especially enjoyable sinking into the mud, which in turn oozed into the shoes and between my toes, just like real life. Anyway, my calves hurt for a full week after this since I was working new muscles. I don't think I'll be able to do the barefoot thing again for some time, but here are the results from last week.

And we'll see about regular training.

The Picture I Tried to Take

2010-01-12T17:49:00.000+02:00

Jhaosh is the hardest to understand speaker I've encountered in Bulgaria. His combination of mumbling and ranting is at times fascinating and he doesn't seem to mind my baffled stare. The only comprehensible part of every sentence is the obligatory 'na li's that pepper his speech. I can't imagine how his students understand.

Another feature of Jhaosh, however, is his striking pair of blue eyes. They are even more noticeable when placed in juxtaposition with his grandson's identical blue eyes. Unfortunately, Jhaosh has the habit of scrunching up his entire face when he smiles for a photograph, thus hiding his eyes from view. As in this picture:

But at the ping pong tournament last week, I finally caught him in a picture that I don't mind. Now, if I can just get him and his grandson together again.

Tower of Canon

2010-01-06T20:08:00.005+02:00

So I started writing this with the idea of making a somewhat fanciful account of the search that Jason and I undertook to find Canon Bulgaria. Somewhere along the way, fanciful became fantastical, which became absurd. I wanted to recreate our thought processes and experience. To do that, it seemed necessary to diverge from reality. If that makes any sense. It's long. If you get bored and frustrated, that perhaps that will mean I've succeeded.

"Only in Canon will you find such a device." The thick-necked young squire at the gates of Technopolis shook his head at me, expecting me to walk away or to find something else among his wares of interest. I was happy to surprise him.

"Very well. How can I go there?"

He froze for a moment before placing his hand on the back of his neck. His monstrously thick neck. "Well..." he mused. He disappeared into a backroom from which I heard a series of crashes. I winced at the idea of the possible damage to such adequate technology. Finally he reappeared with a small yellowed piece of parchment on which was drawn a tiny map. Somewhat right of center on the map was a black arrow indicating "Canon, Шоссе 125."

"Shoh-say one twenty five?" I pronounced, favoring him with a blank stare. "Is it far?"

He chuckled. "No, not far."

I turned to my bearded companion, Jason, who knew these lands more intimately. "Have you heard of the Shoh-say one twenty-five?"

Jason gave a shrug and turned to the squire. "It must be in the outlying realm, along the Great Road, yes?"

The squire shook his head to indicate in the affirmative. "Yes, near Pliska."

Jason nodded at me, pulled his hood over his head, and proceeded toward the exit, secure in the assumption that I would follow. I stared at the squire. I was uncomfortable with his nonchalance regarding the location of Canon. I'd heard of the tower, of course, but I had never heard of anyone who had actually been there. The only reason we could be sure of its existence was the steady stream of Wonders that came out of it. And if there was any way I could acquire a DV180HC in this land, then I must make the journey, however arduous.
***

The land became barren so gradually on the path to Pliska that we were walking for miles before we noticed that the functioning storefronts had been replaced by boarded up doors and windows. Before long we began to regret that we carried technology instead of food.

Finally, we came upon a small hut exuding the smell of cheap Mediterranean spices. Our request for food was met with a series of grunts followed by a long pause. We considered our growling stomachs.

Two hands emerged from the window with two steaming rolls of meat. Sustenance at its basest level. We devoured them.

When our heads cleared, Jason gave me another curt nod.

"Pliska is not far."

I shook my head. "I don't worry about Pliska. How will we know Canon when we see it? Scholars say that the eye of the eagle may not distinguish it, nor the nose of a hound, nor the ears of a dolphin. Only the enlightened few may know it."

Jason spat on the ground. "We will find it. If we are not enlightened now, then we shall become so."
***

Pliska stands at the center of an unfathomable crossroads. All roads may lead to Rome, but most travelers will lose themselves first in Pliska's labyrinth.

I stared at the dissolution of the Great Road and sighed. I searched for the five red glyphs that marked our destination, but found only inscrutable markings in a gross perversion of our alphabet. I was ready to return to Technopolis in shame and partake of their inferior wares when Jason pointed to a building along one of the paths.

Шоссе 121 was written across the doorway. I could taste victory. Turning to Jason, I exclaimed, "Shoh-say one twenty one cannot be far from one twenty five. We must be close. It is now only a matter of a time." We scurried with enthusiasm along the path, even as it wound into a dark wood.

Such was our confidence at the time. We recklessly bounded through the wood, failing to conserve our energy. The lack of more signs did not deter us and when we saw a yellow building in the distance, we fancied ourselves to be well on our way to Canon.

"What do you reckon, Jason? It must be shoh-say one twenty-three or even one twenty-four by now."

Jason nodded. "Perhaps Canon is somehow contained in this yellow building. Or perhaps just beyond it."

The sign above the dark oak doorway was not disheartening so much as it was baffling. "Department of Philosophy. Шоссе 121."

An old crone stumbled through the snow in the yard. I approached her.

"Old woman. We seek shoh-say 125."

When she looked up, I saw that her face had a ruddy glow. She gave me a warm smile. "Of course, young man." She indicated a road that led behind the yellow building. "It's just along that path."

I looked back at Jason and gave him a thumbs-up. After bowing and thanking the old woman, I set off along the path with Jason behind me. "Canon is right back here," I assured him.
***

A thousand alleyways stretched out before us with no remarkable differences between them. We passed one after another, each leading nowhere in particular, offering no signs or landmarks. Still, I craned my neck around each corner expecting to see the five red glyphs of Canon. It was the first sign we saw that crushed my hopes.

"Shoh-say forty-eight, Jason." I stared open-mouthed over his shoulder wondering how we missed 77 шоссе's to come to this one. "The old crone deceived us. Let us return. Perhaps the Department of Philosophy has our answer."

The way back passed slowly, the snow seemingly having deepened over the past hour. Or however long it was.

We wandered around the yellow building, reluctant to enter. Finally we spotted three denizens of the Department and rushed toward them.

They walked side by side by side, three girls with furry-hooded leather jackets showing faces that revealed them as precisely nineteen years old. Their synchronized strides exhibited more confidence than we were accustomed to seeing among women in this land. I balked for a moment, allowing Jason to pass ahead of me. When brute force is required, I am always pleased to have Jason at my side.

"Excuse me, ladies. We seek shoh-say 125."

The three stopped and exchanged glances, giving us the opportunity to take them in. On the left stood a scrawny blonde with alarmingly large eyes. She devoured Jason with those eyes. The girl beside her lingered slightly behind the other two, just a large enough distance to be noticeable. She was also scrawny, but less so, and she wore her black hair in a bun on top of her head. Her heavily made-up eyes took in the trees above us. The last one seemed to be appraising us with more caution than the other two. Her features were angular but I was struck mainly by the lack of make-up on her face, at least as compared with the other two.

I caught up with Jason and stood beside him while we waited for a reaction. As I started to wonder if the girls had understood our words, the blonde began giggling.

"Canon? You seek Canon? Well, I guess all human actions are equivalent and all are on principle doomed to failure. Still, don't you think you'll need a drink for such talk?"

I eyed her warily. "We seek Canon, yes. But we want to get there, not talk about it."

The blonde glanced back at the dark-haired girl. "What do you think, Didi?"

Didi nodded and looked at me. "Of course. You can get there, but a good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving. There's a cafe here."

Barely visible under the snow was a bar of the subterranean variety of which I have a certain fondness. Before I could consider whether to object, the big-eyed blonde had hooked herself onto Jason's arm and was leading him down the steps. Didi followed him and I saw no option other than to follow as well. The girl without make-up, whose name would turn out Simone, walked behind me.
***

"What did you say your name was?" Jason was avoiding eye contact with the big eyes by staring into his beer. She giggled as if she couldn't speak without doing so.

"If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you," she managed in a squeal between giggles, "I'm Sveta."

"So why do you seek Canon?" Didi muttered at Jason.

"Not me," said Jason, gulping down his beer. "My friend here. He needs something that can't be found elsewhere."

Didi continued to look above us. "A friend should be a master at guessing and keeping still: you must not want to see everything. You've come far on your friend's journey. You speak strangely."

"No, we aren't from here," Jason began evasively, throwing me a glance.

The girl without make-up, who I realized had been staring at me for a while, spoke for the first time. "But where have you come from? The search for Canon is not a simple one. You must tell us about it, because for an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it."

I coughed. "I have no need of adventures in this journey. Simplicity would be preferable."

"Still," she remarked, "it may be worth telling. You may learn something, for to understand is to perceive patterns." She lit a cigarette and placed the lighter on the table.

No counter-argument came to mind and so I began to tell her. I spoke of the large-necked squire, our hopeless hunger, the lying old crone, and the labyrinthine alleyway. The other two seemed uninterested in the story, but they continued to order drinks for us. Jason, as usual, managed to consume them at a faster rate than I could. When I reached the end of the story, I began musing upon the mystery of шоссе 125.

"What is a shoh-say..." I realized then that I didn't know her name. "What did you say your name was?"

"Simone. I am interested in your shoh-say. I believe that at the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want."

"I'm not sure anymore. I'm beginning doubt that Canon can be found here."

A sudden spastic giggling reminded me of Sveta's presence. She exclaimed, "You doubt! Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom! Don't you think you would be happier here?"

My mind was already clouded by the beer. "I'm not sure I understand..."

To my left, Didi snorted. "Making itself intelligible is suicide for philosophy. Simply put, there is no Canon. It is only a manifestation of your boredom and anxiety."

"Yes!" screeched Sveta, "Boredom is the root of all evil - the despairing refusal to be oneself. Wouldn't you rather stay and drink beer and whiskey with us?"

Jason's head shot up at the mention of whiskey. "Yes. I would like some whiskey."

Simone shook her head. "I don't think it's true. A taste for truth at any cost is a passion which spares nothing. Your journey will be difficult, but it is worthwhile."

"I think you're right," I muttered, "but I don't see how whiskey could hurt our cause at this point. After all," I tried to raise my voice a little, "to the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."

With a deep sigh, Simone accepted the bottle of whiskey from the bartender. "No, whiskey will not bring stillness to you. A pity that the world is a republic of mediocrities, and always was."

"Relative to what?" Jason inquired.

Sveta's large eyes glared at Jason and in a low voice that was not her own she roared, "Relativism is just epistemological atheism, while anti-relativism is theology in disguise. "

"That said," whispered Simone, for the first time speaking to the other two girls, "the possible ranks higher than the actual. They will continue on their journey, even if they are not strong enough to do so of their volition." Only then did we all notice that she had fashioned a Molotov Cocktail during her speech. With a rueful smile at me, she hurled it onto the floor behind Sveta. "Don't worry," she said softly, "we do not burn, but the time has come for you to leave."

I grabbed Jason by his suspenders, and ran for the door, dragging him behind me. From the burning bar, we heard the girls scream after us with their nonsense siren song.

"A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything!"

"Not the power to remember, but its very opposite, the power to forget, is a necessary condition for our existence!"

The last thing I heard as we returned to the light was Simone's voice as she called after us, "it belongs to the imperfection of everything human that man can only attain his desire by passing through its opposite."
***

We were out of sensible options, so we decided to continue in a direction that was away from everything we'd seen before. In a clearing we met two old men with white beards.

"Well," Jason said sarcastically, "if you can't trust white-bearded old men, who can you trust?"

This time I approached them. "We seek shoh-say 125. Canon."

"Canon?" the old men exclaimed simultaneously. They turned their backs on us and consulted each other incomprehensibly. When they turned back to us, they were smiling. "Yes. Continue the way you are going. It is far." With that, they seemed to forget about us and instead occupied themselves with the sky.

We had walked a few meters past them when they hailed us with a single voice. "Wait! Do not place your trust in logic. It will not serve you."

Jason and I nodded.

From there we passed countless grey buildings, each bearing its own шоссе number. There was no discernible pattern. 43. 19. 167. 85. 22.

"Is there a limit to the possible number of шоссе's?"

"Yes, but not for our purposes."

Carriages flew by. After minutes or hours or days, we noticed that we were walking on concrete. Walls sprouted up and disappeared just as abruptly. They surrounded nothing. We walked up staircases that ended in cliff faces, which we scaled for lack of other options. The men we saw walked in pairs and wore uniforms. Camouflage. We stared at our feet as we traversed the concrete terrain. Aware that we were conspicuous, we avoided eye contact, not wishing to give any invitation to trouble.

