home sweet home

I know I said I was going out with friends, and I am but I just HAD to know what they said about New Hampshire. And summoning all my native knowledge, I figured out how to answer the questions right to get NH. Most of what I found I liked. Freedom: Good. Independence: Good. "Live Free or Die" motto: GOOOOOD! The thing about Libertarians, that doesn't really fit, they aren't real New Hampshirites. But the worst part? Look at the last line, that was a low blow. I don't find jokes about the Old Man funny. Bastards. Ok well except one: "Did you hear they came up with a new name for the Old Man on the Mountain? Oh yea, what is it? Cliff."

You're New Hampshire!

You're obsessed with independence, and may even be a libertarian. For
you, freedom means doing whatever you like without worrying about the petty concerns of
others. You're a big fan of throwing out slogans that threaten those who might infringe
on your freedom. And yes, everything is set in stone for you. You built your house on the
granite. Sadly, your greatest material inspiration recently fell down and can never be
rebuilt.

Take the State Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

not quite indiana jones...

Wow this is embarrassing, I’m not even a state… Well, I guess it could have been worse, I could have been a Southern State… (It was a joke, don’t post nasty comments, it was a JOKE!!)

You're Puerto Rico!

While you refuse to pay taxes, you sometimes wonder if the consequences
of this are taking away all of your potential power and influence. But every time you
think about offering to pay taxes, you realize how little cash you have on hand to begin
with. Most of the folks around you look down on you and your state of limbo, but you're
trying to play both sides of the coin to your full advantage. Out of the clear blue sky,
you just became a huge fan of the Montreal Expos.


Take the State Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Ok, last quiz, I’m going out to see some friends…

i couldn't agree more...

You scored as Indiana Jones. Indiana Jones is an archaeologist/adventurer with an unquenchable love for danger and excitement. He travels the globe in search of historical relics. He loves travel, excitement, and a good archaeological discovery. He hates Nazis and snakes, perhaps to the same degree. He always brings along his trusty whip and fedora. He's tough, cool, and dedicated. He relies on both brains and brawn to get him out of trouble and into it. Indiana Jones 75% Batman, the Dark Knight 75% The Amazing Spider-Man 71% William Wallace 58% Maximus 54% Lara Croft 54% Captain Jack Sparrow 46% James Bond, Agent 007 46% Neo, the "One" 46% The Terminator 33% El Zorro 25% Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com

merry christmas!

My friend Tsvetana and I made Krichim's first punk snowman on Christmas Eve. It's name was Снеженайтор (Sneshanator). Unfortunately, in Bulgaria, snowmen have the same life expectancy as in America and he was quickly demolished by local hooligans. I hope you had a better Christmas than Снеженайтор. Come back tomorrow to read my New Years resolutions! 

technical difficulties

I lost my links. It will be back soon. Sorry if you are dying to read someone else's blog, Slate Online or Buzzflash, they'll be back soon...

frustrated with bulgarian

Top Ten List of Why English is Awesome:
10. There are no rolling Rs.
9. Passive tense. At some time in your life, your butt will be saved by it.
8. Indirect object, direct object: yeah they’re the same.
7. No gender agreement (kinda like my life…).
6. The biggest vocabulary in the world!!
5. At the most, in any tense, there are only two conjugations.
4. Most of the world’s movies are produced in English.
3. What other language has “onomatopoeia”?
2. Definite article: “the.” Always. Don’t take that for granted.
1. And the number one reason why English is awesome: I totally get it!

help make us # 1!

New goal for the week: I want this site to show up on the first page when you Google “Andrew Hamilton.” I know it’s not much, and I will of course pursue my continuous goal to be the best Peace Corps volunteer EVER and teach my students to love and understand English but everyone needs a hobby right? Anyway, I know this can be done. Did you know that there is even a job for this? I think it’s called a Search Engine Accelerator or something lame like that. So next question: does anyone know how to go about doing this?

"it's a small world after all"

As much as I hate the Disney ride, I think it is an apt description of what I have come to realize lately. The world is small. Though we number in the billions, humans are connected in amazing ways. And why not? We are more alike than we are different. Though as an anthropologist I have tended to look at the differences between people, in actuality I end up finding more similarities.
First, musical connections. Tonight, I had dinner at a colleague’s house. I was dreading going out: we had a bad snow storm today, it was a depressing Sunday, shut in my apartment all day making lesson plans. But I got on my hat, gloves, scarf, thick wool socks, new Bulgarian boots and jacket and walked into the cold. When I got to my colleagues apartment, before I even got in, I could hear the 80’s hard core rock pulsating from within.
This isn’t the first time I have encountered this. I only knew two Bulgarians before I came to Bulgaria, both of them were from college. One of them roomed with a team mate of mine. His name was Ognan and he was a scary fellow. Long black hair, lots of Megadeath T-shirts, black leather gloves, you get the picture. And I thought it strange. This guy comes all the way from Bulgaria, and he is obsessed with 80’s heavy metal. But once I came here, I realized it wasn’t an aberration. Bulgarians, men especially, love heavy metal. I am a big Punk fan myself (enough so to be that kid in high school with spiked green hair, but that’s for another posting…) but this music is too much for me. I feel like ol’ grandpa Andy, “why can’t you play your music at an appropriate level?”
But back to my visit. So there I was outside my colleague’s apartment as Slayer pounded my temples. I stepped inside, preparing myself for a night of “Headbangers Ball.” Fortunately, my colleague’s husband turned down his music, but not before showing me his collection. I kid you not, he had hundreds of CD’s. I asked him later what were his favorite bands and he listed off “Megadeath, Slayer, Sepultura, AC*DC, Pantera, Metallica” and too many others to mention. My colleague’s husband and Ognan aren’t alone in their adoration of this music. Many Bulgarians are infatuated with, if not 80’s Heavy Metal, then at least 80’s music. My host brother in Krichim is a huge Metallica and, oddly enough, Chicago fan. Let me tell you, after a few Rakiyas there is nothing better than belting out “You Are my Inspiration” into the early morning.
Another weird connection: work. My colleague’s husband works for a factory just outside of Bobov Dol that makes liquid oxygen and nitrogen (which now that I think of it kinda makes me nervous. Aren’t those really combustible? Like mushroom cloud combustible?). Anyways, the company is called SIAD and from the first time I saw the logo on a truck I thought it looked like the logo of a factory I used to work for while I was in college. So in my best Bulgarian, I took a long shot and asked him if he knew Praxair, this company I used to work for. He said, “oh yeah, SIAD used to be called Praxair.” So I told him about my old job, and my colleague laughed and said, “you two are colleagues.” It made me smile: here I am living seven time zones away from home having dinner with a guy who works for a factory in his hometown, that also has a factory that I used to work in, in my hometown. It was like when I spoke with another colleague who used to be in the Bulgarian Army during the Communist Era. We were on a bus somewhere and he commented, “here is where we used to train with the Warsaw Pact to fight NATO.” And I realized that there were places back home where my father had trained with NATO to fight the Warsaw Pact. At the same time, my father and my colleague were training to kill each other.
I don’t have a succinctly defined opinion on globalization. I think that we should strive to preserve cultural diversity but at the same time I think we must strive to connect our human race. I think here in Bulgaria, though things are going slowly, we are moving in the right direction. After 50 years of isolation, Bulgaria is moving away from isolation. Though 80’s death metal still grates on my nerves, I was happy to get invited tonight to a rock concert in the summer. I am also glad that I am now working with my colleague instead of wondering if someday I will have to kill his son. And though every time I hear that song it brings back bad memories of getting stuck on that damn ride and hearing “it’s a small world- it’s a small world- it’s a small world” over and over again, it truly is a small world after all.

