What I Know Now

Things I've learned during these first few months living in New York:

·         Our coffee table is very sturdy and as many as 3 girls can dance on it vigorously at any given time

·         It takes 7.5 minutes to walk from my apartment to the subway

·         You can use the subway to be very sneaky and avoid all kinds of inclement weather – there are so many passages and tunnels you never really have to go outside if you don’t want to

·         Of my roommates, I’m the clean one

·         It’s good to carry one dollar bills in every pair of jeans or each jacket because you will inevitably be asked for money each time you exit your house

·         Shoes wear out here much faster than pretty much anywhere else

·         The city really is magical in the fall – Central Park with all of its leaves and pathways and seasonal drinks in each of the 1 billion coffee shops. Pure magic

·         It’s hard to live here if you don’t really have any money…but it’s possible

·         Online dating seems to be the way to go

·         Small, crowded super markets and moms/nannies with strollers: beware your ankles. Bitches are ruthless

·         People in the financial district can be described by the following adjectives: shiny, sleek, coiffed, confident, and demanding

·         Brooklyn is where the bearded men live

·         Harlem is awesome and I now know the definition of gentrification because I am contributing to it personally (and I don’t really know what to do about it…)

·         The best bars are the ones where the beer list is endless and written on the wall in chalk (for easy exchange for different and fun local brews)

·         I don’t feel very sorry for the well-paid, downtown workers who, because of hurricane Sandy, have to work in the uptown offices while their building is being repaired. Though I’ve heard many complain far more than I’ve heard my minimum-wage co-workers with no electricity or running water complain

·         Graduate school is time-consuming and difficult but interesting and well worth the effort

·         The Chrysler building is my favorite

·         In NY, I wake up early every day but I’m not snooty about it - “Only dull people are brilliant in the morning.” – Oscar Wilde
     
      There’s probably a lot more but that’s all I got for now.

-     -Age

Listen To My Words

When someone listens well it’s because they genuinely care. They aren't thinking about what they’re going to say next, how it relates to them and their life, and what tidbits of their own perspective they can add to what the other person is saying. Their eyes don’t’ wander as they ponder their next phrase or story or how they can relate how interesting they are while the other person is still in the middle of whatever it is they’re saying. To be fair, there are some conversations where this is appropriate, where the need for a give-and-take type of conversation needs to take place, both parties putting equal thoughts and effort into the conversation. But I’m talking about what makes a good listener: someone who cares about what the other person is saying and shows it.

There are times when a conversation, in traditional terms, isn't really appropriate. When there is something personal to relate and the person doing the sharing needs simply to be listened to so that whatever is going on with them emotionally can be conveyed to someone. They need to be heard and feel as though they’re understood. Human connection is so important for all of us. Not just women. Not just people of a certain age. All of us. The desire for someone to fulfill our emotional needs is so strong and that is why we share our fears, our secrets, our past, desires, ambition, happiness, and anger. Even if our thoughts and feelings aren't ideal or aren't “what they should be” it doesn't stop them from being our thoughts and feelings, no matter how flawed. And to be able to convey our insecurities or annoyances or trepidation knowing that they our based in imperfections without being judged or preached to or made to feel as though those thoughts are somehow wrong is so valuable.

If I were to tell someone about a fear, no matter how irrational, I wouldn't want the response to be - “hey, that’s stupid. You shouldn't feel that way” – “you need to be more confident” – “don’t worry so much, you over-think things” – well that just makes me shut down. I no longer want that person to know how I feel because they won’t allow me to feel it. I wish I could take back what I told them so they can’t tell me it’s wrong. No one can help their emotions. This is simply how I feel. And I want to be able to talk about it and just have it be known without an unsolicited opinion or critique.

There are people in our lives that give us the emotional support we need and we go to them in times when we want to be heard and understood and afterwards we are often left with a sense of having related to someone, a remarkable feeling. The feeling that, with words, we can describe the buzzings and whirrings and irrationalities of our mind and have someone understand them. Well, maybe not always understand but at least be aware of, to hear us.

I have people in my life that I always go to when I need to talk. Not just so they can tell me what I want to hear but so I know that what I’m thinking or feeling is perfectly OK and I’m still me and maybe they even know me a little better than they did before. I don’t share personal things about myself easily. If I begin to share and I can tell the person isn't really all that interested, I’ll stop. If I’m interrupted in the middle of a speech that involves effort on my part to share, I turn off. Game over. I make a promise to myself not to make that mistake again with that person. Once, over the phone, I started to tell someone a story about my sister, my favorite person in the whole world, the most unique and wonderful girl I know, and was interrupted, told that they had to go. After talking non-stop at a leisurely pace for 45 minutes, they suddenly had to go and I felt so stupid. I promised never to do that again, that the privilege of knowing me better wouldn't be extended to that person again. That may all sound very extreme or, I'm aware, even condescending but for someone who finds sharing herself difficult, it’s a necessary defense mechanism. Self-preservation. And I’ll forever be wary of people who strongly monopolize the conversation almost every time we speak.