When a stone threshold of sorts came into view, we quickened our pace and rushed through. Looking back, we saw the inscription. "Mad House, Шоссе 181."

"When do you think the mad house began on the other side?"

"Hard to say."
***

From there, I cannot tell you far we walked. We crossed valleys and great highways. Eventually in the distance, we saw a great white and blue cluster of buildings. As the five red glyphs on one white tower came into focus, C A N O N, we leapt with joy. Our hunger and thirst abandoned us and within moments we were standing before the entrance.

At the desk sat a thick guard in a uniform. As we stared through the doorway at him, he looked up at us. Indecisive to the last, we circled each other and made a few furtive steps away from the door. The door opened a crack and his head shot out. He had a white mustache.

"What are you looking for?"

"C-c-Canon, sir." I stammered.

"Fourth floor, elevator's over there." He smiled and opened the door for us. The lack of confrontation was unsettling.

Although the elevator was designed for only one person, Jason and I, both slight of build, managed comfortably. When the doors parted we were in a white hallway with five locked doors, all unmarked.

"This could easily go wrong."

"Yes. That one has a buzzer."

For some reason the buzzer terrified me and, in spite of everything, I considered turning back. Jason looked at me. I closed my eyes and pressed the button.
***

The office was exactly what one might expect from any office. One counter separated us from two perfectly composed young executive types. A man and a woman. The woman smiled at us.

"What are you doing here?"

"We want to buy a DV180HC, " I responded enthusiastically, for our journey was at an end.

She blinked. "Here? In your land we sell in Technopolis."

"They don't have one."

"Very well," she mused. "I'll check to see if we have one." She typed for a few moments. "No we don't have one. They cannot be acquired here at this time. Here's a phone number that you can call for assistance."

We thanked her and left.
***

Outside the Canon Tower, we caught an overcrowded bus and dozed on our feet until we reached Technopolis. The squire smiled at us as he handed us the same wares he had proffered hours or days or weeks earlier.

***The sirens of philosophy quote freely from Friedrich Nietzsche, Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Isaiah Berlin, Thomas Carlyle, Lao Tzu, Martin Heidegger, Soren Kierkegaard, and St. Basil. I found the quotes mostly on http://brainyquote.com/, a quite helpful site. The idea for their manner of speaking came from seeing the David Bloor quote about relativism on Anna Aberg's computer.

As far as reality goes, we didn't actually speak with any of the girls around the Philosophy Department. The two old men were DHL delivery-men and not old. We didn't find out until later that the place with the military guys might be an asylum. An old woman did point us down a random alleyway that we wandered for a long time. The Canon model number isn't real. We were walking and searching for a long time. The scene at the end is basically exactly how it went.

Unrelated Teaching Moments

2010-01-05T20:08:00.002+02:00

I was staring at the wall in the teacher's room during the long break before my class with eighth grade today. For some reason, I was dreading this class more than usual and was honestly considering just not showing up. Eighth grade is always a struggle, especially now that even my star student is more interested in make-up and acting cool than she is in school. So it goes. Most of my classes involve trying to balance the curriculum of Hello, which asks for one hundred word essays about your opinion on blogs, with trying to teach anything at all in English, since their vocabulary is almost non-existent. Mostly it's a constant battle between me and their phones, make-up, tea, and indifference. I conquered the feeling of dread and dragged myself into the classroom. And somehow it went well. Not well in the sense that we completed more than one exercise in the book, but well in a more general sense. One of their new vocabulary words was "obsess." They looked it up in the dictionary and told me that they didn't know what the Bulgarian word meant. After I explained the nature of obsession (simply), we actually had a decent class discussion, with a much higher frequency of English than I'd ever witnessed with them, about our various obsessions. Of course, it was mostly boys and tv, but I'll take it. Somehow I left the room quite content, despite falling more hopelessly behind in the sacred schedule.

Before break, I made another attempt to rally the older kids in my film group. I wanted to talk to them about montage and mise-en-scene and how they can be used in various ways to tell a story. In trying to elicit opinions on the differences between the two techniques, I couldn't really get them beyond "Mise-en-scene is better." Of course, they were more than happy to agree with whatever ludicrous ideas I posited about the different effects of each and then repeat them back at me. Sometimes reversed. For examples, we watched the opening sequence of Touch of Evil and the Odessa Steps scene from Battleship Potemkin. The main reaction to the latter was simply screaming about the baby. All other discussion was stopped in favor of how horrible the fate of the baby was and whether there was indeed a baby in the carriage. We couldn't get beyond that, but perhaps the montage had its effect on them even if they weren't aware of it.

6 Months of Film

2010-01-04T21:38:00.002+02:00

I am pleased to report that my film center project is coming together, at least in the material sense. Before break I purchased a camera in Sofia after a ridiculously epic journey about which you can expect a story later on this week. With that main expense out of the way, we are now ready to find our computer and it seems that we will have enough money left for a mid-range projector. With the school's provision of new desks, chairs, and curtains, my English room / media center is on its way to looking quite respectable. Even now with only a few desks moved in, I can feel some sense of accomplishment. The room already feels better.

That, however, is in many ways the easy part. The tricky thing now is to inspire the students that I'm working with to do interesting things with film. Most of the ideas that they throw at me from time to time are nonsensical thriller plots that would involve an impossible amount of work and dedication. I'm having trouble convincing them that length and quality are in no way synonymous and, for our purposes, they are probably at odds with each other. I believe I've complained about this before. So my plan is to show them some films this or next week that do not exceed five minutes in length but that are undeniably cool. Preferably films that do not involve too many special effects. Basically, I want to show them the possibilities of film and show them what they too are capable of. I have a few ideas. But you are all smart, cultured people reading this blog. Do you have any ideas? Send me youtube links or whatever else you've got. Think of the possibilities of film in the Big Little.

Today I met with my two most enthusiastic film students, who are little monsters in English class lately, by the way. However, it turns out there is an inter-class ping pong tournament on Thursday, so I ended up helping them train instead. It's strange hearing them say things like, "without practice, nothing will happen." But I'm a pretty decent ping pong coach, it turns out. So that might be all I do with these two this week. With a little shooting thrown in.

A Vague Sense of Resolution

2010-01-03T18:26:00.002+02:00

I'm somewhat doubtful about the power of the New Year to propel me forward in the resolutions that I was already working on. I suppose one of the main problems is that most of my resolutions aren't given the weight of being quantifiable, which makes them impossible to succeed in. Mostly, I resolve to write more, drink more water, etc. I think that one of my main vague resolutions is to reduce the amount of time I spend multi-tasking. The darkness of my apartment often finds me playing landgrab, listening to music, studying Turkish, eating, and watching a film simultaneously, thereby doing nothing effectively. The staring remains strong, I suppose. So I'm focusing on doing one thing at a time.

As far as writing goes, I'm going to take a random stab and say that this year I will write 30 chapters of my serialized novel on itwaslost, which can be found here. I also hope that this blog will be the beneficiary of more writing.

I will run at least as much as I ran last year and I will seriously experiment with barefoot running.

I'm also going to rid myself of my coffee addiction so that I don't get headaches if I don't drink it. Difficult because I do love coffee.

Anyway, that's all I've got and it's probably the most seriously I've ever taken New Year's resolutions.

That said, I have returned from Sweden. I don't know what to say except that it was good. Strange how much better doing nothing in a cabin in Hälsingland is than doing nothing in a cold ex-kindergarten apartment.

Sweden is clearly the land of the future. When we arrived, we rode in a taxi with leather seats and a GPS. They don't use keys to start their cars, but magic boxes. Also, the machines have begun to threaten our civil liberties, as expected. The car won't start until all seated passengers put on a seatbelt. There was other non-car-related stuff too, but I can't remember it. My vision of the future fades already. "We are living in the future, I'll tell you how I know..."

A Meeting of Cultures

2009-12-15T13:17:00.002+02:00

The snow on the ground and the bitter cold both in and out of my apartment make my December 1st activities seem rather surreal. As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I was brought ribs for Korban Bayram and I promptly prepared them as they must be prepared. The following day, I met Sevi for coffee and I attempted to explain the cultural significance of ribs in America. The best I could manage was to say that ribs were the manliest thing one could cook and that many men measure an aspect of their self-worth by their rib bbq-ing ability. To this, Sevi enthusiastically replied that they still had an almost complete rib cage left from the lamb and that we must have a cookout. So we did. The amazing thing about Sevi is that, unlike almost everyone else I know, when she says something like that, it tends to happen. On Tuesday, I showed her how to make barbecue sauce, which was easier than I anticipated. I explained the recipe thusly:

Chili Powder, cumin, salt, pepper, paprika, curry powder in more or less equal parts. Maybe more chili powder. Add some honey, probably about twice as much as you add chili powder. Then some oil. And finally some vinegar to make it come together. И готов. That's how I roll with recipes. So we rocked the ribs, drank some rakia, and went back to school. Ribs & rakia and Bulgarians and Americans are living happily together.

Christmas Wishes that will blow your mind

2009-12-08T13:11:00.001+02:00

Pete and I listened to this guy. He is changing everything I thought about guitar-playing and singing. I now know with certainty who I want to emulate.

My Kids

2009-12-07T19:56:00.003+02:00

For reasons that probably include the onset of winter, this past working week wasn't at all enjoyable for me. I was getting into ridiculous conflicts with all of my classes for what seemed no reason at all. That, however, I more or less expect from time to time. Or often. The main thing that was leaving me muttering to myself was the way my afterschool activities were progressing. My film club and my oft-aborted conversational English classes are vastly more important to me than my day-to-day classes, so as a result I get more bugged when they don't go well. Mostly it was the general attitude that my students started treating them with, constantly giving me a "maybe" answer when I asked them if they were coming. Maybe generally meaning no. Further, when I finally told them not to bother coming if they weren't ready to show some level of commitment, they responded, "but what if there's something urgent?" Obviously, if something urgent does come up, then they don't have to come. But I'm incredulous about the frequency of urgent happenings in my students' lives. How often does it happen to you that something urgent occurs at exactly three o'clock on a Monday? I'm not really ready to buy more than once a month. And yet there was always something coming up lately. A few of my students were pushing me for another conversational English class only to emerge from their class forty-five minutes later to tell me they couldn't come because they were going to have a history test. I guess I find it doubtful that they're cramming for their history test from 1:30 until 10 or whenever they go to bed.

Anyway, that's a lot of whining to begin what was meant to be a different kind of post. Mostly I was just trying to set the scene and I got carried away. I wanted to write about the kids who are featured in my only pleasant memories of the past working week. I wanted to write about them because they're probably not the kids one would expect. They are not model students. For various reasons, these are the kids who take a lot of abuse from the other kids, but it seems mostly because they have learning disabilities or come from poor families. Recently I've been spending a lot of time with Kadrie. I didn't really know where she'd come from until a week ago or so, because I didn't remember her from last year. But she has been coming to my film club and actually writing down what I write on the board and just being generally quiet and respectful in a crazy group. I learned that she's 13 years old and she's in fourth grade because this is her first year of school. It's hard to know what to make of that, so I've just been pushing her to be one of the main camera-wielding members of the fourth grade film club. We also spend a lot of time talking after class and I think it's enjoyable for both of us.
My biggest fan at school is Ishmael. Every time he sees me he drops whatever he's doing, screams my name, and hugs me. It's a little surreal. I don't know what the story with Ishmael is exactly. It's clear he has some kind of learning disability that I couldn't possibly diagnose. He spends a lot of time wandering the hallways and walking into random classrooms. Unfortunately, all of the other kids at school interpret his strangeness to mean that he has no rights whatsoever. I'm constantly stopping kids of all ages from hitting him and pushing him, because they seem to think there's no problem with it. It infuriates me. But all I can do really is pay attention and help him find out where he's trying to go at any given moment.

And then there's Kader, who I've mentioned before and just rules. Here she is proving it and just begging to have a feel-good movie made about her as she tries out for the new cheerleading squad, even though she's been told by all of the other girls that she's not allowed.

I guess my main point in this entry is that the high point of last week was playing catch with rocks with Kader. It seems like the most productive use of my time during that period.

Well, This is Bittersweet

2009-11-27T15:47:00.002+02:00

Here I am with ribs marinading and nobody to share them with. Anybody near the Big Little?