the US plot to derail my senior thesis, uncovered

A student at the other Dartmouth (UMASS-Dartmouth) was recently visited from agents from the Department of Homeland Security for requesting a book by Mao-Tse Tung through the college’s interlibrary loan system. Apparently this book was on some watch-list and he was investigated because he had spent “significant time abroad.” Is two years abroad “significant time”? And the agents brought the book to the interview and left without giving it to him. You know, now that I think about it, there were books I needed from the interlibrary loan system in college for my thesis and I could never get them. I thought it was because some lazy idiot at Princeton had just forgotten to return it, but maybe some federal agent in his office somewhere was leafing through Conrad Anderson’s original version of life in Ireland, holding on to just to piss me off. Oh man, I hope it gave him paper cuts…
  http://www.southcoasttoday.com/daily/12-05/12-17-05/a09lo650.htm

andy starts recycling

I’m in a writing funk. A friend emailed me and told me I was a good writer and that I should give up my plans to go to grad school and just travel to weird places and write. I wish he hadn’t done that. Now I can’t write. So until I can get out of this funk, I will post old stuff. I wrote this about a year ago, September 15, 2004 to be exact…

I was inspired yesterday by a story I heard on NPR. The big talk on Capital Hill the last couple of days has been whether or not anti-depressant drugs can cause suicide in adolescents. One of the parents talking had found his 12 year-old hanging from a rope in the garage. He said how he didn’t want to fight or say anything that would risk stirring up all those emotions, but he felt that his daughter’s memories were making him lobby for a change.
It seems like a great hook for a story. A man, a quiet man who peacefully keeps to himself, is reluctantly forced to fight a battle of some kind. It would be a better story if it was a battle he knew he could not win, where fighting the battle is what’s important. Kind of like the native tribes fight against the US government. I think most of them knew deep down that they wouldn’t win, but they tried nonetheless. They were left with only two options: sit around and become slaves, or fight and die. Sometimes simply fighting the battle is what is important. Win or lose, this man, this father is dealing with his loss and the memories of his loved one.
It’s like a cowboy (Think: “High Noon”) hiking up his gun belt, pulls down his hat and walking out the door to doom. It’s like that dream where I put on a plastic helmet and old metal canteen, roll up my sleeves and march out my front door to face the Nazi Panther division attacking my neighborhood. Is it the “kill or be killed” motivation? No, that’s when you are backed up against the wall and are forced to fight your way out. That’s too easy, too simple. You fight or you die, end of the story. No, rather I am talking when you have the choice not to fight. You will keep on living, actually life might not be that bad. But you will always know something is different, something is diminished.
I think we all must do this. We all must fight against the memories, the inevitable, the “dying of the light.” Like in that last scene of “For Love of the Game.” The main character Chapel is an aging major league pitcher in possibly the last professional game of his life. It is the last inning and he is mere pitches away from pitching a perfect game. And at that moment on the mound he realizes what he is fighting against. Losing the love of his life, age, injuries, the end of summer, the end of his career, and the end of the franchise. All things that are beyond his control. He could just pack it in and say “goodnight, good year and good life.” Instead he keeps fighting because he knows that simply by fighting he is making baseball and the world just a little bit better. It is an amazing thing when people know that they are going to fail, usually at great costs to themselves and yet still try because losing it all is better than living with only some of it.

наздраве! (cheers!)

I wanted to put this up earlier, but school has been kicking my butt this week. Here is a picture of my Krichim family last Saturday night as we got ready to eat. Mladen, my host brother, wanted me to point out that we are all in one room because it is too expensive to heat other rooms. He said we were like all the forest animals in the old man's mitten. 

should i go or should i stay?

Well the secret is out. The Peace Corps and I are deciding whether it is best for me and my mission here to move to another city. And it is turning out to be one of the hardest decisions of my life.
On one hand, the reasons to leave seem fairly straight-forward. Since I have arrived, the description of my job has done a 180. I originally came here to team-teach with a Bulgarian counterpart with a school director who was very excited to have me. My purpose was to be a native speaker to help the students with speaking, pronunciation, and general practice along with transfering skills to Bulgarian counterpart. Shortly before the school year started, however, my counterpart left for a better job and my director was replaced by another. And while two replacement teachers have come (and subsequently left after a few days), I am now teaching alone.
My kids are crazy. Literally. A month ago a student came in with a pizza and sat down in my class, all ready to wash it down with a bottle of beer. Yesterday I took a knife away from a student. He was brandishing it at other students and I decided to draw a line at open weapons in my class. Only one of my four classes as any functional use of English and one class is so unmotivated, some students refused to draw a picture in class. One girl opted to take a failing grade rather than draw.
And the working conditions are a little less than ideal. We have just lost two beloved teachers because the 13th class refuses to come to class. My colleagues hate the new director and refuse to work with her. I am caught in the middle, I feel weird going to the director with a problem even though at times I know I have to.
But on the other hand, the people in my town are awesome. My town is full of caring people who love me. My neighbors always have a kind word for me and I am always getting invited over for a meal or a coffee or rakia. People in town talk to me and invite in for a coffee or give me free body spray. I have a class of prisoners who think I am pretty cool though a little odd.
And things keep happening here that make me think that maybe I am meant to be here. I don’t want to sound overly God-preachy, but I feel like I am being watched over here. Take yesterday for instance. Yesterday was one of the hardest days I have had here. I gave a test first period which is a nightmare. Then I had two classes with 7th grade (the ones who won’t draw), and 8th and 11th, who are usually acceptable, were loopy. I also got a Christmas package from my mom. It had my presents and peanut butter cookies. And as I walked back to my apartment, eating peanut butter cookies and missing home, I started tearing up. I missed my family, my friends and the thought of Christmas in New Hampshire. I haven’t felt closer to packing it all in than I did then. I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry on the street but wait until I got to my apartment. Then something happened. One of my students came up and started talking to me. This was the same student who busted into one of my classes with a giant long balloon between his legs and pretended to whack off. But yesterday he was a different person. He was polite, interested about America and me. I arrived at home and forgot about crying.
I got lunch and headed into town to make some Xeroxes for my bratty 8th graders. When I got to the bookstore-café, I decided to buy some tinsel and wrapping paper. I talked with the cashier. And the women in the café, overheard us and invited me for some coffee. After an hour of her talking way too fast and me smiling and saying stupid stuff like "really?", "uh-huh," "then what did she say?", she promised to bring in some canned fruits for me today. After I metioned that I love pumpkin banitsa (traditional Bulgarian pastry), she also promised to bring in some of that too. I went home and called a neighbor, and asked to come over and share my cookies with them. She enthusiastically said yes, and I spent the rest of the night drinking wine, watching Big Brother, talking about Chalga singers and participating in various feats of strength. I would like to note here that I won the push up competition with 60 at one time.
I went home, a little sweatier, a little more drunk but a lot happier. And that’s how it usually ends up. The school day goes miserably. I feel like a babysitter, like a failure, like I am wasting my time teaching kids who don’t want to learn. I think how I could better serve Bulgaria, teaching at a language school where my native understanding of English could be more beneficial. Instead I continue to teach kids basic English even though any Bulgarian teacher could that as well as, or even better, than me. But by the end of each day something happens that makes me forget all that and makes me feel like I have friends and even family here. My close friend Desi told me that I will prosper here and I am taking strength in her words and her faith. I wonder, however, if me prospering is enough. Sure I can make a lot of friends and maybe, just maybe find a way to not go crazy. But would it be better for my mission if I was somewhere else where I could use my strengths as a native speaker and actually participate in some skills transfer with Bulgarian colleagues? I don’t know the answer to that. And until I do, I will continue to mull this decision over.