More positively, I’m always awed by people who share themselves easily with others – their thoughts and interests and background and opinions. People who talk as though what they have to say is interesting simply because they are the ones saying it. No matter how trivial. It’s fascinating because often it becomes true. Because they speak to you as if what they are saying is vital to your knowledge, it actually becomes something you want very much to know. I don’t have this innate sense of authority or self-confidence or trust in other people or whatever it is that requires such freedom with feelings and emotions but I love people who are capable of this.

However, I also really like those people who keep things close to the vest. People that, once they've learned to trust you, surprise you with their thoughts and feelings and obvious vulnerability. They open up and because you know sharing is foreign to them, you feel truly privileged to be on the receiving end. It’s nice to know these people who don’t share much or with many. Their emotions are more precious and you begin to realize that you have become one of these people for them, someone they can be themselves with comfortably and without consequence.

It’s valuable to have these people in our lives but it’s also valuable to try and be one of these people for someone else as well. Even if it’s just one person who knows they can come to you and say anything.

-Age

Obama Did Not Bring About This Change But He May Have Funded It

When I got back from Bulgaria I was prepared for potential readjustment difficulties. We were told they happen fairly often and we'd heard from past volunteers that had experienced trouble returning to a life in America. The reasons for these problems are probably:

• change in culture
• new pace of life
• friends/family don't quite understand the significance of what we've been through
• finding something to do and a place to do it in...on our own

But, I think the biggest one is:

• All of the personal change and growth that was forced upon us by navigating challenging situations and becoming close to a new group of people really quickly
• the more challenges that were undertaken and the more new friends that were embraced, the more these influences changed us
• however, our power over the direction of these changes is questionable and I'm sure it varies from person to person

This rapid growth is hard for others to understand or relate to which means we're left to evaluate it on our own or with other RPCVs. 

How did I change?

Do I like all the changes?

How do they relate to this new life in America?

Can I adjust them and how?

I don't like all the ways I've changed and I feel that some new parts of me aren't working here, in my American life.

I won't go into detail about these changes but I'm hoping to decide if they need to be deleted or just tweaked.

Also, I'm left with another question:

Is there only a certain amount of good that is allowed to take up our selves...our personalities?

Let me elaborate...

  

Let's say Gandhi was capable of 80% goodness. His goodness level could lower, depending on the situation or the point in his life but he is capable of no more than 80%. New, lets say an average person, like me, is allowed only 60% goodness. It could lessen, maybe, depending on the time of the month (that was meant to be a joke) but it cannot exceed 60%.  So, if I gain a new good, it's at the expense of some old good I used to value.

I'm worried this doesn't make sense but it's been running through my brain and if it doesn't get out I may explode.

For instance, in the Peace Corps I gained self-confidence and the ability to be assertive when necessary. But, room had to be made for these things. Other characteristics that maybe aren't too harmonious with a confident, assertive nature get pushed out. Like compassion and kindness or, at least, some degree of my compassion and my kindness towards others has diminished to maintain that 60%.

What if I want those things back in full force? Do I have to give up something else? What? Which characteristics are most valuable to me? To others? More specifically, to those I respect? To those who influence my life professionally? Personally?

Does any of this make sense?

Fitting this new self, which looks and talks and behaves a lot like the old self, into a new life (cuz the old life really is no longer an option for any of us) is, uuuhhhhhhh, a little tricky.

But, we don't always realize it right away.

When we have so many things we wanted, when we are doing the things we hoped to do, when we live in the places we dreamt of living, and with the people we chose to surround us, well...

why aren't we happy?

Now, I've written before about how happiness isn't necessarily what life is all about. That sometimes we're happy and sometimes we aren't.

Happiness is conditional.

We need lows to appreciate the highs. 

Being happy during life's inevitable tragedies doesn't make much sense.

We can't be happy all the time.

Blah Blah Blah.

But, that's kind of the point. When happiness is appropriate, why are we...why am I not happy?

These parts of myself that I've given up or allowed to lessen, are they what's kept me from enjoying these past few months back here?

Or am I just downplaying the effects of stress from moving, being in grad school, and starting a new job?

I have  no conclusion for this post. No explanation for my feelings. These are just the things I've been wondering and feeling and now I've put them out there for my friends and family to read and worry about. Whoops.

Maybe happy was the wrong word. I don't want to freak anyone out or make them think I'm on the precipice of depression or something extreme like that.

I'll change it to satisfied.

I'm not satisfied with myself right now.

Working on it.

-Age

The Chipped Cup

Sometime before or after noon I gather my books, my computer, my thoughts and head to the cafe a couple short blocks from our apartment. It's on the lower level of one of the buildings right in between 148th and 149th and has a blue, chalkboard easel out on the sidewalk to attract customers with phrases written on it like, "Tired? Come inside and have a cup!" It stands out from the other shops because it's painted bright blue and most places around it embrace the concrete look and have dingy signs in both Spanish and English.