But Who is the Dreamer?

2009-11-26T18:43:00.005+02:00

Perhaps you've seen the film Lost in La Mancha, a documentary chronicling Terry Gilliam's attempts to make a movie out of Don Quixote. The surreal aspect of the movie is that Gilliam's attempts themselves end up so absurdly quixotic that one wonders if the documentary itself isn't his adaptation.

In working with my fourth graders on our first director's club project, a dream film (idea lifted from Concord Academy film magnate Chris Rowe), I entered my own surreal dreamlike state such that I couldn't help but think that I needed a documentary film crew following me. The children had me constantly surrounded, be it as ghosts or a wedding party, both fearing and demanding the camera. Every class was like spinning an unstable object on your finger, as you try to maintain the speed while delaying its inevitable spin out of control. Each class left me feeling like I had just given blood, sensing that I'd done something good but in desperate need of a cookie. That's enough half-assed similes for now.

So as you can imagine, the fourth graders have approached my film club with unrivaled enthusiasm, which has more than countered their lack of cinematic sense. I had a nearly impossible time preventing them from attempting to act out an entire wedding in the interest of the film. Actually, they did so several times. As a result, I had hours of footage, which became a weird four-minute fourth-grade experiment in expressionism. And so the director's club humbly presents...

As you can see, things have started happening a little with my village film-making. Unfortunately I have had less success with the higher grades, in that they lack a sense of reality and can't be counted on to show up for class. Unfortunately it's a bit of a vicious cycle, in that they don't show up and then complain that we don't do anything. Maybe it's not a vicious cycle so much as a bunch of irresponsible kids. As I discovered before when I experimented with a sign-up sheet for tutoring, the third and fourth graders manage their time infinitely better than the big kids. They signed up for a time and then arrived at that time. Way beyond my sixth graders.

With the older kids, I've been surprised by their lack of sense, particularly regarding time. With the seventh/eighth grade dream film, they genuinely seemed to believe that in the half hour that we were shooting, they could produce an hour-long film. Later when we were editing, I tried to tell them that there was no reason to have 20 seconds of a teacher writing on the whiteboard, but they responded that if we cut it like that, the film would end up very short, like half an hour. Where to start responding to that? It seems we're directly at odds, in that I generally value concision in art. Anyway, it's my hope that seeing that an hour of shooting leads to a two-minute film if you're lucky will be enlightening and not disheartening for them. They need to get over their fetishization of film length.

I enjoy how both films end with lots of hugs, much like the proclivity of Communist propaganda director's toward ending with a parade. If someone screamed in your English class, do you think everyone would jump up and start hugging him? The collective welcomes back the dreamer from the nightmare of the self.

Eighth Grade Adventures

2009-11-24T20:59:00.004+02:00

I still haven't worked out a way for eighth grade to not be a complete mess. I have one superstar student, one quite competent student, and ten terrifyingly indifferent students. This year it seems I'm catering to the superstar, trying to involve the competent guy, and trying to keep the rest of them quiet.

My partner teacher administered one of my apparently difficult tests yesterday. Upon correcting them, it was abundantly clear that the cheating was rampant. I convinced her to confront them about it, particularly one student who can't manage a simple 'hello' who somehow managed a 6. When we did so, he stated that he copied five or six answers from his neighbor but that he had luckily guessed on the rest. I was skeptical, but my partner teacher began negotiating with him, offering 3's and 4's. I was too baffled to object. Are we seriously negotiating with someone who thinks that copying five or six answers is not only acceptable but admirable?

Needless to say, it took a while for the class to settle after the controversy. Some students asked me whether I buy my clothes secondhand and giggled. I guess it was supposed to be an insult, but I'm too oblivious to such standards to register it as such. It does bother me more than it should how much my students think about what I'm wearing, but I generally detest people who concern themselves with the clothes of others.

When I asked my superstar student to stop talking, she responded that the other students were talking, but she was conversing. It was hard to argue with that.

We inadvertently landed on a somewhat interesting conversation that I did my best to facilitate in English. It began when I told them that I do, in fact, like Bulgaria. They all clamored to tell me about how they don't. I tried to guide them toward a conversation about what they don't like about Bulgaria with moderate success. I wanted to demonstrate that there is a difference between not liking certain things about Bulgaria and not liking Bulgaria itself. The conclusion was somewhat marred by the fact that the student I consider competent needed to ask how to say лошо in English. Armed with that word, however, he managed to state things quite succinctly: "Politics are bad."

Running Through Enlightenment

2009-11-21T18:18:00.003+02:00

The first question I've been asked by 90% of the people in my village when I told them that I had just wrote a marathon: What place did you come in? When I respond that I came in over two hours after the winner, I've fairly often been laughed at. It bugs me. Obviously it's not why I ran, but like most people who have run their first marathon, I want others to be impressed. I'm at least that shallow. They can think I'm weird too. That makes sense. But I want them to be impressed AND perplexed. Not just perplexed.

Anyway, I ran my first boar's head since the marathon today. It turns out that the legs have not quite healed. My knees and left foot are angry with me now.

Meanwhile I've begun reading Born to Run, a piece of non-fiction by Christopher McDougall about running superhumans. Considering that it came out in May this year and it's already on at least its 12th printing, there's a good chance you've read it too. The book, which I haven't finished yet, is simultaneously inspiring and crushing, although vastly more the former. Reading about people who do things on a scale so hugely beyond the marathon that I considered so badass is humbling and we should all be humbled from time to time.

More striking to me, however, is the way in which it confirms what I've often suspected and pontificated about sports, namely that success comes from taking joy in what you're doing. I've often railed against people who are running "to get in shape" or "to lose weight." I know this is unfair coming from me, but I really think that these motivations won't get you anywhere. Maybe this makes me an asshole. But it is my belief that if these are the reasons you're running or going to the gym or whatever, you are doomed to failure. When it comes down to it, these are not good enough reasons in that they will never incite you to get yourself past a certain point. I have rarely achieved that necessary joyous state in distance running, although it's possible that I'm cultivating such a love. For me, tennis and ultimate have brought me to that state where I will push myself beyond the level that makes any sense and enjoy every second of it. As Ken Chlouber, founder of the absolutely ridiculous Leadville Trail 100 (i.e. 100 miles, at altitude), says, "Make friends with pain, and you will never be alone." All we can do is search for something that makes us love the pain that comes with it. I'm pretty sure that everyone can find something that makes them feel this way.

Today, despite the pain in my legs, I could just barely sense such a feeling in distance running. The time that has passed since the marathon has given me some perspective. I was no distance runner at the time and I still am not, but I could get there, I think. It was the perfect warm fall day and I crashed through my trail; the fallen leaves, the hills, and not an apartment building in sight. At approximately the halfway point, I conquer the hill that once crushed my spirit. Directly ahead of me, the path drops down into the valley of the rain festivals, where there are usually five or six grazing horses. To my right is the Big Little itself, looking like everything I ever wanted in a village. To my left are the rolling hills of Northern Bulgaria, alternating between the fields and the forest. I take in a deep breath of the famous чист въздух, which today is uncorrupted by burning trash. It's perfect and may be what I will miss most when I'm back in the States. I don't know if that's sad. From there, I run back down the hill and into the woods. Trail-running. That could be the ticket for me. Even though my knees were killing me and I couldn't manage my standard run in its entirety, the scent of the autumn day made me think that distance running may be a part of my future and a part of me getting somewhere.

Remember That Time We Took a Walk in the Big Little?

2009-11-20T16:44:00.002+02:00

Based on the Classics Illustrated Version, I Suppose

2009-11-19T19:03:00.003+02:00

I started watching the American version of War & Peace. I've yet to make my way through it, but I was impressed with how quickly it became clear that the director of the film had not, in fact, read the book. It takes about 10 seconds, actually. Lo and behold the first SENTENCE in the film:

"As the 19th century began, a darkening shadow moved across the face of Europe. This shadow was propelled by one man: Napoleon Bonaparte."

One man? One man?!!? If anyone could make it through War & Peace and miss Tolstoy's refutation of that very premise, his skull would have to be thicker than the novel itself.

That's the Ticket

2009-11-19T15:24:00.002+02:00

Due to a particularly fitful and annoying cough that has been keeping me up all night lately, I called in sick for the first time during my time in the Big Little. It's a little absurd because, as you know, I live in the school. Most of the teachers and the school babas stopped by with advice, home remedies, or milk. Sevi, however, came by after school today with a whole banitsa, a salad, a pound of frozen beef, a bag of apples, and a bottle of rakia. Clearly I've been missing out by staying healthy for so long.

What is Lost Must Never Be Forgotten

2009-11-19T13:10:00.005+02:00

Be sure to tune in to http://www.itwaslost.org during your time on the interwebs. The team of S. Sandrigon, Grainne Proinseas, Olaf Mary Mohammad, Cosmo Wernicky, Mr. Brains Aha!, Tomorrow Jenny Ruth, and myself endeavor to bring you the finest and most diverse of daily blogging activity. Among the latest itwaslost projects is a double feature of serialized novels. Check out my first three chapters:

http://www.itwaslost.org/2009/10/hunters.html

http://www.itwaslost.org/2009/11/hunters-chapter-2.html

http://www.itwaslost.org/2009/11/hunters-chapter-3.html

And don't neglect the competition. Grainne Proinseas brings you Ally Given.

http://www.itwaslost.org/2009/10/ally-given.html

http://www.itwaslost.org/2009/11/ally-given-installment-2.html

http://www.itwaslost.org/2009/11/ally-given-installment-3.html

Follow itwaslost in your Google Reader and don't feel lost around the weird coffee pod machine on Monday. New chapters every week or faster.

Halloween 2: 3 Weeks Late

2009-11-18T14:47:00.005+02:00

Just before the swine flu vacation hit us, the Big Little celebrated a sickly Halloween. As with most things that I try to organize, it all seemed haphazard and chaotic, but sometimes the enthusiasm of children will actually carry you through. The oncoming epidemic shortened and changed many of our activities.
For some reason, my kids are crazy about bobbing for apples, something I have never understood. However, because many kids dumping their faces in a barrel of water is basically designed for the spread of swine flu, we were forced to improvise a little.
The pumpkin winner...
She said she was dressed up as "The Red Spot." I can't figure out if I'm missing a reference or if it's more of an artistic thing... This was my favorite costume...
But this one won by the student applause-o-meter by a landslide...

Financial Backing

2009-11-16T20:45:00.002+02:00

A few weeks ago I received the news that my project had been fully funded. The sudden accumulation of the remaining money led me to a certain degree of skepticism, but it has now been confirmed. I've opened a bank account and I am awaiting the deposit, which should happen within a couple of weeks.

Wow! I know that the people at my site didn't believe that we would get money for this project and I was trying to remain optimistic in the face of their general pessimism. It's nice to be vindicated. Unfortunately, there was some fodder remaining for the nay-sayers, as the dollar has apparently fallen relative the lev since I wrote the grant and as a result, we are receiving a bit less money than we expected. My director and I have made some minor technical changes to the computer we were going to buy and I think it will still work out. We agree that the camera is the important thing that will help motivate our students and lead to great creative output. And the acquisition of new technical skills and all that.

And so, allow me to extend the first of what will be several thank you's to you all! You have made me and a bunch of village kids happy and I hope that what we are able to produce from this project will be inspiring for everyone involved here. I don't really feel that I have the words to express the coolness of this, but rest assured that you will be hearing a great deal more from me and my students on this matter. Media Center! Onward!

I Dare You to Take It

2009-11-14T16:03:00.002+02:00

Writing prompt number 11 ended up as a group effort with each of us writing a monologue regarding starving folk with only a banana left between them. We decided not to consult each other on subject matter and hoping that it became something coherent. I'm proud that we steered clear of stupid sex jokes.

Is It Easier Than Waiting Around to Die?

2009-11-13T13:28:00.006+02:00

Sorry to keep you all waiting for so long regarding my marathon results. In order to maintain my fierce commitment to comedic chronology, I will keep you waiting a little longer as you make your way through this entry.

A general sense of fear pervaded the train ride toward Athens, not of the marathon itself, but rather of the high potential for sickness that could add a wholly unnecessary challenge to the race. Nevertheless, we found some time to read from Richard III and to play a surreal game of "pick up sticks" on a swaying train. Really, it poses an interesting philosophical question. Did I cause the stick to move or was it the universe?