out like a fat kid in dodgeball

I will be gone until Sunday, December 11, visiting my Bulgarian family in Krichim. Have a good weekend!

creativity gets andy in trouble again

     One of my prisoner students two weeks asked me to make a lesson on dating and talking to girls. Always looking for ways to spice up my lessons I thought, “why not? This could be fun.” Today I finally got around to making the lesson and presented it to them. Now I made it a little racier than I would if I was giving this lesson to, say, my seventh grade class, because they are hardened criminals, after all (even though it is only a matter of time before some of my 7th grade students become criminals…). But I realized I went a little too far as I stood in front of 11 men and recited the lines to Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing”:
Oh kiss me you sexy thing
Touch me baby, you sexy thing
I love the way you touch me darling
You sexy thing  
     Next time I will stick to the book…

Dunkin' Donuts in Bulgarian is: Dunkin' Donuts!

This really has nothing to do with anything but I was in Sofia last week and went to a Dunkin' Donuts. I haven't had a donut in 7 months and I was with a group of Americans, so we went. They had hazelnut coffee and boston creme donuts. I was very happy... Hmmmmm, donuts. 

down and then up again

     I have begun to take life as it comes. Some days at school are great and I have dreams of starting a career in ESL teaching, traveling around the world, turning on people to the magical world of English. Then I have other days like today that make me want to go home and call in sick tomorrow.      
The new colleague I talked about so glowingly on Monday has decided to take a teaching position in Kyustendil, her hometown. So it looks like Mr. Hamilton will again be teaching alone. I also gave tests today to two of my classes, which I hate doing. On one hand it makes for an easy lesson plan: “give test.” But on the other hand it makes my day about, hmmm, 100 times more stressful. In Bulgaria, cheating is very prevalent. It is an almost accepted practice. All my Bulgarian friends have admitted to, at some point in their academic careers, cheating on tests. And when I say cheating, they do things American students haven’t even thought of. Coded hair twirling, notes in tissue packages, and notes in, ah-hem, nether regions…
Every time I give a test I make two copies. It’s a feeble attempt to stop the ocean, but it cuts down slightly on the (overt) cheating. Every time I do it, I get a chuckle out of the student who is shocked: “Hey, he has a different test!” I like that the Bulgarian for yes is “da” because I can say, “duuuuuuhhhh,” and it just sounds like I am saying “yes.” Anyway, the kids were horrible today, even my very best student was giving answers to the student behind her. And this was with my Bulgarian colleague in the room. I took away about three tests but I feel like a hypocrite doing that because I know every student is cheating, these unlucky saps were just those who were sloppy enough to get caught.
I left school feeling pretty depressed. Not only did I have to be Mr. Disciplinarian-asshole to my classes but I was losing the person who gave me hope this week. I walked home stewing.
When I arrived at my block, I ran into a neighbor from upstairs, Sonya, who always has something nice to say to me. I asked her what she was doing and she said that she was going on a picnic with some other neighbors (interesting side note: “picnic” in Bulgarian is “picnic.” sweet.). Feeling that company would do me good, I invited myself along and ran to the store to buy some sweets and beer for the picnic.
Even though I felt kinda like a sleaze doing it, inviting myself along was one of my better ideas. There were six of us and we went into the woods around our block and had a huge fire and cooked shish kabobs. There was plenty of rakia, wine and beer and good food. The shish kabobs were made from some kind of pig product that tasted like buttered meat. Very good, it made me glad to be a meat eater.  
     But the best part was just being there enjoying a simple pleasure with people who didn’t care that I had invited myself along. They didn’t care that I couldn’t understand most of what they were saying. They feed me, joked with (and at) me and allowed me to forget about the day. Afterwards, I spoke with Sonya, and told her that I had a horrible day at school but had a great time at the picnic. She smiled and said, “this is life.” I could have hugged her, because I rarely hear things as true as that. When I am on my deathbed, gasping for my last breaths, I won’t remember that Hristo didn’t know how to conjugate “to wake up” in the third person. I won’t remember that Zdravka cheated right in front of me. But I will remember that first taste of that pig product and I will remember hearing “Uncle” Ivan calling me a bright guy when I correctly said that we were cooking like stone-age men in Bulgarian. Life is full of good and bad. In the end, the crap doesn’t matter. Sure, right now it seems like EVERYTHING, but given time and distance I will forget it. I don’t think I will call in sick tomorrow, because even though I hate the bad, I don’t want to miss the good.  

things begin to look up

Often, just when I think I can’t handle it here, things happen that tell me to hang on just a little bit longer. Today was like that. It was my first day back to school in over a week and I started the day in a deep funk. I was dreading going to school and facing those kids once again. Not only have I been gone for a while but I am giving all my students a test at the end of the week and so this week is full of review games and practice tests. I knew they were going to be crazy today and I was not excited about that. Before school I said a little prayer, just a simple thing. I wanted Him to walk with me today because I knew I couldn’t handle it on my own.
I had 12th grade first and though they were not happy about having a test, nor were they enthused by my games, they were patient and didn’t make my day any more miserable. After that class, I was called into the director’s office. Sitting on the couch was a woman I didn’t recognize. From what I gathered from the director, this woman was the new English teacher. This was quickly confirmed when the woman started speaking English. I almost started crying with joy right then and there.
For those who don’t know, an English teacher from my high school (the teacher I was supposed to team-teach with, in fact) left right before the year started. I was given all his classes and have been teaching the classes by myself, with my limited teaching experience and even more limited Bulgarian. I didn’t know when I first accepted this gig that out of 4 classes, 3 have no functional English. So I have been pulling my hair out trying to teach these students basic English, without a book and with little support (I have to thank my counterpart Galya here. She has given me a tremendous amount of support. But overall the school has been unable to help me).  
So today when this woman came, Mrs. Ivanova, I could have kissed her. I didn’t though. We went to my classes and she met the students. Of course they were the little devils that they always are and because my lessons were mostly review games, they were even crazier. I was afraid that Mrs. Ivanova was going to either run away and never return to Bobov Dol or else think I was a horrible teacher. Only time will tell what she does.
As it stands now, she and I will team-teach these classes. I can’t describe how happy this makes me. Under this structure, she can discipline and explain grammar in Bulgarian and I can plan the lessons and activities. It is great. I look forward to having another person there in the foxhole with me. It won’t make everything perfect, but at least it will even up the odds a bit.
On top of that, last Wednesday was my name day. It was Saint Andrew’s Day and here in Bulgaria, name days are a huge deal. They are even bigger than birthdays. I was bummed that on my name day I was with Americans who really could have cared less about it. When I arrived in school today, however, I learned that my colleagues had not forgotten. They presented me with a beautiful silver cross that they had all pitched in to buy. I was so happy and thankful. I spoke with another English teacher and he said that the gift was out of appreciation for all the things I had done. I felt very special.
I have been an Atheist for a long time. Things have happened since I arrived here in Bulgaria, however, that have made me believe in God once again. Today was another one. Here I was, at the end of my rope, feeling like I couldn’t do it anymore. Out of desperation, I asked Him to walk beside me because I knew I was going to fall. And seemingly sent from Heaven was this new teacher, here to help me to teach. On the same day, I receive a silver cross, from my colleagues in appreciation of all the hard work I have put in. I don’t want to sound all preachy ( I hate when people get like that) but I will say that tonight before I go to sleep, I will say a little prayer of thanks to Him for helping me hold on just one more day.