It's called The Chipped Cup and I go there just about every day. I buy an iced coffee or hot Moroccan mint tea depending on the weather. Then I plop myself down at whatever seat, table, bar stool happens to be closest to the outlets, plug my computer in, and get to work. Work being a perusal of gmail and facebook before I finally start studying. I read chapters from my textbooks or assigned articles online. I write papers or projects for class. I re-teach myself Excel with helpful youtube videos cuz I have no idea how that program works anymore. It's boring but necessary.

Sometimes I slyly people-watch. I have to be sly cuz it's kind of small and you can't really people-watch in an enclosed space without people wondering why you're staring at them. Eye-contact in these situations is common and always awkward. Sometimes I smile and look away and sometimes I make a weird face and pretend that I jut caught them staring at me instead of the other way around. People vary from obviously hipster to obviously student to obviously just like going to a cafe to chat with friends or relax. It's nice. However, this place does not really include the typical resident of this area. It's gentrification at work. I imagine, with the popularity of this place, that more places like it will pop up soon and more and more people will be drawn to an area where you can spend $5 on a cup of coffee - something not before typical of Harlem.

Outside, there's a small patio area that's adorably decorated and very comfortable when the weather's nice. If my roommates and I had similar schedules, it might be nice to sit out here with them and chat. I wonder if our loud-Americans-in-public personas still exist. Maybe they do but they're not obvious cuz everyone else is loud too. They've painted the word "Harlem" in giant letters across the back wall, proud of the area maybe or just trying to be cool - I don't know. There's also a huge mirror propped up in the corner that kinda freaks  you out and makes you think you're going to run into yourself but it also makes this small space seem much larger and is pretty brilliant.

After hours of sitting here without being bothered or feeling obligated to order another drink, when my once scalding hot tea is too cold to drink, when the others have come and gone again and again, I pack up my stuff and head home.

I love this place.

-Age

The Commute

It’s late morning and I’ve only been up for an hour. This city keeps me up until the wee hours as my day often doesn’t end until 10:00 or even 11:00pm. Between school and studying and running around trying to get my life in order, sleep is elusive and inconvenient.

It rained all last night so the morning is beautiful, sunny, and crisp – shiny and clean and re-set. It’s always noisy here but the sounds are beginning to feel familiar, more of a soundtrack for a life that is becoming less new or noticeable. I don’t stare at the old buildings anymore or listen to the conversations of my neighbors (if I can understand them) or try to memorize the different stores so I can decide which ones I want to peruse in the future. I live in Harlem, near the Hudson and Riverside Park. I am the minority. Gentrification is new to me but very much a part of the choice I’ve made in moving here. I walk down our street towards Broadway.

Once on the main drag, I turn left and pass C-Town, the closest super market which is convenient but lacking the fresh produce that I miss so much from Bulgaria. There are farms in New York and opportunities to buy fresh veggies and fruits but, in the lower-income areas, it’s not always easy. There’s lots of small stores, fast food, a new bar that just opened up, packed every night with people watching a variety of sports – flirting and chatting and drinking, trying to relax for a few hours or trying to be seen. It reminds me of the night my friends and I went – the Grand Opening – I liked that the walls were chalkboards and had funny phrases written on them. The beers weren’t too outrageously priced and the staff was friendly and wearing unpretentious t-shirts which I found refreshing.

Onward for six full blocks as our apartment is smack-dab in the middle of the subway stations on both 145^th and 157^th. I walk in the direction of downtown since my school is on 13^th street.

Down to the subway, quickly digging through my purse to get my metro card before I hit the turnstiles that are often crowded with people trying to get in and out of the underground. It’s hot, stuffy. I would complain but then I think about how freezing and bitter this place must be in January. I see that my train, the 1, will be approaching the station in 3 minutes. I stand, waiting. When it pulls up, dozens of people poor out of the sliding doors and dozens more replace them, including me. Today there are spots available and I quickly sit down, squishing myself between a man who’s hat is pulled far down over is face in an attempt to sleep and a woman who is clutching her purse close and sitting on the edge of her chair as though she may make a run for it at any moment. Some people stand and chat, so accustomed to the swaying, backward and forward momentum of the train that they don’t feel the need to sit. I pull out a textbook and start reading. Economics. Statistics. Policy Analysis. It doesn’t really matter, I’m behind on my reading in every class, always trying so hard to catch up. I’d kill for 30-hour days.

Sometimes, there are performers down here. If you have to wait for a train for 5 minutes or more you may be serenaded by a young guitar player with a surprisingly wonderful voice and a sad, original song that makes you want to close your eyes and wait for the train just a little longer. The sounds bouncing off the walls that serve as appealing acoustics to these buskers, makes our wait just a little better. If they are bad, they have a few dollars in their open guitar case. If they are good, people are continuously walking over to drop anywhere from a combination of coins from the depths of their pockets to a few dollars. I love it when they’re good. I’ve been known to give a dollar or two.

When the subway hits my stop, I quickly walk out, through the turnstiles, up the stairs and back into the sunlight. The difference between Greenwich Village in downtown Manhattan is strikingly different from where I just came from – taller buildings, lots of trees, more well-known stores and eateries. I walk quickly down the busy streets, constantly millimeters away from running into the hordes of people coming from the opposite direction going to equally as important and pressing places as myself.