Perhaps you've heard about the alleged Swine Flu epidemic in Bulgaria. It led to two extraordinarily well-timed weeks off from school.

We arrived early in the morning and proceeded to wander in search of coffee. This was to be our day in Athens and I felt that I should do something Athens-y. We acquired a dog companion who I dubbed Holmes, because of his general detective air. He would find us again on the Acropolis.

Obligatory Athens Pictures:

In the evening, we prepared ourselves with the marathon-running details. Attaching the chip to our shoes, putting our numbers on our shirts. I struggled with the latter, leading to the question: Haven't you ever run a race before? The question led me to the answer. I hadn't thought about it before, but not only is this my first marathon, it is my first race of any kind. Huh. We awoke around 5:30 in order to catch the bus to marathon. As I made my way down the stairs (pain-free for the last time up to this moment), I heard a sound that strangely resembled the draining of a washing machine. I could only make the logical assumption that the building next to us was expelling massive amounts of water. As it turned out, it was the heavens. And so we are soaked and excited, ready to begin running. The bus ride, strangely, was full of exceedingly loquacious folk insistent on annoying us or psyching us out. It was not pleasant nor was seeing the course in its full terrifying length.

And so the race began in the rain, with the onward cry of the announcer: "Run now! Go for it!"

Gosh. How to describe the running? Words spring to mind. Endless. Pain. There were at last three men running in Spartan (not figurative) outfits, including swords and shields. I passed one of them around kilometer 35 and wondered how he could have possibly stayed ahead of me for this long. The first 10 kilometers were effortless, passing people regularly and probably moving generally faster than I should have. I was shocked at the inefficiency of the watering system, in which we all grabbed 500 mL bottles, took two swigs, and cast them to the side, mixing mineral water with the rain and generally creating a dam of water bottles.

The following 10 kilometers were also not terribly taxing, confirming my belief that a half marathon ain't really that much. However, around kilometer 20, the pain entered my legs. This was when I began to think that spending so little of my training on asphalt was a mistake. The length of the kilometers inexplicably increased. I saw a dog and wondered if it would be so good as to maul me and give me an acceptable excuse. I slapped hands with small children and mustered a smile for people who kindly yelled my name. I suppose I was running slowly enough for them to read my bib.

So it went up to kilometer 30. From around the half marathon point, I was experiencing a pain in my quads and knees such as I had never experienced with each step bringing more, such that each step was the most painful step I had ever taken. At this moment, I wondered if including two versions of "Waiting Around to Die" (Townes' & Be Good Tanyas') in my running mix was wise. There was a dearth of interesting thoughts in my mind. Mostly just reflecting on the pain in my legs and wondering how many more steps I had left in me. Kilometer 33-34 was the most demoralizing. There was a dip under a bridge and a reemergence. And then continuation. I was sure that they had missed a kilometer marker and probably two. As the number after the 3 gradually became revealed as a four, I nearly checked out. But I ran. Kilometer 38 was when my legs failed. I stumbled and could no longer run. I cursed myself for wimping out with 4 kilometers left, but I had no ability to run left. I walked for perhaps 1.5 kilometers. And then I ran again. And then I did something that was neither walking nor running, somewhat reminiscent of a stray three-legged dog. Finally with one kilometer left, I ran. The run sloped downward and the stadium was barely in sight. I passed people, including a final Spartan. It's not exactly a feeling I can describe. I entered the stadium and felt like I was alone, although the video that I am now privy to shows many runners around me. I took off my hat and waved it toward the adoring crowd. As I crossed the finish line, I managed a spin move. One goal accomplished. I checked in at 4 hours and 50 minutes, clearly revealing how unrealistic four hours was for me and this marathon. But here we are as heroes.
Regarding my training, I think my main shortcoming was quite simply not running on asphalt. At no point during the marathon did I feel a lack of energy or out of breath. I didn't really feel crippling fatigue. Just pain. Pain in my quads, knees, feet. Spreading into my lower back. I underestimated how much distance on hard ground would affect my body. My hill training was effective, in that I did not feel demoralized and brutalized by the many hills that seemed to give the others problems. I probably passed more people going uphill then at any other time. If there is a next time, I will train similarly, but I will add a good deal of running on the street and see if it helps. Now, however, I don't think about a next time. 5 days later, I can walk somewhat effectively again.

Witness the end of my shoes. And Charles' as well.
Beer? Check. Steak? Check. Goals accomplished.
Thank you all again for your many encouraging wishes.

Vote 4150

2009-11-06T10:40:00.003+02:00

Around 9AM Athens time, be sure to focus your thoughts on the number 4150. I will be dying somewhere between Athens and Marathon, contemplating the meaning of everything and asking the question that broke The General. W H Y. Why? Say it in your best McGoohan impression.

The following are my goals.

Primary Goals:

1. Finish. Do not walk at any point.

2. Eat a steak and have a beer afterward.

Secondary Goals:

1. Finish in under 4 hours.

2. Perform some kind of whimsical dance after finishing.

And after this Sunday, I will no longer be obligated to train and my evenings will open up for new activities. I plan on writing and studying. During my training, I could never measure the distance I was running by any means, so I described my average run as a 'Boar's Head' and measured thusly. I believe the Marathon is approximately 4 boar's heads. Now I will apply the boar's head to other things. I've decided that 1011 words is the writing equivalent of a boar's head and so I will try to treat it similarly, writing a boar's head 4 or 5 days a week. Keep your eyes open.

Thank you for all of your well wishin' on the runnin'. It will motivate me and my pride. And I'll let you know how it goes.

Farewell, Sweet Simon

2009-11-02T12:02:00.002+02:00

Not many of you knew Simon, but he was the love of my Portland life. He was the perfect addition to a neurotic family. I don't really have the words.

Remembrance of Time Wasted: Part 1: Mad Men

2009-10-27T19:07:00.005+02:00

I waste more time than I should with many activities these days. Some of these activities get more attention in this blog than others, so I thought I'd shed some light on one I rarely mention. Television. I've been catching up on some of those television series that I occasionally hear about. Mad Men seems to be by far the trendiest as far as my associates go. I'll confess to enjoying the look, although I think they often stumble over themselves trying to offend our sensibilities. More than anything else, however, Mad Men is a gigantic smoking ad. I imagine this show has done more for the tobacco industry than anything else in the past 20 years and I wonder how much money is changing hands. The fact is that the characters look so damn good with their suits, hats, and cigarettes that it is irresistible even to me. The only thing keeping me strong is the Athens Marathon in the immediate future. By the time I've completed the marathon, I hope that Mad Men will be out of my system.

But what I really want to tell you is what I've learned from Mad Men. Yes, those 20 odd hours have not been entirely for naught! I know at least two of my fellow volunteers have talked about their freezing freezers, that is, the phenomenon of one's freezer gradually developing a thick icy shell until no space remains for the things you want to freeze. Now and then, we must thaw the old freezer in order to return to our normal freezing capacity. Don't think I'm complaining (much) about this minor (at most) inconvenience. In fact, it's something I weirdly look forward to doing periodically like clipping my toenails. Anyway. Apparently, Mad Men teaches, this was a problem for the wives of advertising executives in the fifties too! And how did the practical Betty Draper solve this problem? She placed a pot of boiled water in the freezer to expedite the thawing process, of course. Refulgent! And so this week, I have done the same. Whereas the effects weren't as dramatic as they might have been, it definitely sped things up, especially in this newly cold weather. Thank you, Mad Men, you have not completely wasted my time.

Sorry about the horrifically corny post title.

Teaching Tidbits

2009-10-22T09:57:00.003+03:00

I can no longer write coherently about teaching here, so I'll probably just stick to mentioning the little things that amuse/terrify/inspire/confuse me each day.

I may have found a 6th grade Kubrick, not necessarily for talent (although who knows?) but for attitude. I'm trying to teach the idea of frame composition, and he seems to think he gets it. Now he yells at the other students, "Give me the camera! I don't think like you!"

The girl who the previous day asked me what "do" means turned in a paper opening with the sentence: "Regarding school uniforms, I cannot make a firm and unequivocal statement."

Fourth graders and a camera may be more madness than I can handle.

If there isn't any chance of...

2009-10-20T17:07:00.002+03:00

...returning home pockets stuffed with raspberries,

...tumbling in the mud,

...dispersing a fold of sheep,

...enjoying rakia on the hillside,

...being chased by a pack of dogs,

...having piping hot banitsa shoved in my hands,

...finding a dead boar,

...seeing the sun set over the sunflowers,

...being asked to appraise a penny that "must be at least 300 years old,"

...trying to catch a horse cart,

will I ever be able to motivate myself to run again?

Feeling Good Was Easy

2009-10-19T10:21:00.004+03:00

I recently experienced my first proper Bulgarian Guitar Gosti. Jason whisked me away to the home of Pavel and Rumiana for an epic evening of guitars and whiskey. Those of you immersed in the blogosphere carefully will be aware of Pavel's blog already. It is the real deal for all things Bulgar and Beyond.

Perhaps more significant for me than the guitars and whiskey (which are not to be ignored) was the feeling of being truly conversant in Bulgarian. Whereas my Bulgarian is almost fully functional on a day to day basis, it is incredibly rare that I am talking about things that I want to talk about in the way I want to talk about them. But the other night, I was free to ramble on about John Cage, Borges, and other pretentious muck and feel like I was fundamentally understood. I think it's the first time I've felt really fluent in Bulgarian. While at times, I did struggle for words (or how to explain my love for Gorgeous Borges), it never felt like anything other than hanging out and real conversation. To feel that way in Bulgarian without thinking about it is something to be relished.

I've included the best video clip of the night below, which is perhaps foolish because everything I add in the future cannot compare to the truly sublime. But I'm sure you all have room in your hearts for drunken hippie chaos as well.

The Modality of October

2009-10-18T16:41:00.003+03:00

Strange as it sounds, I've been managing to fill my time so far this month. I'm cursing the shortening days as they limit my opportunity for certain aspects of my business. I am writing now in the comfort of having defeated that most fell of beasts, the GRE. Having never spent much time studying for tests, particularly pointless ones, I was increasing the pressure on myself and moving dangerously toward obsession over the past week or so. Now, however, it is finished forever and the results can be considered satisfactory. An Aussie, Jason, and I enjoyed a 1PM liter or 2 of beer in Sofia in celebration. One weight has been lifted from my shoulders and I can begin the process of forgetting.

Further, for those of you who don't know, I have officially signed up to run the Athens Marathon. I've been running off and on since the Spring and a few months ago decided that I might as well do something with it. I wanted to run the Sofia Marathon, but I had trouble confirming its existence. So it'll have to be Athens. We'll see how the hills of the Big Little compare to the road to Marathon. These shortening cold days have been cutting into my training, unfortunately, but I remain confident that I will be able to finish. It's on November 8th, for those of you who wish to direct some vibes toward me.

Meanwhile, school has started and it's a nightmare less than half the time. I have the fifth grade five all to myself and it fills me with hope. I get to test them as much as I want and grade them however I want. It's liberating.

More importantly, however, I have begun my film classes with small groups from each class. I spend six hours a week after school teaching the basics of film-making and praying that it goes somewhere. I've completed the first week with more success than failure, I think. At times, I do want to exclaim things like, "you fourth graders understand nothing about cinematography!" Then I realize the absurdity. Strangely, I think this is the first time since my cameo in Turgovishte when I've felt like a real teacher. I get to wander through the classroom posing questions such as "How do we know when we're dreaming?" "What is the nature of dreaming?" "How is it that everyday household objects can be transformed into terrifying instruments of doom?" Perhaps the answers aren't always there, but I enjoy it. I showed them the dream sequences from Vertigo and the Big Lebowski (somewhat edited) and now I have them all working on their own films. The eighth graders are excessively ambitious and want to make 30 minute films. The fourth graders aren't really ready for the concepts I'm mercilessly throwing at them. I have the most hope for the 5th/6th grade group. The things I'm trying to teach may be difficult for kids, but it's nowhere near as grandiose as my secret ambition. I want to teach them to think creatively. It's not something I can teach, but it's what I pray to see everyday in that class.

What's that? You didn't know about my film class? Well, perhaps you'd like to support the Bulgarian Children's Film Project here:

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=313-129

I'm going to keep doing this until it sticks.

Miss Me?