getting it done

People can say I "hijacked" the whole pie crust rolling mission but the truth is I stepped up and got it done! And I have proof! And look carefully, I did it all with a beer bottle. Who says beer is just for breakfast?! 

personal rant or andy needs a nap

Tonight I am going to bed very tired. It’s like any typical Sunday night I guess but for some reason tonight feels different. I’ve been in a rut all week. I should have been happy. I had a week away from classes, I got to talk with people who speak my language, I got to sleep on a good mattress, and I didn’t even have to cook. But no, for some reason I felt dead. I didn’t want to participate in anything and I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was like a walking deadman. Last night, Saturday night, I fell asleep at 9:00 pm and slept in this morning until 9:00 am. I am a lazy slug.
     I think something happened. Maybe it’s being alone so long. Being here in this little town, talking to people at certain (low) level in a hard language, has made me begun to think at this level. I have had to slow down my ability to explain myself to fit into Bulgarian words I know. Even when I speak with Bulgarians who know English, I have to simplify what I say. This starts to wear on you after a while. You don’t see it in your day to day activities. I mean, when you use most of the Bulgarian you know to keep kids from throwing stuff, or running out of class or hitting each other, your inability to form complex, personal narratives really doesn’t bother you. But when you spend a week with people who can understand you, well at least when they are sober, you begin to notice that you have changed.
     Last week and this weekend I felt bad about myself. I felt boring, uncommunicative and wrapped up in myself. And maybe I am normally. But I must find some patience in myself. I am kinda like a cripple here, limping around with my Intermediate High Bulgarian (just got a language test, go me!) trying to be the same ol intense Andy but unable to explain that tonight I feel a “little grouchy.” I am tired of feeling bad about that. Tomorrow I will wake up and go to school and teach kids who have been without English for a week and will probably be bouncing off the walls. And I will get wrapped up in my day to day activities again. And this feeling will pass, I know. But right now I am tired, and I want things to be easier. Times like this it is hard to feel like a warrior.

Thanksgiving (Observed)

Just got back to Bobov Dol after a week long conference in Bankia. Here is a picture from Saturday in Razlog where six other volunteers and I celebrated Thanksgiving. I hope you all had as much fun as us. And look in the lower left hand corner, we even had pumpkin pie. Of course, I had to teach the girls how to roll the pie crust but that is neither here nor there... 

mini-vacation

I will be in Sofia all next week, working hard, without kids. Hope you all have a great week and get to spend time with friends. Take care!

bones, jewels and massacre

Yes, I’m a nerd but this stuff is really interesting… The archeologist who is conducting this dig has to have bodyguards because he helped convict a bunch of grave robbers and now they want to kill him.

Mass grave yields Mayan secrets
A grisly discovery deep in the Guatemalan jungle may cast new light on one of the ancient world's most beguiling mysteries - the collapse of the Mayan civilisation. A grave containing some 50 bodies, buried in royal finery and bearing the marks of a vicious death, has been perplexing experts since it was unearthed earlier this year.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4450528.stm

well, at least I have a better life than maegen...

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	6.4
Mind:	6.3
Body:	8.6
Spirit:	5.4
Friends/Family:	3.3
Love:	2.1
Finance:	6.1
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

And the worse part is what they kick you when you are down...
"Your love score is very low, indicating trouble. There is love out there for you. Seek the advice of wise people on how to go about finding it. Do not lose hope. " I wasn't losing hope till I took your stupid quiz, assh-le. What the Hell did I do wrong to make them say "Your life score leaves room for improvement "? Damn, I need to stop spending so much time on the internet...

happy thanksgiving, bulgarian stylin'

Today is Thanksgiving Day. For someone far away from home, in a country where they don’t even know what Thanksgiving is, today could seem like a downer. But fortunately today I was able to experience what Thanksgiving is all about: people coming together and helping each other, not because they have to, or because they are seeking some kind of payment, but simply because they want to.
      This week has been a rough week for me. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep, my classes were exceptionally unruly and yesterday I lost a great colleague because the 13th grade doesn’t want to show up for class. So yesterday and today the last thing I wanted to do was host a huge party for Thanksgiving. Today all I wanted to do was teach my classes at school, teach my classes at the prison and take the evening off and relax. Instead, I invited everyone I saw to a big party at my apartment to celebrate a day that few knew about.
     To throw a wrench into the works, I had classes until 1:30, I had to be at the prison from 3:00 to 6:00 and people were coming over at 7:00. That gave me about two hours to bake banana bread, cook mashed potatoes, squash, deviled eggs, dip, salad, prepare a meat and cheese dish and, of course, buy all the ingredients for all that. I knew I had a lot to do, but I believed, like I do all too often, that I could do it all by myself. Luckily, my counterpart here, Galya, offered to come over with her sister after my lessons at the prison and help.
     They picked me up after my lessons and drove me to my apartment. They gave me a huge bag of goodies too, canned fruit, vegetables, sauces, things that you absolutely must have in Bulgaria to get through the winter. As soon as we arrived at my apartment we got to work. After five minutes, a teacher from another school in town arrived, and five minutes after that, two of my students arrived*. Like an army they converged on my tiny kitchen. They didn’t question why, they only asked what they could do. Wielding knives and derogatory comments about my masculine culinary skills, they peeled potatoes, diced onions, mixed salads, boiled squash and beat eggs. By the time my other guests arrived, I actually had things on the table and it almost had the feeling of a real Bulgarian “Na Gosti.”
At first I was ashamed that here were five supposed guests working in my own personal sweatshop. But I soon realized that they didn’t see anything wrong with this. I have heard again and again, after experiencing incredible acts of generosity here, that I needn’t worry about it, that’s how people are here. And yet still I resisted that. How can people who work all summer preparing canned fruits and vegetables for the winter, give them to me like they were nothing? How can people who make about $120 a month, buy me lunches, dinners, coffees without blinking an eye? How can people who work all day, go visit someone else’s home, roll up their sleeves, and work as hard as if they were the hosts?
I don’t know why they are like that here but they are. They humble me. I have money here, the Peace Corps certainly doesn’t let me starve, but the Bulgarians I have met give and give and give till they have nothing left. They have a great sense of what it means to look after ones neighbor. If you need help they are there, with a hammer, some homemade tea, Rakia, or whatever you need. And the only expectation they have is some vague notion that if they were in the same situation, someone would be there to help them.
Tonight, on Thanksgiving, I am thankful to be learning this: to give without expecting. It goes beyond that though, this giving is more than just redistribution of commodities, it is really sharing love. So for all my friends and family stateside, I love you and miss you. Eat some turkey and drink some eggnog for me and be happy knowing that I am loved here.  