When I get inside my classroom and sit down, I mentally prepare myself for the massive amounts of information that will be flying my way over the next two hours and take a deep breath. 

-Age

No Longer Destitute.

In some ways, I like the idea of being a transient person. Though, having a place to call home is also pretty awesome.

We have an apartment!!! Thank goodness.

Also, Katelyn got here and has been furnishing the apartment with me by looking up tons of free stuff on craigslist, renting a car super cheap for a day and running around picking up things from bookshelves to beds to couches. All free. We have an eclectic apartment with a price tag of nearly $0. Well done us.

We live in Harlem. Which is pretty great. I'm learning Spanish because it just seems like a great idea and because the opportunities to practice abound in our neighborhood where most people are from the Dominican Republic. It's similar to Bulgaria in that everyone around us speaks a language other than English but different from Bulgaria...in pretty much every way.

However, here are some other Bulgaria similarities:

There's a cute cafe called The Chipped Cup that we love and spend hours at. Reading, studying, taking our time with our coffee like true Bulgarians.

In the grassy and tree-lined island in the center of the main street, Broadway, there are benches full of old and young men playing what I think is majong and gossiping in Spanish. It's the gossiping that reminds me of Bulgaria. The game-playing actually reminds me of Turkey as men love to get together and play backgammon at tea shops.

That's all. Everything else is extremely different.

I've been trying to get a part-time job so I don't run out of money. It hasn't been going too well but I'm going to keep plugging away.

School is really difficult right now. A lot of reading. A lot of studying. A lot of pressure. I'm trying to get used to being a student again and it's proving difficult. Though, I'm loving this really intellectual environment. I feel my brain burning and I love the challenge of keeping up with all of the other students. It's been fun and interesting and a completely different experience than the one I was living in Bulgaria.

I can't really think of anything else to add.

If I do, I'll let you know.

Okay. Ciao ciao.

-Age

I Read Sometimes

"For several years I had been bored...a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly ruinously derivative. We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blase: Seeeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say; If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.

It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.

And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls.

It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else.

I would have done anything to feel real again."

Something I read from a book recently that I thought was interesting. Especially the part about us all working from the same script. We know just what to say and do in certain situations cuz we've seen it done "properly", not by parents or real-life people, but by someone on television. Crazy.

How real am I? How much of me is what I think I'm supposed to be? You all know I'm big on GENUINE. But, we've got to really fight for it now-a-days.

Anyway.

-Age

At This Point, I Would Literally Live in a Big Apple

I’ve had one thing on my mind for days now. Well, a lot of things really but they all boil down to one theme.

I DON'T WANT TO BE HOMELESS...please.

Since Bulgaria, life’s been a whirlwind of traveling and planning and to-do listing.

I flew into LA and met my parents, brother, and sister, who I spent the next two weeks with, catching up and annoying one another just like we always do. Just about the time I began to remember with striking clarity just why I moved out of my parent’s house, it was time to move on to the next adventure.

My very best friend and her family were planning a trip to Kauai and I was invited along! It was a dream vacation, a majestic place that no person in their right mind would ever leave willingly. Then a week later we left...

a red-eye back to LA.

The exact same day, only a few hours later, was my red-eye to New York. I got no sleep on either red-eye and was to the point where exhaustion didn’t quite seem to cover it when I dragged myself to the baggage claim to take all of my worldly possessions…to Brooklyn.

I decided to be bold and take both of my exactly-50-pound bags on the subway. HAHAHA. Silly, silly California girl. The subway’s underground. You have to use the stairs. Big, giant bags and four different subway lines turned into 2 hours of me sweating my way to our hostel. Three  lovely gentlemen helped me with my bags at the different stops and I’ll forever be grateful to them – already men here are more polite than in that other place I lived for 2 years.

The hostel smells. The staff are stupid. That gives Bulgaria 1 point for having much better hostels than NY.  I can’t wait to leave this place. It’s pricier than I’d like too. (A guy who works there yelled at me one day for spilling milk - I've never wanted to punch someone more)

I should pause here to let you know that I am moving to New York for graduate school. I’ll have 2 other roommates, both friends from the Peace Corps: Tom and Katelyn.

When Tom and I arrived at the hostel, we left almost immediately and not just because of the smell. We had an appointment with a broker and we wanted to get the search for an apartment started as soon as possible. Our broker’s name was Vu and he had taken the subway to meet us at our hostel because the first apartment he wanted to show us was only a few blocks away. Turns out he doesn’t know Brooklyn too well. It was more than a few blocks and it took us forever to get there. But, luckily, along the way we got to talk about what a terrible neighborhood our hostel was in and then heard gunshots an appropriate 2 minutes later. We laughed. Sometimes all you can do is laugh.