2009-10-12T16:28:00.003+03:00

I'm sure you've all been pining away without the regular missives from the Big Little. I'm trying to get back on that today.

The latest technological innovation to strike Big Little Elementary is a water cooler. Like any new technology, its reception has been rife with controversy. The water cooler, for me, comes with associations with a sterile workplace, oozing the smell of coffee and carpet cleaner. To see it shoved into the chaos that is the mejdychasie (break between classes) is somewhat unnerving. Kids can only be up to no good if they're using the hot water and it's a rare day when there isn't an expanding pool of water on the floor by 10AM. Meanwhile, the school has imposed the rule that students must bring their own plastic cups to make use of the machine. When, unsurprisingly, the children arrive without plastic cups, what is the inevitable result? A knock on the door of the teacher's room, a high-pitched whine about extreme thirst verging on death. And eventually, one of the teacher's will break and distribute a single cup with the warning that this is the last time. But it will never be the last time. They know they can get a cup from the teacher's room and ultimately we can't let them go thirsty. And so, of course, we turn on each other. Screaming matches between undefined opponents have become more or less quotidian. It's another of these great problems with no satisfying solution. I imagine we will continue to hand out plastic cups and grumble about it. It's much like everything else.

I Wouldn't Like Being the Object of Martha's Disgust

2009-09-29T13:51:00.001+03:00

Tolstoy's Brain

2009-09-27T13:36:00.003+03:00

For those of you who were bored reading Tolstoy's ramblings in War & Peace, perhaps this will help you appreciate just how crazy one can go thinking too much. I'm sure we've all had such conversations with ourselves in various states of sobriety.

Whoa!

2009-09-23T13:38:00.001+03:00

The Haul; also, What is Mevlit?

2009-09-17T20:36:00.004+03:00

The age of Big Little Boston officially came to an end today. I'd been carrying a few watermelons a day back to my place, since I am in the unfortunate position of not owning a horse cart. Today as I started my running descent in the forest, I was flagged down by a baba who told me that her husband was willing to help me load up my Boston into his cart. Here's the man himself coming to the rescue.

I couldn't allow this opportunity to slide, so I set about consolidating the fruit of Boston.

It didn't take long and after half an hour or so, I'd packed up my summer's labor into two bags, carted it on home, and lugged it all up the stairs. Now begins the season of "What the hell am I going to do with all these watermelons and squashes?" Soup, I guess.

Above is pictured Mehmed and his gorgeous Karakachan.

Last night, I went to a Mevlit. I actually can't find any information on the internet to corroborate what I learned, which leads me to believe that Mevlit may be unique to Bulgarian Turks. I have read that following the death of a family member, Muslim traditions dictate that there be feasts at certain intervals after the death. However, I can't find anything on the internet that says that one of these feasts be held on the 52nd day after the death. However, this is the case in the Big Little. I was invited to the Mevlit by my director, whose uncle had passed away in Sweden 52 days ago. It was vaguely explained to me that after 52 days, a man's soul was eligible to ascend to heaven and that we were feasting in order to nourish his soul. It was a small affair, about six male guests with whom I sat. It seemed that I was there to polish off each of the seven courses that was brought to the table, a situation that I cannot complain about. During the meal, they told me that the man who died had fled from Bulgaria at the age of sixteen, catching a boat from Ruse to Istanbul before ultimately ending up in Sweden, finding himself a nice Swedish woman, and becoming a doctor. This snippet is romantic beyond words and couples nicely with the short vignette about losing sight in his right eye after being struck by the school director of the time. Anyway, the point of this desultory portion of the entry is merely to say that I was honored to be invited to a Mevlit and that I ate very well last night. Also, if anyone knows anything else about Mevlit, I would love to hear about it.

Comments?

What's Good Enough

2009-09-16T18:52:00.002+03:00

Taking a look back on my blog entry from a year ago, I must smirk at my misplaced optimism and complete misread of the situation. But I suppose it's rare that one wonders blind into a situation and grasps it fully. To clarify, there certainly is room for optimism in the Big Little; it just isn't where I tried to put it last year. If I were given the opportunity to return next year, I would probably have similar if less dramatic feelings toward this entry.

September fifteenth, technically the first day of school, was virtually identical to how I described it before. We dramatically raised the Bulgarian flag to a blasted scratchy recording of the national anthem. It was followed by a confusing performance of Little Red Riding Hood in which, instead of being afraid, LRRH overcomes the wolf using the power of the education and wolf resolves to go to primary school. It's a potent metaphor.

This was followed by the obligatory heavy drinking with the teachers. Obligatory, at least, for us men folk. I don't know how I will be able to go back to drinking by American standards. When we sit down for our pre-ordered cheese-covered chicken, we automatically order 100 milliliters of rakia. For those of you who don't contemplate the metric system when approaching a bar, you should know that there are 25 mL in your average American shot of whiskey or tequila or whatever. Over the course of a teacher banquet, we drink two or three of these and chase it with a 500 mL bottle of beer (as opposed to the baby 330mL tiny town things we have in the States). I guess I don't really know teachers' habits in the States, but am I correct in assuming that your average official 2 hour get-together doesn't involve 8 shots of whiskey and 2 beers? Anyway, it tends to kill the remainder of the day. But I think that before Bulgaria, I would be baffled by such a showing, rather than accepting it as profoundly quotidian.

On to the real first day of school. Today. Actually, things went surprisingly smoothly. This year I have the good fortune to have the majority of my classes early in the day, when the cattles are nice and docile. Little Kader was in class with a textbook and notebook. She angelically took notes and didn't punch anyone. And the other kids didn't mess with her, except to tell me that she couldn't read. Everything went according to plan. Knowing what I can reasonably expect combined with a fresh start is just what I need. Or, I'm pretty sure it is. My new plan is to sedulously devote myself to class-planning during the school day (i.e. for the following day), leaving my evenings free of that nebulous pressure.

In addition I received a shipment of children's books from the States, which will hopefully inspire all kinds English-related activities. There are books about whales, earthworms, and firemen. Kids like those, right?

Perhaps those of you with whom I've spoken to recently noticed my failure to effectively deal with the amorphous schedule of the first two weeks of September. With nothing to structure my life around, I allowed almost everything to fall by the wayside. I don't know if it will continue to work, but the injection of a school schedule has revived me and for the first time this month I felt like I belonged in the Big Little.

The good vibes continue. My guy Sezgin is back from England. I received a package from my parents with a GRE study-book and peanut butter. What more could a fella in Bulgaria want? I'm probably going to arbitrarily shove a few GRE words into my entries over the next few months, just to practice. Don't be offended.

Also, is it strange that I've been listening to Leonard Cohen and Cyndi Lauper on a loop lately?

It's Come to This

2009-09-09T19:43:00.001+03:00

Here's to the Autumnal Darkness.

Reflections of Summer: Photographer of the Year 2009 Brent Forgues

2009-09-09T11:54:00.005+03:00

Jump cut to fall. Forget transitions, fades. Those are for Hollywood directors. Why waste the audience's time easing them into the new season? September is upon us and with it autumn has arrived at its dispiriting best. It isn't the autumn of cool walks savoring the smell of sweet dead wood. Instead it is debilitating darkness and constant rain, most of us which flows directly through my walls. I know the real autumn will come, the autumn that is my favorite season. But for now, the lack of transition has been like hitting a wall in an open field. I'm a little dazed, unsure of how I got into this situation, and hesitant to proceed. The worthless two weeks preceding school involve teachers milling around the building, complaining about the work they have to do, but mostly just drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and messing around on the computers. Mind you, that's exactly what I do, except the cigarettes. But I hate these two weeks. If I'm going to be at school, I might as well be actually working. Staring has been at an all-time high so far this week.

Re-discovering Brent Forgues' photography site has given me an excuse to look back on the summer and smile. It was exhausting. But beautiful. For Grace, it was Beautiful to Forget. But for me, it was the opposite, seeing as I'm already in the Forgotten realm. The following pictures of those emissaries to the forgotten were all taken by Mr. Brent Forgues, who possesses an innate talent for capturing people at their beautiful best. And he never wastes our time with imperfection.

The Hair Cut

And I Could Have Been Playing Tennis Too...

2009-09-06T16:06:00.003+03:00

I feel fortunate that I did not bother to research ahead of time Leonard Cohen's 2008-2009 tour. The concert on Friday in Bucharest was all the more mind-blowing having arrived with no sense of what to expect. I didn't even know that this was Leonard Cohen's first tour in fourteen years. I expected that it would be a good concert and that the coolness points were not to be ignored (I mean, Leonard Cohen in Bucharest. Come on!). In this case, my ignorance just made me that much more impressed. Really, it probably made little difference.

It turns out that my comment after the concert that it was the perhaps the best band I've ever seen may have satisfied Leonard Cohen. I now feel the need to research and listen to Javier Mas, The Webb Sisters, and Sharon Robinson and then simply lie back in awe of the idea of having them as one's band.

The gem of the performance (among many, of course), in my opinion, was "The Partisan." Unfortunately, it is not featured on the Live CD, since I suppose it was added to the set later. Here is the performance from a few days before in Belgrade.

Strangely, the rendition of Hallelujah was rather flat. I wonder if he felt obligated to perform it, although I doubt that Cohen would ever bow to the expectations of a crowd in such a way. I was baffled by his decision to explicitly pronounce the words "do you" a la Rufus Wainwright's fantastically dull version. All I can think of is that he wanted to make the song more jarring.

Directly outside of the barriers well within the range of the speakers was a pair of red clay tennis courts. I spent a lot of time fantasizing about playing a set of tennis and finding that Leonard Cohen was playing a concert on the other side of the fence. I will add it to my top ten visions of Heaven.

The Horrors of the Sunflowers

2009-09-03T20:15:00.000+03:00

The moment you've been waiting for has finally arrived. The blockbuster hit of the summer is available for free right here! It features the brilliant acting and improvisational skills of the children of the Big Little. The music of Olaf Mary, S. Sandrigon, and Barıs Manço provides the perfect backdrop. The cinematography of Graine Proinseas tells the story the way it must be told. The Big Little is proud to present...

In all seriousness, if you like what you see and want to see more of it, I highly encourage you to support my project here:

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=313-129

This will be my last utterly shameless plug. As I've stated elsewhere in the blog, the idea is to create a media center for the students of the Big Little. The money will be used to purchase a camera and computer. I will teach the kids how to use them and to make their own films. My aim is both to provide them with new skills and to hopefully stir up some of that dormant creativity that I catch sublime glimpses of from time to time. Send the movie to your friends. Ask them for money. Seriously, tiny contributions are more than appreciated. One, five, ten dollars. It'll get us there. Enjoy the movie.

Send Me Dead Flowers

2009-09-03T19:17:00.002+03:00

The first sign of my return to mediocre running form came today when I completed my monster cycle. This cycle is as follows. I do the first part of my run normally, conquer the hill and then head back into the woods. Shortly before re-emerging, I take a sharp right up a new fairly steep hill. This path leads to the sunflower fields and adds about 20 minutes to my run. At the moment, this is my monster cycle, but some day, I imagine, it will become the medium-length run. And then the short one, and so on.

The last time I made this run was in June. It looks different now.

Normally I find dead plants beautiful. I can rejoice in the cycle and all of that tripe. And I suppose they aren't without a certain beauty. But something about dead sunflowers depresses me to no end. The way they hang their heads, having been robbed of their color and their seeds, continuing to bake in the sun despite having fulfilled their purpose. For some reason, it makes me imagine that they have had their souls torn out. Soulless sunflowers in rows in fields. I don't know. It gets to me.

A Few Folks

2009-09-02T14:42:00.003+03:00

I like most of the people in Big Little. That said, I've had a lot of trouble getting to the point where I really enjoy hanging out with one individual for more than an hour or so. Quite simply, we run out of things to talk about. I'm a decent conversationalist, but I'm not so good at creating and maintaining on my own. For this reason among others, I haven't made close friends here. There are many people I get along with and who will help me out if I need it, but nobody I can really just chill with. It can be a drag.

Yesterday I was exercising and was approached by guy who I'd seen around and he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk in the woods. Since I was intending to take a walk later anyway, I figured I might as well. And this guy might be able to show me some new places. So we stopped by his place to get his dog, thus scoring Sabri another point. I was almost in shock at the idea of someone actually walking his dog. And he told me that he doesn't hit his dog. Mind blown. As we walked, he told me how nobody wants to go on walks with him because they'd rather smoke and drink and how he just wants to walk his dog and exercise. In the Big Little, this makes us practically soulmates. We walked for over an hour and I wasn't itching to get away as fast as possible. Good signs. So here's to the possibility of a friend.