*When my students arrived I felt like I had to make some excuse for the craziness that was my apartment. I welcomed them and said “it’s a crazy house!” One of my students smiled at me and said simply, “but it’s happy.”

democracy, calf stomach and cheap wine

I always considered myself anti-capitalist. I hate the idea that we live in a society where seemingly the most important thing is our ability to make money. It makes me sick when I think that people measure each other’s worth by the car they drive, the clothes they wear, the computer they have or the size of their TV. Naturally, because I am so anti-capitalist I was drawn to “the other side”; I thought “hey, maybe communism isn’t really that bad.” A conversation I recently had shed some light on something I thought I wanted.
November 10th was the 16th anniversary of the fall of communism in Bulgaria. On that day a colleague asked me if I wanted to go to the local механа (Bulgarian tavern) for some wine and шкембе чорба (tripe soup). Never one to pass up wine and stomach soup, of course I said “да.” We dug into the soup and the cheap wine “Меча Кръв (Bear Blood)” and the conversation turned to the state of Bulgaria and how the kids in our school are absolutely crazy. I asked my colleague how things were like during communist times and whether he liked things better now or then (my reasoning was that one thing a dictatorship is supposed to be good at is maintaining order). He smiled and said “now. I like freedom.” He went on to say, with hand gestures mimicking a horse with blinders on, that when he was my age he only could do what the communists wanted him to do. (I like this man, but I am afraid he thinks I understand Bulgarian only accompanied with extravagant hand gestures…)
The difference between now and then is that even though things were more orderly during Communist times, it was only because everything was controlled by others. If he wanted to visit a family member in Петрич, a town located near the border with Greece, he had to ask permission from the Communist party and receive signed papers stating it was ok. My colleague studied economics in school. He wasn’t allowed to freely study Adam Smith, Keynes, or Ricardo; students in economics learned about them but only in the context that they were completely wrong. Not only travel and education, but even personal habits were controlled. As my colleague described it, if you had long hair, you went to jail! Bell-bottoms, jail! Beatles records, jail!
I was shocked by this. Of course, I had known that Soviet-style communism had strict controls on everything but to hear this from a man who had spent most his life without choosing what to study, how to wear his hair, even what he could listen to, made me very sad. But he also made me very proud. I asked him what was the first thing he did when freedom came to Bulgaria. He told me ran for mayor of his village and won. After 50 years of being told by a bureaucrat in Sofia who was in charge of his village, this man took advantage of democracy and became the village’s first freely elected mayor. Something so simple, in his voice, took on the proportions of being elected president of the United States. He also went back to school and relearned economics, this time learning what he wanted. He now runs the Junior Achievement Program in our school teaching young people how capitalism works in the real world.
I still am not in love with capitalism, but I have found a renewed appreciation of democracy. Sure it may be messy, and every once in a while we elect an idiot, and all too often the majority thinks they are the only ones that matter, still there is something to say for freedom. Freedom to listen to what we want, read what we want and go where we want. I felt very lucky to find appreciation in these little things. For once, the conversation was more interesting then the soup.

the democrats finally get a backbone

“I like guys who got five deferments and (have) never been there and send people to war, and then don't like to hear suggestions about what needs to be done.”
John Murtha (Democrat Congressman from Pennsylvania, and decorated Vietnam Veteran) responding to Vice- president Dick Cheney’s claims that those who question the presence of US troops in Iraq are unpatriotic.  The “five deferments” comment refers to the fact that Vice-president Cheney received 5 deferments during the Vietnam War which allowed him to stay at home in the United States while others were required to fight.

just like new hampshire...

First snow in Bobov Dol! I am happy to report I woke up this morning to about an inch of snow on the ground. As this picture from my terrace shows it is very beautiful right now. I am glad that the snow has come because that means that snowboarding can't be that far behind! 

one part tea, three parts ракия. repeat.

My senior thesis advisor was a big Medical Anthropologist. He has devoted his life into studying the way cultures react to illnesses. If you ever get a chance to read any medical anthropology work you should, it is fascinating to see how differently groups of people can react to the same set of diseases. These last couple of days have showed me a little insight into the way Bulgarians react when their crazy little American gets a cold.
First I’ll explain what I had in American terms. I had a cold. I figured I got sick from either my students or Friday night when I went to the Disco. I had a huge headache, the chills, sore throat, a whole lotta mucous, I lost my appetite, an awful hacking cough and was very tired. I could feel the cold beginning on Friday night, I didn’t eat anything on Saturday, felt worse Saturday night and then Sunday morning, the cold broke and I thought I was going to die. On Monday, I was feeling better but called into work because I needed more sleep and a day without students. I took a couple Ibuprofen, some tea with honey and lemon juice, and some decongestants. I didn’t check my temperature because I figured, “what difference would it make? I would treat it exactly the same way.” My plan of attack was to just wait it out. I thought it would pass. And it did. I did not call a doctor.
Now for the Bulgarian response. It seems that my friends believe that colds come from cold temperatures. Colds can come from changing temperatures or simply from being cold and wet. Neighbors asked me when I was underdressed, and some thought it was from my long, cold walks to school. Another neighbor said it was from Friday night when I went to visit her and only wore a t-shirt. Another neighbor said that I should keep all my doors within my apartment open so that the whole place will be one temperature and I won’t have to go from a hot living room to a cold kitchen. This could get me sick. One of my 24 year old neighbors, however, saw me looking half dead and laughed, saying, “имаш ново гадже, нали? (Well, you got a new girlfriend, don’t you?).” At the time, I was not in the mood for joking. But now I realize that his comment may suggest another concept of the cause of illness: having a new girlfriend, and kissing her, can give you an illness. Maybe he and his generation are thinking of colds in a different way. Of course, I don’t have a new girlfriend, but that was part of the joke too. Now that I think of it, he’s a pretty mean guy.
Treatments for colds vary greatly. Most often it is something social. As an American, I am accustomed to being left alone when I am sick. I figure all I need is some rest, relaxation and peace. Not here. I think I was more active this weekend than any other time. I went over two neighbors, had coffee with a Bulgarian colleague in a café, and had four guests over to my place. Guests brought sweets, hot milk mixtures, two dinners (on the same night), and tea with cognac and honey (twice). Though I didn’t feel like it, we talked and talked and talked until I felt like I was going to pass out.
Tea with honey, lemon and cognac or brandy was an often repeated remedy. So was a kind of compress to put on your throat. It involves homemade brandy, crushed olives, scarves, boiled and applied to the throat. One person who told me this, even though she was suggesting it, didn’t know exactly why it worked. Sounds very much like Western Culture: we always suggest some medicine but do we really know how aspirin works? Another suggestion was one I had never heard of: fill up a bucket with very very hot water and a handful of salt. Then you stick your feet in it and wait till you get very chilly. I don’t understand this one but I think I missed something in the translation…
Here, people take a more cautious approach to sickness. It is a much bigger deal. If you are sick, you are always treated like you are dying. You must see the doctor, you must go to the hospital. You must go home and rest. Take plenty of medicine. Take plenty of time off from work. I was hesitant about taking Monday off, but everyone was expecting me to take Tuesday, or even Wednesday off too. My first period class didn’t show up today because they were sure I would not come in.
So I got sick and now I am better. Who has a better explanation and treatment? I don’t know. But I do know that I was underdressed Friday at my neighbors place and on Friday I was freezing after taking a very cold shower. And maybe I should have taken today off because I still have a nasty cough, and I nearly feel asleep in the teachers room between classes. And maybe that tea with brandy really did work…

goin guesting!