When we got to the apartment, it was in a much nicer, quieter area and we felt a wave of relief. We were shown a 3-bedroom apartment on the second floor. It was perfect. Newly remodeled, exposed brick, nice kitchen, big bathroom, and two adjoined bedrooms so Katelyn and I can whisper at night about new boys we met and what noises ducks make when they get a good idea - these are the variety of things we talk about on a daily basis. There’s a park across the street, a Baptist church next door, and within the first 20 minutes a very friendly lady welcomed us to the neighborhood. We were sold. We started the paperwork without even considering another apartment.

Then a rollercoaster whirlwind of expenses and forms and second-guessing and biting of fingernails made us teeter back and forth between continuing with this plan and ditching it and starting all over. Without a broker. Don’t use brokers, people. They be pricey, yo.

But we wanted out of that hostel. It was taking our money and it smelled. Seriously, the kind of dank, damp smell that makes you feel dirty even after you’ve showered and scrubbed. Bleck.

Currently, we are still trying desperately to get this one apartment we love but things are looking bleak. Our broker is plugging away, trying his darndest to get us something. Anything. It’s not looking good. We’ve started to go back to Craigslist and look for temporary sub-leasing places. We’ve found a few that seem promising. We’ve also found a few that are complete scams. Hey, people, don’t ever wire someone money if you don’t know them personally. Even if they promise to mail you the keys to their too-good-to-be-true, incredibly affordable 2-bedroom apartment. They’re lying. Some people are jerks but I know there are people sweet and innocent enough out there to think something like that sound legit. It’s not.

Anyway, now we're looking at other apartments as well that aren't as appealing but much more realistic. We're beginning to accept the fact that this elite city is going to humble us before it allows any one of us to feel like true New Yorkers. Fair enough. Bring it on, New York. We can play this game. We were in the Peace Corps. We are the definition of resilience. 

Yesterday, I was eating a sandwich in a cute deli called Potbelly near my school, sitting on a bar stool by the big front windows, watching people walk by on the busy streets of Manhattan when I saw this little girl being pushed in a stroller. She was probably about 2 ½ and looking up at all the buildings, dragging her little toes along the ground, and looking completely content with life. Completely taken care of. For a split second I wished I was her. That happens sometimes. I see a kid maybe, I don't know, acting out some great epic battle scene in his mind right there on the sidewalk, or singing out loud to herself, not caring at all who’s watching and I think how great it must be to have no cares, no worries. But I’m not 2 ½. I’m 28. Better get my shit together, huh?

-Age

Don't Brush Those Near Me

So you know how everyone has those really specific pet peeves? Those things that just really bug them but are a little, maybe, irrational. Everyone has them. For instance, some people hate to hear other people chewing. And not chewing-with-your-mouth-open kinda chewing or smacking-your-gum-really-loud kinda chewing. EVERYONE hates that. Hear that? Everyone. Don't do it. Have some self-awareness. I'm talking about the kind of chewing that is perfectly normal but could be kinda loud cuz it's nuts or cereal or something. Some people can't stand to hear even that. It's not really fair but it's the way they feel and they can't really help it so, since you know that about them and you generally like their company, you don't sit next to them when you eat or you turn the TV or radio on or something. Easy fix.

I personally cannot stand to see people brush their teeth. If people like to brush their teeth for about 5 straight minutes cuz they have ADD and can't stand over the sink for more than a few seconds without getting real antsy and then walk all over doing things while simultaneously brushing, I always appreciate it if they stay the hell out of my area. Stay away. It's gross and I hate it. Even if it's in a bathroom I'm sharing with someone, I'd like to take turns. I'll brush, quickly and efficiently, and then you can brush once I've left. If I was ever in a serious, committed relationship where the guy got so comfortable he tried to give me a toothpaste kiss or even a toothpaste smile, I'd punch his face and walk out the door. Gross.

But, I figure, since everyone has something and accommodating their eccentricities probably isn't all that difficult, we should just suck it up and make them comfortable. Right?

That's how I feel. You could feel differently but it doesn't really matter.

-Age

Sunglasses Weren't Enough

Something about my life here in Bulgaria before it ends:

Today was the last day of school. We said good-bye to our 8^th and 7^th graders. The 8^th graders have to leave cuz I work at a primary school but the 7^th graders are leaving this year because most of them are super smart and got really great test scores on their big, national, 7^th grade exams and get to go to fancy schools throughout Bulgaria. I’m really happy for them cuz they’re all great kids. You know how I feel about my 8^th graders.

I cried. Not like a sweet, welling-up of tears but actual sobs. It was awful. I tried to hide behind my sunglasses but people noticed and then they cried and there were hugs and flowers and tears and pictures and it was just such a big, wonderful mess that I can’t imagine there was any other way to end my two years teaching here. I really love my kiddos. Saying good-bye was not easy. It sucked.

Then we went to the restaurant in town to celebrate. We took tons more pictures and, of course, I cried again. I joked with my 5^th graders, told my 6^th graders how special they are, and watched my 7^th graders prance around in pretty dresses and button-down shirts and realized how much they’ve grown up since I got here. 

Now I’m at home baking cookies for my close friend, Lenka, who I’m about to go to coffee with so I can give a her a letter in Bulgarian that tells her how much she’s meant to me and I just don’t think I can handle any more tears today. Seriously. They give me a headache. 