I've been seeing Kader and her brother a lot this summer, unlike the rest of the children in the village. I suppose this is, simply, because her family is poor and can't afford to go to the beach. Kader is one of my favorite and most difficult students. I can barely call her a student, I suppose, because she comes to school less than half the time. When she is there, she pretty much just picks fights with the other kids in my already unruly 4th grade (now 5th) class. I get frustrated because I know that a large part of the reason that the other kids hate her is that she is poor. In the village, her family is the only one that I've noticed people actively avoiding. When she's in class, the kids comment on her clothes being dirty or just tell me flat out that she's poor. It bugs me. I get along with her outside of class the best and her smile can cheer me up on those many days when I can't stand children. For some reason, I feel a connection with her more than most of my other students. And she often goes out of her way to talk to me. I've decided that I'm going to try to spend as much time with her as I can this year. I don't have any grandiose ambitions, but... well, we'll see how it goes.

Signs of Hope or Progress

2009-09-01T12:04:00.002+03:00

Sometimes it's easy to give up on Bulgarian villages. Living here in the Northeast, especially when venturing to some of the surrounding villages whose populations have dwindled from thousands to a few hundred, it's hard to see a future for the village life here. Young people are leaving for work abroad and often they are not returning. If they do, it's to drop off their kids so that their parents can care for them for a while. It appears I've lost two or three students this year to the bigger cities, which feels like a lot considering my biggest class last year had 13 students.

This is why I latch on to little things, just some signs that people haven't given up on their village. A few months ago, the town got around 60 dumpsters, allowing us to not throw our trash into the ditch on the outskirts of town or the hole behind the school. I find this promising. In addition, the mayor has added speed bumps to the town center, which may prevent people from cruising through at sixty miles an hour. These two things are relatively big deals on their own, but more importantly for me, they signify a sense of pride in our village. People are still working on it and so they must believe that this town has a future.

Fragmentary Summary: Part 1: Ultimate

2009-08-22T23:39:00.003+03:00

As many of you know, I spent some time recently in Romania and Ukraine. To write something coherent and all-encompassing is out of reach and only retreating now, so I will provide you with notes and amusing anecdotes and perhaps someday I'll have something developed to say about my travels. This entry will focus on the ultimate tournament in Kiev.

1. Participated in Kiev Hat 2009, an Ultimate frisbee tournament. Of the hat variety. In Kiev. Actually it was a beach tournament. What beach, you ask? There are islands in Dnieper that have shockingly good beaches.

2. My team, Barbados, came in last place, continuing my hat tournament pattern of winning or completely losing.

3. The tournament was a lot of fun, but horribly organized. With three 25-minute (!) games on Saturday and two on Sunday, probably got less playing time than an average day of pick-up. And they tried to feed the 250 present with a single household stove serving up high prep foods like chicken. Many hungry people. A man selling corn who stumbled upon the tournament sold out in minutes, which was surely a first for him.

4. Those of us from afar were treated to a bottle of spicy Ukrainian vodka. We were informed that it wasn't a gift, but rather a means for competition. Chugging spiced vodka is not as hard as it sounds, but not something that I considered myself a real contender in. I drank enough to not be the first to quit and that was rather more than enough. Afterward we played a game of pick-up and apparently I asked who was on my team every time I caught the disc. I don't really remember.

5. Darren and I were interviewed on M1, the Ukrainian version of MTV. The interviewer was a pretty Ukrainian woman, who looked more or less exactly as you'd expect an Eastern European MTV host to look. Here is the transcript as I remember it (perhaps Darren remembers more): D=Darren J=James I=Interviewer.

I: Hi guys. Where are you from?
J: We're from America. I'm from Massachusetts.
D: I'm from New York.
I: And what team did you play for today?
J: Barbados.
D: Mauritania.
I: Well, you are very handsome guys.
D&J: ummmmmm....
I: So, do you have girlfriends here yet?
J: ummm, not yet in Ukraine, no.
I: Well, maybe I would like to be your girlfriend.
J: Well..
D: Ummm... you have about six hours.
I: I think that many girls will, because you are very handsome and you are sports men.
J: Well, they might prefer Darren, because his team came in seventh and my team came in last.
I: OK, thanks guys.

7. These numbers are meaningless.

8.I was impressed by the skill level of Ukrainian and Russian ultimate players at the tournament. The general grasp of strategy was not quite what I'm used to on the West Coast, but the level of play was still damn good.

9. I had no luck filming. Every time I turned on my camera, it was a cue for a misguided throw and a drop.

Darren & James Stumble Through a Game of Go

2009-08-21T21:25:00.002+03:00

Perhaps this will be somewhat difficult to watch. The purpose behind this video is to show myself and Darren just how bad we are at Go at this moment. With luck and determination, we will be able to watch this video in six months or so and cringe at our overall gameplay. Go's cool like that. I estimate that we are playing here at a 9-10K level, which Kageyama tells us can be a sticking point for many players. We, however, insist on being stronger players. Is it unreasonable to dream of someday reaching the Dan ranks?

For those of you not as interested in the Go, you may be captivated by the soundtrack, which, despite being chopped up, sounds pretty damn good, in my opinion.

Support the Big Little Film Project

2009-08-14T16:04:00.005+03:00

Tell your rich friends that the new wave of Bulgarian cinema is upon us and this is their chance to help in its creation. My grant proposal for a media center for Big Little School is approved and now we are just waiting for funding. Where does the funding come from? From you, of course. And your friends and your family.

Take a look at the official site so that you can see the truth behind this:

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=313-129

By way of explanation, I have been planning this project along with my school director to create a media room in our school. At the moment, the room is being used mainly for abacus storage and while this will be a loss for the school, I think it's a worthy trade and that the abaci can be placed elsewhere. We already have a projector and screen and the money will be used to buy a digital camera and computer for editing digital video. I will be working with the children in three groups working on films of their devising while at the same time putting together a short documentary about the Big Little itself. My students already are fairly proficient with computers and so I think that digital editing is a good next step for developing skills and, hopefully, imagination. Help my project and I can promise you that you will be repaid in full and beyond with amusing short films from the village and the distinct possibility of epics. You can't afford not to help us out!

And so I'm officially beseeching all my fans to give whatever you can to this project, whether it be five dollars or three thousand four hundred and ninety-seven. Whatever you can. And keep in mind, it's all tax deductible and all that good stuff.

The Thing to Do in Suceava

2009-08-05T03:03:00.004+03:00

I suppose it's just unavoidable.
I've decided that I prefer people who attempt to communicate via confidence and trust rather than fumbling with a few words of English. If people are patient with each other, they will understand each other eventually and your 10, 20, or 30 words in whatever language will not help and instead will just lead to more misunderstanding. I'm not sure where one can go with that thought.

Concluding Epics

2009-07-31T23:02:00.003+03:00

Within a single 24-hour period, I reached the end of 2 epic journeys that I've been undertaking of late. First, I watched the final episode of the newer Battlestar Galactica series. It was, not surprisingly, heavy-handed and just plain heavy as they tried the resolve the entire a story in a single 2-hour extravaganza. As Ms. Ward has pointed out on a few occasions, it's possible that boredom has eroded whatever good taste we may have had, as I was strangely able to withstand the many instances of painfully bad writing throughout the final season. I did bang my head on the table a little at the "spelling out a dull point" ending. But I kind of like the idea of "All Along the Watchtower" existing throughout all times and galaxies.

The following morning, I finished reading Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky's translation of Lev Tolstoy's War & Peace. At the moment, it's too close and too big for me to comment on substantively. It just is. And it's not clear at all what it is. Tolstoy claims at the end that this is characteristic of all Russian literature, but he has certainly taken it to an extreme. I think I will refrain from saying much about this for now.

I was surprised to find myself connecting Battlestar Galactica and War & Peace. Obviously they are both epics and both attempt to tell stories that defy historical explanation in many ways. Tolstoy is dealing with this more directly, but the idea of the causes of history and the place of "great" men in what happens is consistent throughout BG as well. If Tolstoy were to view Battlestar Galactica as a historical piece, I'm sure he would be disgusted by the archaic methods of writing said history. In War & Peace, he refers to the ancients understanding of history as "recognizing the will of the divinity who subjected people to the will of one chosen man." This is more or less exactly the plot of Battlestar Galactica, even if the destiny of the people is spread out to several "great" men and women. I suppose I get frustrated by overly fatalistic plots and BG is as bad as it gets in this regard. Meanwhile, it's difficult to know how to comprehend Tolstoy's theory (repeated to an absurd degree and then re-clarified in the epilogue) that history is not caused by great men, but rather by the collective will of all the people involved. It's cool. And he's right, I think. But how do we work with it? How do we collect that collective will? I also dig his idea of freedom (as opposed to necessity) being inversely related to the amount of time that has passed. That is, the longer it's been since you made a certain decision, the more it appears that that decision was necessary for what happened later on to happen. Viewing Battlestar Galactica 150,000 years later, as it tells us, perhaps impresses the fatalism that, at the time, did not exist. I know, by the way, that it didn't really happen.

Anyway, this is a 20-page paper topic. Or maybe more. I don't think I'm going to write it.

But Where Am I Going?

2009-07-31T22:43:00.003+03:00

Yes, if you were reading the previous post carefully, you will see that I'm disappearing for approximately 10 days. I'm shivering with excitement. Tomorrow, inshallah, I will arrive in Bucharest and meet the legendary Darren Southworth. The following day, Anna Aberg will join us. Call it a 6-year Irkutsk reunion. From there, we will wander the Romanian countryside, somehow ultimately ending up in Odessa for a few days before making our way to Kiev. In Kiev, Darren and I will hit up the Kiev Hat tournament, played on a mysterious beach on a mysterious island. My first real ultimate in over a year. It makes my soul come alive. If it works out, wonderful. If not, I'll try to make an interesting story of it. I don't know if I will have the time or inspiration to blog during my travels, so fret not if you don't hear from me for a bit.

Boston's Finest

2009-07-31T22:16:00.003+03:00

I know you've all been missing the Boston updates, so I figured I'd better catch you up before disappearing for a week and a half or so. I've been putting in a lot of time this week catching up with the grass that had begun to dominate the Boston. I got the worst of it, but if you look closely, you will still see large patches of grass. I will say that my chosen crops now have the space to grow as they see fit.

As you can see in the giant picture above, the representative tomato plant, who once had all of his limbs blown off in a storm, is thriving. He is the face of Boston.

The watermelons are particularly productive. I will soon be able to return the favor of heaping watermelons on some unsuspecting victim. Who shall I choose?

Jury's still out on the melons. We will see.

Also unpictured are the plentiful radishes, onions and green beans, with which I have been making my daily salad. Radishes, green beans, tomatoes (pazar bought for now), sirene, and onions. Throw on some vinegar and oil, maybe some hot sauce... delicious.

Here's the sad part. The Colorado Potato Beetle has thoroughly destroyed my potato crop. At first the environment seemed to be responding, but apparently not quickly enough. If I had been able to kill them everyday, perhaps I could have kept up on my own. I'm still hesitant to introduce pesticides. Anyone know where I can buy jars full of ladybugs? Anyway, here's all that's left.

If it makes you feel better, my kitchen's choked with zucchinis, as the song says.

So far, I'm considering my first gardening adventure a success. Boston Boston...

Sweet Taste of Victory

2009-07-31T22:06:00.002+03:00

I ran into my little brother of last summer. Hassan was itching to get back to the ping pong table where he so thoroughly whaled on me throughout those summer months. The first time we played last year, he defeated me in approximately fifteen straight games, before I eventually got my winning percentage up to something like 25%. It was particularly infuriating because he talked a lot of trash. Not terribly creative trash, but better than I could muster in Bulgarian. And my attempts at being clever weren't really adequate. I remember one such instance, the one time last year that I won a significant number of games. We were playing with a ball that had a slight crack in it, leading to many cheap points for both of us. He continually insisted that it was the only reason I was winning. I agreed with him on the basis that the ball fixed itself as it flew off his racket. My sarcasm seemed to vanish into a black hole as he smiled and went along with my logic. Meanwhile, I stewed and tried to come up with how to say 'a good workman never blames his tools' or some other bullshit line. Alas, I had nothing in Bulgarian.