I have yet to understand the exact etiquette for visiting friends or hosting guests here in Bulgaria. I have mentioned it before but as a Anthropology student, I am very interested in common day culture like this. This part of life in Bulgaria is very important. In Bulgarian, people “ходи на гости” which means they “go guesting.” When you visit someone you are always offered something to eat and drink. The drinks can vary from coffee and tea to beer and homemade “ракия (brandy).” The food can also range from anything from a few sweets to a whole dinner that doesn’t end until you raise your hand and say “стига, преядох! (Stop, I ate too much!).” I am never quite sure what I will get when I visit someone. Most of the time the visit lasts 3 or 4 hours and by the time I leave can barely walk from the food and brandy. Other times I am counting on the food and after 4 hours go back to my empty apartment and cook chicken nuggets.
I think that the level of food and drink you get is based on how far in advance things are planned. If someone asks you to come over to see them on Sunday and it is Thursday, you had better not eat anything all Sunday because you are gonna get stuffed. But if someone calls you and asks you to come over now, you should grab a bite of something first because most likely you are just gonna get some coffee. Under all occasions, when you visit someone, you should bring something. This can be almost anything from a few sweets from the local store, to some coke, to a homemade apple cobbler that takes you all day to bake.
Hosting guests is the trickiest thing. Being a single, young man here I feel a little weird inviting people to my apartment. I am not a very good cook. These people who I go visit cook phenomenal meals. I am not kidding. Everything is made with fresh vegetables, meats, and cheeses loaded up with plenty of oil and spices. I am afraid that they will come over and I will cook a tuna noodle casserole and they will think, “damn, I’m not having this chump over again. He couldn’t cook his way out of a wet paper bag!” I also do not have a TV. This is another big part of hosting people. Putting on the TV and sitting down and eating and drinking. Most often the TV is turned on either to Bulgarian pop folk or soccer. Also, there is a tendency not to show up. I’ll invite people over for something and then they just won’t show up. I never know what to in this situation. Should I call them? Next time I see them what do I say?
I also have a tendency to either overreact or under react when people come over. I don’t know whether to lay out a big spread with dinner, drinks and dessert or whether to just put out some coffee and biscuits. Take today for example. Two teachers from school texted me on my cell phone and told me they were coming over because I was sick from work. I cut up a couple apples, salami, cheese, put out bread and nutella, and got ready to make some coffee and tea. I put out plates, and forks and was ready. They showed up with some sweets and I thought everything was going according to plan. But they barely ate anything! I ate almost everything! I guess this was one of those “just coffee and biscuits” time. This is such a huge part of Bulgarian life that I feel like an idiot if I get it wrong. I think they were happy though. And for the most part, people know I’m an American and have no idea what I’m doing…
On a personal note, though I was sure I did have it, I did not have Bird Flu. I am a little disappointed by this. I am a glutton for sympathy and attention and I can think of no better way to get the level of attention I desire then to be the first person to contract bird flu in Bulgaria. But alas, I am okay and I will go on.

jeezus, iz eenglish krazee! or why i am amazed by non-native english speakers

It’s 5:00 a.m. here in Bulgaria. I’m sick. My throat has swollen to the size of a grain of rice and I am afraid because tomorrow my only form of communication will be written notes, in Bulgarian. I hate writing in Bulgarian.
     It’s not that the Bulgarian alphabet is hard. Just the opposite. Unlike English, each letter corresponds to a different sound and that sound is always represented by the same letter. It’s a novel concept to most native English speakers. The problem is that after learning English for 23 years, my ability to differentiate sounds has been shot to Hell. Let me explain.
     In Bulgarian, there are 3 letters that always give me problems: с,з, and ц. The Bulgarian letter “с” sounds like our “s” as in “Sally.” The letter “з” sounds like our “z” as in “zebra.” And the letter “ц” sounds like “ts” as in “pizza.” But to me, these sounds often sound alike. Say them out loud and you’ll see what I mean. A native Bulgarian speaker can pick out the difference in a second. My friend Maegen lives in a town called “Разлог (Razlog).” I am always calling the town “Raslog” apparently because whenever I say what I think is “Razlog” to someone and they look at me funny. I will repeat it again, and get another strange look. Then I will say it one more time, very slowly, and they will say “oh, RaZlog!” and I then I will say “да!” and then they will laugh. At me. Another word that gives me trouble is “медицински (meditsinski)” which means medical. I am just realizing now, considering the shape I am in now, how sick is God’s sense of humor.
     But who can blame me for this inability to match sounds to letters when we take a look at English spelling. Consider these three sounds: “s,z, and ts.” (I will leave out “c” so I don’t put my fist through my monitor). It is true that usually when we write “s” and “z,” we say “s” and “z.” But as I am learning every day I teach, “there are exceptions.” We right “season” but we say “seezon.” When we write “pizza,” we say “pitsa” but when we write “pizzazz,” we say “pizaz.” We write “nose” when we say “noze.” “These” = “theez.” We write about the famous leader “Cortez” but we always talk about “Cortes.” Right now, I could go for some homemade “delishus cookiz,” but when I write to Mom I tell her I want some “delicious cookies.” Try telling a bunch of 7th graders, that “Mary has a sheep, but hazent any goats.”    
     We all know, unfortunately, that this is the very tip of the iceberg (or “izberg” depending on where you are from). This is why I both am amazed by non-native speakers and hate spelling in Bulgarian. Since we learn as babies how to do this stuff we forget how difficult it is. We also learn not to differentiate between certain sounds. I call myself “Andy” with a long vowel sound for “A” but when my friends in Ireland or here call me “Andy” with a short vowel sound, I don’t notice. When we are thrown into a language that actually has a set of rules and follows them, we are screwed. We end up saying “Raslog,” and “medisinski” and dying from a horrible sinus infection because no one understood that we wanted to see a “medical sister” and not their sister named “Medisinka.” Or maybe that’s just me…
  

my new boss

Well, apartment 17 has a new resident. I would like to introduce everyone to "кралица (princess)" or "крали" for short. Her name is pronounced like "Krali" for all you non-Cyrillic readers. I wasn't sure if I wanted the responsibility of a little kitten. One of my neighbors, though found this rascal in the coal celler, all alone and cold and the sap that I am, I couldn't say no. Here's us this morning. We'll see how this works out... 

a captive class

     Today I attended a play here in Bobov Dol. There were several differences between this show and others I have seen. For one, I wasn’t allowed to go in with my identity card or my cell phone. Another difference was that there were no female actors, only a bunch of men, two of which were in drag. Also, the theater was patrolled by 10 guards. But I must say the biggest difference was that I was surrounded by about 80 convicted killers.
     As odd as it may sound, I have begun to rely on a prison to keep me from going insane. Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I teach English to a small group of prisoners here in town. Before my classes with these prisoners, I teach a small group of prison personal who also want to learn English. We don’t have textbooks, I usually get hassled by the guards before I go inside, and I always feel like I am gonna do something stupid and get shot, but these four hours remind me that teaching can make you feel good.
     I don’t know what these men were like in the outside world. I don’t know what crimes they committed. And though, I am curious, I know that it is better that I don’t know. I learn during my lessons some details surrounding their imprisonment. One guy, Boris, is in there because he was caught in the Czech Republic by INTERPOL and extradited to Bulgaria. Another guy, Kiril, wrote during an exercise that he likes to drink blood for breakfast. I asked in Bulgarian, „кръв? (blood)” and he said, “well I am a killer.” The rest of the class laughed; I slowly backed away.  
     I do know the kind of men they are in my class though. They like talking about women, and sex, and alcohol. They talk about loneliness and missing their families. They study hard. They listen well and they get bored if I go too slow. But they are patient. When I used BINGO as an activity and it ended up becoming an agonizing 30 minutes of me saying “B17, O2, N9…” they didn’t complain or whine. If they don’t understand something they ask for more explanations and more work. There is one prisoner, George, who is my age. I thought that he didn’t like my class, and didn’t understand much. But he asked at the end of one class if there was someway I could help him with spelling. So the next week, we had a lesson on phonetics and he couldn’t have looked happier.  
     And they learn. After 2 months, I am teaching most of the classtime in English. One prisoner, Hristo, works in the employee cafeteria of the prison. He has invited me to eat dinner there, and so now I have plans to eat there after every class rather than going home and eating by myself. When I went there today to see the play, I got there early to have lunch with the prison psychologist (who is also a student, though in my class for employees) and Hristo, asked what my order was in English, and took it in English, even explaining what was in everything.
     I know these men have done bad things in their lives, and I know that they have hurt many people. I also know the respect with which they treat me. I consider myself very fortunate to be able to teach these men.
     The play was great, by the way. Three of my students were in it. It was all in Bulgarian of course, and there were no microphones, or stage lights. But between my weak Bulgarian and the psychologist explaining the plot in between scenes (of course, again in Bulgarian), I got the gist. A very special play from a group of special students.

aww, george, you're such a joker!