I’ve known volunteers who just take off. They leave Bulgaria and no one ever hears from them again. They don’t answer emails, they don’t skype or facebook. They are just gone and their colleagues and friends and kiddos don’t know why. I understand why. It’s hard to move on to a new life and hold onto this one at the same time. Moving on completely, severing all ties seems easier, less painful. But, I don’t want to do that. I want to keep in touch. I want to know how my friends here in Bulgaria are getting on and I want to know about all the wonderful things my students do with their futures. I’m gonna try my best.

That’s all for today. Parting is such sweet sorrow, am I right?

-Age

Manda -Pants

My best friend and I are living two completely different lives. We’re only best friends because we like each other so much. If we didn’t, we’d have probably lost touch by now. We’d be the types of friends that like each other’s pictures on facebook as an obligation. I might not actually care about her recent trip to Lake Tahoe, but I click the ‘like’ button cuz it’s easy and it lets her know that I’m glad she’s still having a good time in life and maybe her yellow striped bathing suit is cute. She’d occasionally comment on my posts with a ‘lol’ just to let me know that she still thinks I’m quirky even though she probably didn’t actually laugh out loud.

She's got a six-year marriage and a mortgage and a career and thinking about kids and I...well.

But, she’s awesome and I love her and we’ll be best friends forever. She’s one of the funniest, most genuine, kindest, completely normal, prettiest people I’ve ever known and we could laugh for hours and hours about nothing, tell the same stories over and over again without feeling repetitive, and listen to each other’s problems with the ear of a friend who knows the other so well that no advice or opinion needs to be given unless solicited. 

I figure, when we’re old, so old that it doesn’t make a difference at all how different our lives were because now we’re so wrinkly and feisty and grey that nothing matters more than the amount of fiber we add to our mojitos, we’ll just hang out on a front porch and bitch. And laugh. I’ll probably have a gross smoker’s laugh that will be completely unfair cuz I’ve never smoked and she’ll make fun of me for sounding like a man and I’ll tease her cuz her boobs that I was once so jealous of rest on her lap when she sits. It’ll be great. Right now we’ll stay friends even though we don’t see each other nearly as much as we’d like but one day we’ll grow old together.

I’ve read almost every Jane Austen novel (I’ve read JD Salinger and Ernest Hemingway too so don’t give me shit) and I remember her writing about friends. The main character describes the importance of being kind to everyone and I agree, but she also says that who you associate with, the people you call your friends, should be thoughtfully selected. Not everyone is a friend and that’s not cruel, it’s practical. If someone is a fool and you know they’re a fool and you call them your friend, it reflects poorly on you. Your friends reveal the person that you are, I think, in a similar way that your actions do and I’m happy to say that I’ve known the greatest person ever since I was in second grade – that’s 20 years of looking pretty damn cool by association. 

I should’ve thought to write this earlier, for her birthday or something, so I didn’t have to buy her a gift. Not that I bought her one when it was her birthday. She’s the generous one in the relationship, not me. 

-Age

Shut-Eye. Now, Please.

I haven't been sleeping well lately. For weeks actually. Either tossing and turning all night, waking up constantly or feeling like I'm only half asleep, never achieving the REM I so desperately need. Thinking about how tired I am and yet how sleep seems so impossible makes me want to cry.

I've always had periods where I struggle with sleep. I fear insomnia - a true, diagnosed, medicated sleeping disorder - on-setting  later in my life the way some teenagers must secretly fear the onset of schizophrenia in their 20s, combined with the unease that night is approaching and I may be unsuccessful at completely resting, drives me a little crazy. I imagine it's one of those things that can only be understood if the person doing the understanding has gone through it themselves. Just like I've had the feelings (or lack of feelings) involved with depression described to me but I couldn't fully grasp them because I've never felt depressed myself.

I'm currently on my 4th cup of coffee today. It's 2:30 in the afternoon. I know, I know, that can't be helping but I've always been a caffeine junky. Though lately I've been chastising myself to lay off. I've been drinking more caffeine recently cuz I'm on a Summer Is Coming diet and I can't completely deny myself cravings (cuz I've been me long enough to know I can't fool myself into thinking I can simply forgo all bad things - psshhh, yeah right) so I just replace all cravings - sweets, chocolate, red meat, dooners - with just one craving: coffee.

Healthy, huh?

I think my sleep issues have more to do with some underlying restlessness and apprehension. Things are ending and new things are beginning and I'm just sitting here waiting for the inevitable chaos of transition.

I've been chewing on the inside of my lips a lot too. A classic nervous habit that I've always had but now I'm making myself bleed. Gross. But I can't stop!

I've always prided myself on being a Type-B person, having this chill, relaxed personality but when things require a real reaction like venting or planning or making to-do lists or screaming - things I associate with Type-A people - I instead chew my lip unconsciously and walk to school tired every morning with zombie-like dark circles under my eyes (more heavily make-upped than usual to try and disguise them).

I think writing this probably helps a little.