After a receiving steady verbal assault as we warmed up, I proceeded to win the first three games. This was a shock to me, especially since I haven't really played in about a year and he has presumably been improving by playing with the highschool big kids. He cursed me and kept going until it became apparent that he wasn't catching up. The final game score was 6-3. Baffling, but satisfying. He practically stormed out, promising that we would play again. I'm attributing my success to a non-busted heel and enhanced mental toughness from last summer. I finally took advantage of his unstable teenage psyche and allowed him to self-destruct. Anyway, I think I'm being petty. But seeing as I can't be clever in Bulgarian or even toss any good insults, it's better to just win, right?

Scattered Thoughts

2009-07-28T14:31:00.004+03:00

Transitions are the key. My friends left. The time that James, Olaf Mary, and Grace spent here was an injection of pure joy and energy. The difficulty comes in turning that energy into something. While they were here, I didn't write much and I didn't run much. I was too busy enjoying these people, because I haven't been able to do so in about five years.

Now I'm returning to my life, at least temporarily. There are so many things that I want to use this energy for, and perhaps it's not realistic to think that I can do all these things. Especially because I've fallen out of the habit of doing them. I'm immensely dissatisfied with my writing lately, because I haven't been able to string thoughts together the way I'd like Similarly, having not run in almost a month, I am far behind in my training. These things are surprisingly similar in my mind. Just as it's not realistic to expect to run a marathon out of the blue, so you shouldn't think that you can just sit down and start writing something brilliant or even coherent. I forget this too often. With running, the cause and effect are far more obvious. You run more, you get better at it. Although my unconscious mind persistently denies it, it's the same with writing or anything else. I want to believe that I can sit down and write and my thoughts will together and make sense. Maybe even sound eloquent. But even after this short disintegrating paragraph, I'm feeling my brain start to tire and slow down. Sometimes I can make something out of a final sprint, but other times I just collapse. Prepare yourselves to endure vast amounts of poor writing before I get it together.

I neglected my balcony basil and tomato plant. The basil has burnt to nothingness. I will need to start over here.

The tomato plant that was so close to fruition has been set back considerably. Although he is recovering, it seems unlikely that he will ever produce much.

Small Talk

2009-07-28T10:29:00.004+03:00

It's hot today. Yesterday was the hottest day. 43 degrees.

Yes.

Is it this hot in America?

Sometimes.

Do you have water?

No.

Do you hoe your boston?

Yes.

What do you have?

Onions, radishes, beans, small watermelons.

Do you have potatoes?

No, insects ate them all up.

You have to spray them.

Maybe.

Are you alone?

Yes.

It's hot today...

Lost & Forgotten Company

2009-07-26T17:09:00.003+03:00

Three weeks of joyful madness passed with dizzying speed. While the immediate effect was exhaustion, I am hopeful that it is leading to revitalization. The Big Little is certainly my home of the moment, but it never felt quite so much like it.

For the first time, I could approach activities with confidence that something would happen. It's amazing how much support one's friends can offer without even exerting effort in that direction. I knew that we could step outside with baseball gloves and bats and that something would happen. Cameras and resolve to make movies will lead to movies. I rarely feel that way on my own here. All of this is horribly vague. It always is so when I try to catch up and explain the past. Soon there will be a movie available for all of you for watching purposes.Grace has chronicled our misadventures more beautifully than I could ever hope to. Itwaslost team's visit to beautiful Bulgaria will resound throughout this coming year. For now, it's too close to be seen. But it was good.

Language Theory

2009-07-17T00:39:00.002+03:00

During our mid-service training in Vratsa, I decided to attempt the LPI (Language Proficiency Interview) for the first time since the end of my initial training. My ambitious side a few months ago put the idea in my head of making a push for an advanced superior rating in Bulgarian by the end of my service. This is, perhaps, a somewhat absurd goal, given that many native Bulgarian speakers would not be able to achieve this rank. The difficulty lies in the fact that you must not only have a full grasp of the language, but you must also be able to deliver informed monologues on whatever subject comes up. Still, perhaps after another year of studying and reading well-written Bulgarian on various topics such as what is found on Pavel's blog, plus a lucky couple questions when it comes down to it, it's somewhat possible.

This time, however, I was not at my Bulgarian best. Several days of speaking only English, not enough coffee, and general nerves led to a pretty mediocre performance on my part. I ended up with an Advanced Low rating, only one step up from the Intermediate High that I achieved out of training. It's depressingly little progress for a year. Still, I'm told that the jump from Advanced Low to Advanced Mid is one of the bigger ones. I have to teach myself to enjoy talking a bunch of shit in Bulgarian. Correctly.

My minor victory came in the confirmation of one of my principal language cheating theories. Because Bulgarian features a variety of word endings, I've taken to imitating most of the people that I spend time with around here by swallowing the endings of words that I'm unsure about and passing it off as my natural mumble, from which it's almost indistinguishable. As long as you approach it with general confidence, people will think that you're actually speaking like a native. At the end of my interview, my interviewer told me that I spoke with flawless grammar. I was incredulous and responded, "really?"

She replied, "Well, you tend to mumble into your beard, so it's impossible for me to tell."

Victory.

As a final example of the trickiness of achieving advanced or superior rankings, here are some examples for the question: What's the weather like in your town?

-INT: the weather is good. It is cold. I need a sweater. It's very different in my home.
-ADV: I love the weather in this city. Here is cold and dry, while in my hometown it is hot and humid. When it's raining, I like to go out and walk in the rain. But I do not like being wet all the time, so when it is raining and I have to work, I prefer to stay inside.

-SUP: The weather in this area has changed in the last years as a consequence of global warming. Imagine that several years ago this was a beautiful green area, with a prosperous agriculture and amazing interesting natural life. The impact of global warming is felt in this area in ways you would not imagine. For example, pastures are not as green, and, a consequence. The produce is not as rich as it used to be. This has had a huge impact on the economy. Once these changes have happened, there is no end to the transformation of local life. Without economic prosperity, the quality of life of all individuals is affected. Natural resources dwindle and local activities, social gathering, and, of course, eating habits are disrupted. Weather has changes and community life has been disrupted.

As you can see, the advanced answer is already wordier than I am ever comfortable being. And then superior... well, jeez, I was just asking about the weather...

How to Play Durak [Дурак]: Durak Rules

2009-07-14T10:52:00.006+03:00

Because I often get blog hits regarding the greatest card game on earth, durak, I have decided to attempt to the write the rules here. This is by no means definitive. I have encountered many variations on the theme and have been laughed at for trying to play by these rules. Russia's a big country. The variation that I most loathed was when I played on a train and they insisted that you were on the same team as the person across from you. If you play with four people, you will find that you are somewhat figuratively on the same team as that person, and this leads to some interesting tactical decisions.

Durak Rules:

Before starting: Remove 2-5 from the deck. You don't need them! Sometimes, if playing with five people, I will leave the fives in. In general, I recommend avoiding playing with more than 4 people. Having the durak (which means 'fool,' by the way) sit out after each round is a good solution.

Goal: To not lose! There is no winner in this game, only a loser! You lose by being the last player with cards in his hand. So, in a sense, you are trying to get rid of your cards, like many games.

Set-Up: Deal each player 6 cards and then turn over the top card of the deck and place it sideways under the deck. Whatever suit this card is will be the trump. If the card is the 7 of clubs, then any club card beats any other card except for a higher club. As long as there are cards left in the deck, players will draw up to 6 cards, that is, keeping 6 cards in their hands at all times. The face-up card at the bottom of the deck will be drawn last.

Beginning Play: The order of cards from weakest to strongest (least to greatest) is the standard 6,7,8,9,10,J,Q,K,A. The player who has the lowest trump card in his hand begins play. He will play a card of his choice to the player to his left. In the beginning of the game, playing your lowest non-trump card is usually a good idea. The receiving player must either beat, pass, or take this card.

Beating Cards: The player who has had the card played against him can now beat this card with a higher card of the same suit or any club. He must be careful here, however, because every other player can now play cards with the same number against him. This is the confusing part. Any card on the table is fair game. For example, if player 1 plays a 6 of diamonds against player 2 and player 2 beats it with a 7 of diamonds, now ANY player (except for #2, of course) can play 6's and 7's for player 2 to beat as well. If player 2 beats a 7 that player 3 played with an eight, now ANY player can play 6's, 7's, and 8's for him to beat as well. As you can see, things can get out of hand quickly. The only limitation is that player 2 can not be given more cards than he has in his hand, i.e. more cards than he can conceivably beat. If player 2 beats all the cards that are played against him, the cards are removed from the game and he will lead the next round against player 3. If he cannot, he must take all the cards on the table into his hand and his turn will be skipped and player 3 will lead against player 4.

Passing Cards: When the first card is played against him, a player also has the option to pass the card to the player to his left by playing a card with the same number on it. For example, if player 1 plays a 6 of hearts against player 2, player 2 may play his 6 of spades, thus passing the cards to player 3. The next player must then beat both cards or play another card of the same number and pass all three to the next player. Passing can only be done when the first card is played against a player. Once a player has begun playing cards on top of other cards, he can no longer pass.

Drawing: As long as there are cards left in the deck, each player must have at least 6 cards. After each round, players draw back up to six, starting with the player who led the round and continuing clockwise. The player who was being played against always draws last, regardless of his position.

The last player left with cards in his hand is the DURAK! ДУРАК! Be sure to ridicule him appropriately. The application of a durak hat or a durak quarter jar is encouraged.

If you have any questions about nuances of the game or odd situations, let me know.

Bulgarian Fire Drill

2009-07-12T17:53:00.005+03:00

On the bus from Popovo to Ruse, our bus met the bus from Ruse to Popovo. Bus bus bus. We stopped, traded passengers, and continued on our way. Can anyone offer an explanation?My friends are here. It's raining in the Big Little. My Boston was nearly washed away during a storm in my absence. In my presence, there has been another storm. Who knows if my onions will still be underground?

The Colorado Potato Beetle has diminished in strength, perhaps partly due to my efforts, to the rain we have been given, to the natural response of the environment. A new blue beetle has appeared who seems to do no harm.

There are flowers on my ever-growing balcony potato plant. He has survived. He will survive.

Assignment #4

2009-07-12T16:36:00.000+03:00

Our fourth assignment involved a book that was lost is and now being re-written. The Viconians wrote it, lost it, now are re-re-writing. But at what cost and to what ends?

I don't expect this to make much sense.

My Spider Friends Return

2009-07-11T14:23:00.000+03:00

In Celebration of the Return of Blogspot's Love

2009-07-10T22:36:00.006+03:00

Why is there so much rain in Boston in 2009?The rain prayers have had their effect. When the rain prayers in the Big Little are formalized, Allah gives rain to Big Little Boston.

How It Went Down

2009-07-03T22:05:00.001+03:00

And yes, that's a cigarette, before you ask.

Yup, this guy...

2009-07-03T21:45:00.001+03:00

July Morning

2009-07-03T21:41:00.001+03:00

And in this moment, my camera batteries died. My brilliantly original plan of filming the July 1st sunrise was foiled by my past self who decided not to bring extra batteries. So, I'm not satisfied with the standard sunrise picture, but it's just a sunrise picture. Dime a dozen. I watched the sun rise on the Black Sea on the first of July, along with thousands of Bulgarians. It was neat.

July Morning is a uniquely Bulgarian celebration named after the Uriah Heep song "July Morning." From what I've been able to gather from various sources, it began with the Bulgarian "hippy" movement in the 70s as a form of protest against the communist regime. Anyone who considered himself to have an 'alternative' lifestyle would spend the 30th of June at a beach on the Black Sea coast and watch the sunrise on July 1st. My director claims that the reason behind the necessity of meeting on the Black Sea was the possibility of picking up Turkish radio stations and hearing the forbidden rock music of the west. In the event the police arrived, radios would be stashed and guitars produced and the people were there simply to watch the sunrise. In the meantime, it was place where one could whisper about one's dislike for Communism.

Anton brought me to the celebration, complete with tents and beers and everything that one needs for staying up all night listening to rock music. We spent the night at Kamen Bryag where there were certainly several thousand people with cars and tents, each blasting their own car radios as we waited for Uriah Heep's (among other things) John Lawton to come on. At 5AM.