From  BBC this morning. This is actually funny…
PRESIDENTIAL SUIT
European suspicions about George W were briefly confirmed then pleasantly confounded when the president of the European Commission, Jose Manuel Barroso, visited Washington. When president met president the discussion somehow turned to suits, and how nice George's W's attire was. Po-faced, he said, "God told me to wear it". Adding after a couple of beats: "That's a joke."

lies about kathy lee gifford and other stuff

     You ever say something which you don’t know exactly why you are saying it but you realize after you say it what a stupid thing it was to say? I mean like when you see a girl you know somewhere and before you know what is happening you blurt out something like “Wow you look so nice today, like Kathy Lee Gifford before she got all scary looking.” And sometime between the incredibly shocked gasp that escapes her mouth and the defensive “what?” that you shoot out as a desperate screen, you hear in your head “dude, why’d you say that?”     
      Of course, if you are like me you don’t have the sense to immediately fall to your knees and beg forgiveness for the stupid thing you said. Rather, once the limp “what?” fails to soothe the anger and insult, you – or more specifically – I instead try to justify the comment with the first thing that pops into my head: “I mean you look really nice.” Then the attempted logic is challenged: “If you thought I looked nice why didn’t you say that? Why’d you add all that Kathy Lee Gifford crap?” Me: “Because she is really… good looking? Yeah she is hot!” But even the fake enthusiasm can’t hide that lie. And before I know it, I am telling this girl that I have always liked Kathy Lee Gifford and have had fantasies about her since I first realized the difference between girls and boys. Of course they are all lies. Hopefully, in this case. The reason I throw out all these lies is because I desperately don’t want to hurt this girl. She probably does look like Kathy Lee Gifford before she got all scary looking. But instead I lie and end up sounding like an idiot. And now the girl knows that not only am I a liar but I have a skewed sexual attraction to a woman who puts the “ee” in “Scareey.”
     I was recently and painfully made aware of this personal flaw of mine (the saying-things-and-then-lying-to-cover-it-up part not the Kathy-Lee-Gifford-fantasy part) because I said something very stupid and hurtful to a friend of mine. This girl and I have been close friends for some time now and we were moving towards a romantic relationship when for some reason or another I decided that this wasn’t the route I wanted this relationship to take. Instead of telling her that, I told her that I had asked this other girl if she had romantic feelings for me and was relieved that she had said no because “now I  was free to go after the (the first girl).” That was stupid. And hurtful. At the time I didn’t know why I was telling her that. I thought she would be happy that I was happy and relieved. Of course, subconsciously, I was saying this to avoid a big confrontation. That was stupid too. But the worst part was that I proceeded to try to cover up my original intent with lies. Instead of coming out and telling the truth I spun a web of so many lies that I can’t even remember what I said. I think some of it had to do with, yeah nevermind I can’t even remember it.
     The moral of the story is don’t say stupid things. But if you do, like we all do, don’t lie about it. Even if you are talking to a nitwit, the lies will trip you up eventually and the pain will be 100 times worse, for you and the person you hurt.
     The story doesn’t have a happy ending. The girl is now talking to me, which is good. But I know I have a long way to go to get her trust back. If I ever can.  

cheney runs the country

More news about how democracy and freedom of information was ignored in the run-up to the war in Iraq. I wish I didn’t have to put this disgraceful news about my country on my site where my Bulgarian friends can read it, but unfortunately this is the state of America and people must know.
http://www.slate.com/id/2129686/?nav=ais

warriors are we...

     I never understood why my big brother is so careless with his travel plans. I’ve traveled with him twice outside the states. Once was for two weeks in Austria and Germany and the second time was when he came to visit me in Ireland for a week. We had no plans when we arrived in Austria and since I didn’t know any German I left everything up to him. I guess ignorance truly is bliss because I thought he had everything under control. While except for the first day when his insistence that we didn’t need travelers cheques backfired and we didn’t have any money. That was about the same time I learned that the human body can survive on beer and sausages for a surprisingly long time. I had a great time with my brother for those two weeks, however, and consider it a defining experience in my life.
     When he came to visit me in Ireland, however, I learned that my brother abhors planning. In fact, I learned how absolutely reckless he is when it comes to traveling. I learned that he was arriving in Ireland shortly after he arrived in Ireland. In true Nathan style, he came across the ocean without being bothered by a little thing like my phone number. He also arrived without any firm plans of what he wanted to do, how we were going to get around or how long he was staying. It was like seeing the wizard behind the curtain and releasing he is just a guy with an airplane ticket, passport, and a jar of nutella.
     I am starting to realize that my brother is more than a nitwit. He is an adventurer. He is a challenger. He likes the thrill of the hunt and he doesn’t like doing anything the easy way (or sometimes the most intelligent way). And I have always liked that about my brother. But I now know it is more than an admirable trait. It is a survival trait. As humans, we have to be tough. We have to be prepared for battles in our lives. We must not seek comfort in our life, because we will never find it. It is a big lie in our lives that if we work hard and sacrifice and do everything right we will find comfort. It is a lie that we are working for a rest. We toil and suffer because this is the nature of the beast. This is the nature of the world we live in.
     Everyone who is reading this is a fighter. The fact that you have made it this far in your life is a great testimony. You have not given up, you have not thrown in the towel. And there are many of you, who have even done better than that. You have not only not given up, you have fought back. You have done what so many of us wish we could do. You have been a warrior.
     I’m not talking about some homicidal maniac who thinks the terrorists are just around every 7-11, and carries around a concealed gun, “because damnit, you don’t know who is trying to get you!” No I mean people who have a warrior spirit. Those who don’t give in when all those voices in their heads are telling them they can’t do it. These are the warriors of our world, those who fight and fight and fight and who know that the battle will only end when they die, still fighting. I want to be like that.
     My brother is a warrior. In fact, I come from a family of warriors. I always knew my father was a warrior. He was a marine, then a police officer, and the toughest man I’ve ever known. My brother followed in my father’s footsteps and became a police officer too. Like my father, he is a tough MF. My mother, too, is a warrior though I am sure she hates being called one. I always knew that teaching was a hard job and that she was tired at the end of the day from work, but I didn’t know it was from fighting. While she wasn’t fighting literal bad guys like my brother and father, she was fighting the bad guys known as ignorance, apathy, and skewed priorities. Like me she is a teacher. Now I know why she is tired from fighting that battle everyday for 20 years.
     I want to be a warrior. I have always wanted to be a warrior, but I thought the life of a warrior was different. I thought it was about fighting and finding relief. Far from it, the life of a warrior is a fight. Until we die. It isn’t about glory. It is about surviving. It isn’t about taking an easy way out. It is about attacking the problem head on and having faith that when the going really gets bad, when you are outnumbered, when you run out of ammunition, that you will find the strength to continue or that the cavalry will arrive. I am learning this everyday. And I am slowly accepting this Truth. I will not live a valiant life by looking for an easy way out. I will not become a warrior by booking my trip months ahead and filling out an itinerary line by line. I will only succeed by hopping on that plane and hoping that my brother will somehow meet me there at the airport  

do kids want to learn?