I'm Apparently Freaking Out!

There.

That outta tie me over until I can absent my village life with a distracting trip to the beach.

I'm going to the Black Sea soon to swim, play beach volleyball, tan, and ride on a pirate ship. And sleep.

-Age

A Post

So, I chatted with my mom recently and we discussed the fact that I haven't written anything here in awhile.

I don't have anything to write about.

I mean, I probably do but it's all the same old stuff. I've finally gotten to the point where my life here is seemingly mundane and nothing is new enough or interesting enough to write about. I teach, I work with cute kids after school, I coach volleyball, and I...

Plus, why would anyone want to read about my life in MP when they could read about a man being bitten by a rattlesnake in a Walmart:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-18068554

Or the fact that Britney Spears is joining X Factor USA:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/18067912

The internet is truly fascinating. So much information. So little time.

-Age

Things I've Said While Teaching. Seriously.

Phrases I've uttered in my English classroom here in Bulgaria:

• No drinking beer in class

• Stop punching your friends

• Let me smell that. Oh jeez. Rekia is for adults, not 11-year-olds.

• You dropped your cigarettes.

• Please put you clothes back on.

• What's more important, English or what you're doing right now? ......Oh.

• Please don't light your chair on fire....Really? Why? OK, because fire is hot and I don't want to die.

• What just hit me? Oh! Free pen!

• You want to know what "M*** F***" means in Bulgarian? Well, we have dictionaries in the back. Look it up.

• Well, that was incredibly inappropriate.  .......Incredibly? Много  .....Inappropriate? Лош.

• You haven't drunk beer in over a year? You mean, you're one year sober?!?! Well, bravo. Stay on the wagon, buddy. You'll want to start middle school with a clean slate. ...........Nothing.

I substitute taught in So-Cal for a couple years so my American version of this list would probably involve less alcohol but certainly more foul language and the occasional weapon. Ah, kids.

-Age

Istanbul. Aşkım. Canım. Seni Seviyorum.

Although a picture is worth a thousand words and I have what amounts to 100,000 words uploaded onto facebook, I'd like to write about my recent trip to Istanbul so I can look back one day and remember all the little things.

• We took an over-night train. We being Katelyn, Evan, Nichole, and I. The man in charge of the non-sleeping section of the train was Bulgarian, the man in charge of the sleeping section (our section) was Turkish and knew only a few phrases such as "15 euro" and "no problem" and "OK?" which made things equally frustrating and hilarious. Nichole spoke to the Bulgarian man in order to translate for another passenger who only spoke English. She was doing really well except for our drunk Turkish conductor who kept interrupting her with "no problem, no problem" - he was such a mess and later asked one of the other passengers to buy him a bottle of Johnny Walker at the border. 

• When we got to the border at 1:00am, we had to get off the train and get onto a bus because Turkey is remodeling its train lines. Great. Then, the bus wasn't working and we had to wait 2 hours for someone to come fix it. Fantastic. Then, after about 30 minutes of travel, it broke again and we had to wait for a new bus. It was pretty terrible but we finally made it to Istanbul and immediately took very long naps before going for dinner, tea, desert, and then beers. We made up for the time we'd missed.

• We made a scavenger hunt for ourselves to complete by the end of the trip. We had to find:
• 5 hipsters
• Neon pants for each color of the rainbow (purple turned out to be the hardest to spot)
• a group of 30 children or more (they were everywhere)
• 2 men on one Vespa
• 2 people walking together wearing the same outfit (we saw that 3 times)
• a mosaic
• a viewpoint with at least 5 mosques visible at the same time
• a Whirling Dervish
• a PCV
• an American
• a hooka (shisha, nargile, water pipe) bar
• and other things I can't quite remember

• We made up a game called "friendly men" because Turkish men are very friendly towards each other and enjoy linking arms and putting arms around shoulders while they walk and talk. We got one point for every "friendly men" couple we pointed out. I believe the total tally was around 30.

• We made educational videos about Turkey, particularly Hagia Sofia, which I hope to upload to facebook if my internet will let me do something so fancy. They star Katelyn as the tour guide and Evan as the curious tourist. She explains the artifacts, culture, and tradition of Istanbul in six very entertaining specials. They involve giants, mashed potatoes, rectangles, and Santa Claus, among others.

• We drank a lot of Turkish tea. We even played a game of backgammon with a bunch of men in business suits while drinking tea (now that I think of it, that was on the scavenger hunt list - backgammon).

• We loved the hostel staff: Can (pronounced John), Gulsum, and Memo. We talked about men with Gulsum and she imparted some wisdom about Turkish men while we told her what we knew of American men. We smoked shisha with Memo and Can and played a game where I gave them a theme and they had to smoke the theme. Can's theme was shy. He's pretty hilarious so needless to say we all laughed hysterically and then he went on to tell dirty stories about foreigners smoking hooka for the first time and we laughed some more. Memo's theme was sexy and he made the most of the hooka's shape. We also had a dinner at the hostel that involved Turkish dancing at the end and we taught them how to horo. Then we did the limbo and learned that Turkish people can really bend. We stayed up all night talking and laughing and playing games. I also learned, from Memo, some romantic phrases in Turkish like "my love" - "my soul" - "my one and only" - "I love you" while Can taught us all dirty words and phrases in Turkish that I won't repeat here. 