Bulgaria's counter-culture doesn't seem quite as splintered or specialized as what I'm used to in the States. At July Morning, the metalheads hung out with the hippies, hung out with the emo kids... without any apparent sense that they were from different groups. In my experience this is uncommon. I don't know if the size of Bulgaria leads to this development or just a general greater sense of camaraderie sparking from being the weird kids, but I dig it.

Bands from the 70s & 80s such as Manowar, Deep Purple, and Uriah Heep enjoy vastly more popularity in Bulgaria than in the States. Having heard stories from Marta's host dad about secretly buying these records, I can see how the rebellious credibility of these bands is so much stronger here. I theorize that this is part of the reason of the continued popularity of these groups around here. They symbolize an era when you truly were rebelling by listening to this music and therefore they remain relevant today. Anyway, this is idle musing that could probably stand to be elaborated on when I'm in a more thoughtful state of mind. Or I'm way off...

Dre's PC Survey

2009-06-29T18:23:00.001+03:00

Diminutive of your name: JamesCho or JamesChe, but this was more or less invented by my training group. I've never heard a Bulgarian say this.

Favorite Bulgarian word: gotta be бе. Does that count as a word?

Strangest thing ever seen in your bathroom: just general flooding.

Best duner place you’ve discovered: I'll stick with Varna in the square, if we're talking Bulgaria only. Obviously.

Craziest thing that’s ever happened in class: Eighth grade boys mumbling "it ain't me babe."

Favorite Bulgarian beer: Pirinsko all the way. But maybe it's just because they don't sell it around here and so I'm not sick of it.

Favorite Bulgarian town/city/village: yup, Veliko Turnovo.

Ever ridden on a donkey cart?: Day One baby!

Best thing you have purchased in Bulgaria: The second guitar

New hobby/pastime you have discovered since being here: Is staring at the wall a hobby? I guess playing Go online.

Favorite type of rakia: Troyanska Kaisiya.

You are granted power to rid Bulgaria of one type of pest that constantly tortures you. What do you choose?: Right now maybe the Colorado Potato Beetle.

Best English t-shirt you’ve ever seen: One of my fifth graders has a German Moby Dick shirt. Does that count?

Which do you hate more–dumpy pants or clear bra straps?: mostly indifferent. I'm just sick of the track suits.

Favorite Bulgarian salad: Shopska. I'm lazy.

First thing you think of when you wake up on a school day: I think I'd rather die than get up right now...

Last thing you cooked: Chicken.

Do you like chalga?: I can avoid it enough for it to remain kitsch.

Would you rather spend a week without water or power?: It's too obviously water.

If you could choose one amenity to have, which would it be–washing machine or air conditioning?: I like the washing machine. It's year round usefulness.

You have a free day–no classes, no engagements of any sort. How do you spend it?: Most likely I'll just hide out. Maybe take some pictures, play some guitar. Sleep off and on... nothing good...

The Good News

2009-06-29T15:11:00.001+03:00

Speaks for itself.

The Unhappy Citizens of Boston

2009-06-29T15:08:00.001+03:00

The tiny bugs chomping away at my potato plants were a rather distressing discovery about a week ago now. Some research led me to the conclusion that these are Colorado Potato Beetles. A long way from home and making trouble. I was confused for a while because my limited observations leads me to believe that the larvae do most of the damage as they swarm and grow to a disgusting size and reduce my potato plants to lonely stalks. Further research revealed that the best way to deal with them is to kill them yourself.

And so I spent an hour this afternoon crushing beetle larvae between hardened pieces of dirt. It's one of the most disgusting things I've involved myself in, especially when they exploded. The worst moment was when one shot blood directly into my left eye. I washed my eye out with water to the best of my ability and I still can see out of it. But does anyone know if I'm going to die?

A cleansing rain fell on me as I finished my revolting labors. Rain is a beautiful thing. The gods water boston far more effectively than I could ever hope to.

7: The favored watermelon.

8: A fine field of onions.

9: Potato. If you look closely, you can see one of the accursed Colorado Potato Beetles. More on them forthcoming.

Survivors

2009-06-29T14:52:00.001+03:00

The lack of anything offering scale for these pictures creates the illusion that I have gargantuan plants. I will not dispel.

4: Mighty bean plants.

5: I'm pretty sure these are cantaloupes. Or some kind of melons.

6: The tallest of my tomato plants.

The Happy Citizens of Boston

2009-06-29T14:49:00.001+03:00

I'm still posting via email like a sucker, still confused about why blogspot is against me. Publishing through email has the fault that there's a limit to how many pictures you can send. Not exactly, I suppose. Rather, there's a size limit on the outgoing emails. So I had planned to have one concise entry depicting the residents of Boston, but instead I'm spreading it out and hoping that I can find things to write about. So here's the first batch, probably in the following order:

1: The representative tomato plant. This guy had all his limbs blown off during a storm but has recovered and I recently re-planted him here. I doubt he'll end up producing much, but he's still the representative because of his resilience.

2: Corn!

3: Radishes, I think.

Light and Cameras

2009-06-24T17:15:00.001+03:00

For some reason, Blogspot is not allowing me to post normally and I'm obliged to do it via email at the moment. Because I am not particularly savvy, it is ending up looking rather strange. Apologies.

Following a hard day's work in the boston, Jason and I took a walk. We discussed photography, light, and the benefits of a macro lens. These are the results.

Never Leave the House

2009-06-24T17:08:00.001+03:00

A sandwich can change everything. After an anti-social morning, I was forced to leave my house in order to buy lunch supplies. At this point, I was beginning to feel all right about the day and had big plans regarding work in the boston and a run. I had already made some decent progress on grant-writing and was generally filled with a cautious optimism. You will notice, however, that none of my day's goals involved talking to anyone. And I'm sure all of you have such days. Such days are far easier to come by in America.

The store trip was moderately successful. I bought some chicken, cheese, and bread. There were no eggs, unfortunately, so my breakfasts will take a hit for the next few days. On my way home, I saw my Turkish tutor messing around with his new car, a Volkswagen Golf from the 90s, reminiscent of the car that was my dad's that later became my sister's. It was also the car whose battery I destroyed and with which I once transported a skunk-sprayed dog. I briefly considered passing by without a word, but decided that would be rude and pointless, so I mustered a "Merhaba." He sprung out of his car with old man dexterity and asked me where I was going. I said I was going home and he responded with a succinct, "why?" I was trapped when I realized I didn't have a real reason and because I'm a mediocre liar. So I couldn't say no to a spin in his new car, even though my mood was not amenable to such escapades.

Obviously, I should have known that a spin is never a spin. First we drove to his friend's house to get the door of the car fixed. Then he took me to his Boston and walked around as he yelled at me for not remembering my vegetables in Turkish. At this point, I was mumbling to myself about how if I had wanted a Turkish lesson at the moment... I was disappointed when he made a right turn away form his boston instead of a left and we drove toward the 'hut.' Bulgarians inexplicably translate the word хижа to 'hut.' It generally describes a gigantic fancy lodge for rich folk to stay at and thus the exact opposite of what I envision when I hear the word 'hut.' He asked if I'd ever seen the hut and I told him I had and then he asked me if I had ever been inside and I said I had. However, the story continued as if I had responded in the negative both times. And so I was given a lengthy tour of everything I'd already seen in the hut. In addition, I was berated by one of the workers there for not taking good enough care of my boston and was told that we'd have to find some women to take care of it for me. At this point, I'd lost my patience and yelled back at him that I work in my boston several times a week and nobody else is going to start taking care of it. Later my Turkish tutor, completely oblivious to my frustration on this topic (because there's no word for "frustration" in Bulgarian thus defining the word with the language itself), told me that he was going to talk to the mayor about getting someone to work in my boston. I could have throttled the old man.

Moving on, we then drove to... the old hut. Repeat the same questions along with the same answers and reach the same conclusions.

From here, we returned to his house, drank coffee I didn't need and ate the ubiquitous disgustingly sweet Bulgarian chocolates. After a while, he told me he was going to Pomen and asked if I wanted to come with him. I told him I didn't because... and failed to find a good reason again, other than the fact that all I wanted was lunch. Not good enough. He also yelled at me for wearing jeans with a hole in them and that I'd have to change before the trip. Again, I was mumbling to myself about how I wasn't intending to go anywhere or meet people... And so I was persuaded to make the trip and I reminded myself that I did want to get a look at Pomen and he told me it would be a half an hour trip total. My Bulgarian math told me that that meant it would take 2 hours, but I was hoping for an exception.

TIME THEY SAY IT WILL TAKE x 4 = TIME IT WILL ACTUALLY TAKE

No luck there. Two hours of meeting more old folk and eating bubblegum flavored chocolates later, I was finally home again. I was doing my best to not let my hideous mood show in order to not make a bad impression on the old folk of Pomen. However, the tiny Turkish portion of my brain had long since shut down and I was resisting the temptation to punch something. I don't think I pulled it off.

Anyway, this is a somewhat whiny entry. My main point was that, on another day, I might have described these same misadventures with excitement at the amount of Turkish I learned and integration that I got done. Perhaps as little as a sandwich could have made this difference. One's mindset can change so much of one's experience. Now I'm waiting for my chicken to bake and hoping that I can fall asleep and appreciate today in some capacity. Tomorrow, there will be work in the boston and running.

Fifteen

2009-06-17T16:59:00.003+03:00

About a month ago I started counting down the remaining school days for the year. When I taught my last class on Friday, it suddenly struck me as rather anti-climactic. I don't have to teach anymore for almost three months. No more power struggles, no more endless battles on behalf of a single sentence, no more utterly baffling lack of reason, I could go on and on. These things I will not miss. But already I'm finding it hard to feel what was so demoralizing about the past year of teaching. If I think back, I can remember numerous instances when I wanted to walk out of the classroom and pack my bags. I can remember the events and how I felt, but I'm having trouble relating to it at the moment. I'm sure in September it will all be made agonizingly clear again. I am happy that I don't have to teach for a while.

With the exception of seventh grade, my students seemed to resolve to have me remember them somewhat fondly in the last two classes. Of course, this was helped by the fact that we weren't expected to teach and they weren't expected to learn. With sixth and eighth, I conducted classes outside under a tree with a guitar. I'm not even kidding when I say that we sang "Blowin' in the Wind" and "Нашата мила родна страна." Only half the class actually participated, but the other half didn't make trouble and it's amazing how smoothly things run when you allow that compromise.

I'm sorry to see the eighth grade boys go. I think we were just figuring out how to get along effectively and now they're taking off just when I started liking them a little. They're the coolest class because their personalities are starting to take shape and I can begin to seem them as real people. Last night I attended their graduation party and watched the awkward eighth grade slow dancing (you know what I'm talking about). Of course, they had to invite some seventh graders in order to have some girls there. I also was surprisingly ok with them drinking beer. I mean, it's their party. The song "3- 4" (not to be confused with "2-3-4") was played three times within the 2 hours I was there and everyone was getting down to it. I think it's some of the worst rapping I've ever heard, but I'll let you judge...

Another popular song features my new nomination for worst chalga chorus of all time: Бавно ли говоря, бебе? Или бавно слушаш ти? That is, "Do I speak fast, baby? Or do you listen slowly?"

Now the nebulous summer is upon me. At the moment, I'm already beginning to feel that same isolation and ennui that dominated last summer. Still, I'm confident that my many visitors, my boston, and just generally having something of a home here will get me through it. And I might actually have some work this time.

Finally, I'll leave you with an excerpt from fifth grade's performance of Snow White, including my nomination for best English-language acting by a Bulgarian.

Also I've been playing with Final Cut.

Bulgar Road Trip

2009-06-14T21:22:00.005+03:00

We were fetched on a fine Sunday morning in a beautiful light blue car from the past to travel through the Bulgarian villages. Anton and his friend Krasimir were leading the way. A few hours of driving brought us to Dolets, home to a hut fallen into disuse and and some of the finest nature I've seen here.The bridge was broken.
And so we forded.The previous two sentences were lessons in unnecessary words, I suppose. Pictures tell the story perfectly clearly, don't they?

All in all, it was a perfect day of hiking and musing, full of nature's inspiration and everything like that. Much of the inspiration came from the infinite shades of green. My return trip was made especially pleasant by a couple of rockers who drove me home in the Jeep Cherokee of my childhood.