Today I am frustrated. I really want to do well here. Before I came here to Bulgaria, I imagined that I would show up, start teaching and everyone would love me. I thought from my first class I would get up in front of the class and the kids would be eager to learn. I thought I would know exactly what to do and my lessons would be fun and exciting and kids would be fighting each other to get into my classes. I have slowly realized this is not quite the case.
     I am beginning to doubt many things. I always thought that every kid deep down inside really wants to learn. Maybe this is because I was a nerd as a kid. I had boring classes of course. Especially math. God, I hated math. But I always tried. I always did my homework and asked questions and even though I hated every moment of it, I tried. I tried because I wanted to get good grades, I wanted to have a bright future, and I wanted to be proud of myself. Being here though, I am beginning to doubt that. Maybe there are just some kids who don’t want to learn. Geez, I really hate saying that, but maybe it’s true. Maybe kids in my class aren’t interested in what I am saying. They don’t care about grades, or their future or taking pride in their accomplishments.
     I can’t help feeling like this is just a huge cop-out. “Man, these kids aren’t paying attention in class, they talk amongst themselves, they call me ‘Mrs.’, they refuse to write down anything I write on the blackboard. I give up, it’s their fault, not mine.” I hate the sound of that. I absolutely hate to think that 13, 14, 15 year olds have given up. But everyday I think like that more and more. When I arrived here, some colleagues told me not to get frustrated, these kids aren’t interested in learning, it is “a school for the masses.” Another colleague told me to teach only to those who pay attention, forget the others. I remember hearing that, cringing, and thinking, “it’s only because no one is paying attention to those kids!”
     Now I go into class with a lesson plan that took me an hour to prepare, with pictures, matchbox cars, games and photocopies of worksheets (that I paid 10 stotinki each for!) and I can’t get the kids to pay attention. They would rather talk amongst themselves, try to get me to tell them how old I am, or how many girlfriends I have. Then if I get them quiet (with a big IF…) some student from another class opens the door and runs, or worse comes into the class, inviting me to a party with Shakira. At the beginning I thought it was because the material was way over the kids heads. The first lesson out of the book was about using the Present Perfect Tense with “from” and “for,” while the kids couldn’t even introduce themselves. So I throw out the book and started from the very beginning. But the kids still refuse to participate.
     My mom, also a teacher, told me to find out what interests these kids, but how we talk about discos, Bulgarian pop folk, and football, if they refuse to learn the present simple forms of “To be”? If anyone has any ideas I am listening…

mccain does it again

Senator John McCain once again stands up for what is right even though many in his own party are against him. The former POW promises to include a ban on torture on every piece of legislation that comes through the senate until the ban is passed. I can not believe that this is even a question. How can America not have a law banning the torture of prisoners?
http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/1105mccain-torture05.html

the lil chapel

This is a little chapel that I see on the top of a hill every morning when I walk to school. It’s all very dramatic, the way this singular little building comes into view. A combination of early morning fog and coal smoke lay lazily amongst the hills around Bobov Dol. As I turn a corner, there it is, a blinding figure reflecting the rising sun. The only white patch in a quilt of grays.
I am thinking of this chapel now because from the first time I saw it, I felt an instant connection to it. In my mind I was that little chapel. My name forgotten, flung out into the wilds, destined to keep a lonely vigil of service to a city that doesn’t even recognize me. During the summer I walked to school nearly everyday and when I made that turn and saw the chapel, my heart would lighten and I’d smile. My partner in loneliness.
Of course, now I am coming up on four months in Bobov Dol and I don’t feel like that anymore. I am not unknown. People I meet on the street always say здрасти! even though it is more often followed by the title господине, than by Andy. And I do have friends; though I don’t always know what they are saying, I have laughed so hard I have hurt, and I have comforted when the laughs turn to tears. I like this town. Despite the coal, and the filth, and the howling street dogs at night, I like Bobov Dol and even refer to it as home.
But still I am lonely. And I have begun to realize that it’s not something that will go away. I am alone because of God. While there are definitely times I am lonely for human smiles, touches, and words, more often I suffer from an inconsolable loneliness of the soul. No matter how many people I see in a day, how many smiles, hugs and coffees I share with others, when I go back to my apartment and have a moment to myself, I am alone.
I am alone because my soul aches to be one with my creator. And yet, because of my weaknesses, I am too afraid to even try. I am afraid of what I will have to forgo and lose. Top on this list is my individualism. I have grown up thinking that I am the most important part of my life and that I am in charge of myself. I have thought that if I work hard enough, am friendly enough, kind enough, strong enough, someday I will find my own happiness and comfort. Yet by finally accepting God I have learned that this is a hollow dream. I can not find peace alone.
So again I find myself like the little chapel. Waiting and keeping vigil alone for God. Unlike the chapel, I am afraid that when He shows me his plan and the path to joy and love, I will not be strong to take the first step. I envy the chapel, as it made of cement and mortar, while I am only flesh and bones.

anyone looking for a really big fence?

As some of you may know, I majored in Anthropology in college. I intend to go into a PhD program when I finish with the Peace Corps. I am especially interested in Border culture and issues of security, identity and nationalism at international borders. So when I find interesting things having to do with borders I will post it. Here’s article from the BBC in regards to a US Representative trying to erect a fence across the whole Mexican-US border. In case you’re interested, and you too want to have a 2000 mile fence, it’s only $8 million. If you’ve ever had neighbors like my family has, you would not think that’s such a bad price…
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4407558.stm

a house and a bride?! what a boon!

If anyone wants to buy a house and have a bride thrown in too, EBay is accepting bids. Of course, you hafta live in Denver.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4409364.stm

Ah, that crazy Saddam!

My friend Jessica sent me this website. It is hilarious, check it out: www.rockpapersaddam.com

some ground rules...

So I finally sold out and started a Blog. "But why, Andy, why would you go and do a thing like that? You know you are only fueling the whole narcissistic look-at-me-I'm-special culture that is permeating society. I thought I knew you Andy." Don't worry friends, I still feel that way. Even now I feel like I need to take a shower. But I figured I would try to expand my horizons and at least give this whole thing a try. And hopefully, I can create something that isn't a blatant indulgence of ME. The scholar in me hopes maybe people can even learn something. So here I go...
But first some ground rules for this thing:
1. Besides the first sentence, you will not find the B-word on here. That word isn't even a real word. Instead, this will be a set of dispatches. Dispatch is a real word. The B-word is fu-fu.
2. I am lazy and will not write everyday. I admit it now. Please do not base your life on the regular publication of these dispatches.
3. There will be no attacks whatsoever on me. I am the Tsar. I control everything that is published here. Sorry, thems the brakes. If somehow, you are technically savvier than me and sneak something on here, I will hunt you down. I promise.
4. There will be no nice things said about the NY Yankees. Infact, there is another phrase that is banned. From now on, if you wish to refer to that team, please use the new term "sissy-babies who can't beat the Red Sox even though they are the highest paid team in baseball."
5. Please watch your language here. My parents are going to read this. And if you were scared by the threat in #3, wait till you tick off my parents!
6. This is a serious set of dispatches. There will be no humor. Okay thanks and hope you come again!