• On our one night to go out on the town, we started off with 7 guy friends joining us. Before we actually made it to the bar, we had 0. Nichole joked about how pathetic that was but we ended up dancing all night to very strange music at a very strange bar and having a great time. Nichole dances really well and, at some point in the night, the bartender pretty much forces her to dance on the bar top and she insisted that Katelyn go with her. Katelyn, my friend who's deathly afraid a fire, joins her to dance on the bar which the bartender then lights of fire. Maybe one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Evan, seeing what the bartender had in mind, begged him not to do it. He said not to worry, lit some alcohol on fire, Katelyn froze in panic, eyes wide, and then jumped off the bar followed closely by Nichole. Epic.

• A very cute Turkish boy proposed marriage to Evan and then asked her out for tea (natural progression). She went. It was very cute.

I think that's all. It was a great trip.

-Age

Call Me Grimm (but don't really, I probably wont' respond)

My sixth graders are studying past tense in short stories and my counterpart asked me if I had a story I could recite for the class. I didn't. So I made one up. It went like this:

"Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. She lived in California and was bored with her life. She wanted adventure. She wanted excitement. So she traveled to a far away land called Bulgaria. There she found a small school with many beautiful children and began to teach English. However, there was a group of evil students. They made the princess's life miserable. She came up with a plan. Every day after school the princess would go deep into the woods and spend one hour digging a giant hole in the ground. She dug and she dug and she dug and after many months and lots of hard work, the hole was finally ready. She told her evil students that they would be going on an excursion in the woods after school that day. She led them into the woods and as they neared the hole she told them she wanted to play a game. For this game they would have to close their eyes and follow the princess's voice. For possibly the first time ever, they did as they were told and when they neared the edge of the hole the good students from the princess's sixth grade class pushed them all in the giant hole where they were left to think about their evil ways. Then the princess and her sixth graders lived happily ever after. The end."

They enjoyed it.

-Age

(This fairy tale is 90% fiction. Only the evil and good students are real. There is no hole. I'm not a princess. And I would never use a shovel as a disciplinary tool.)

I'm Uncertain About Certainty

Certainty.

I don't actually think this exists.

Two people can know two opposite things with what they consider to be absolute certainty and all it really shows is that both are kinda arrogant.

Plus, sometimes, the not knowing is so much better than the knowing.

Think about a movie, or album, or book that you just loved and you watched, listened, or read it over and over again and it got to the point where you wished you could go back and experience it for the first time all over again cuz that's when it held most of its magic.

Not knowing holds so many possibilities.

So many of us joined the Peace Corps for similar reasons. I won't go into them cuz frankly they're boring by now but I will tell you just one of mine. I'd lived in the same town in Southern California all my life. I'd had the same friends, then same life, the same little bubble that I wasn't even aware existed cuz, well,  bubbles are see-through and sometimes you just can't tell you're in one. I was typecast, so to speak. I had my role and that was it - breaking out of it wasn't really an option cuz if I ever did anything that wasn't a typical "Adrienne" thing to do someone would surely stop and say, "Hey, look what Adrienne did. That's not right."

But.

In joining the Peace Corps, I got to experience an all new country, all new group of people, all new everything. I got to be whoever I wanted to be and change the things that I desperately wanted to change about myself without anyone being the wiser.

And now, with graduate school, I get the opportunity to do it all over again. And it's exciting. I like the uncertainty of a new place, new people, and a new me.

I'm a huge, no, HUGE fan of people who are genuine. Completely themselves all the time and couldn't give a rat's ass whether what they do is popular (which is actually unpopular) or unpopular (which is actually popular). But that doesn't mean we can't change. Self-improve. It comes with time and maturity and, most importantly, experiences. I'm happy to be experiencing so much with my life right now and as this Peace Corps journey is coming to an end, I'm excited for the not knowing of the future.

-Age

10 Things

10 Things I Love About Bulgaria:

• martenitsi
• wild flowers
• teasing my students  
• hanging my clothes out on the line on a sunny day
• when my colleagues make each other laugh
• watching my students horo
• hearing my 5th graders insert a random English word into a Bulgarian sentence
• "той беше unfriendly, Мис."
• "Аз съм пич и много confident. На ли, Мис?
• strolling the pazar eating a bag of fresh cherries
• friendly drivers giving me a ride to the next town over
• feeling very confident about using public transportation

 10 Weird Habits That Will Be Awkward When I Get Back Home:

• nodding for "no" and shaking for "yes"
• inserting a random Bulgarian word into an English sentence
• "I want a pizza без corn and mayonnaise, please."
• "Hey, стига, that's not funny."
• talking to myself
• putting feta cheese on everything
•  treating every bed and couch as though they're made of clouds and goodness
• hugging washing machines and kissing dryers
• insistence on unwavering and intense eye contact during every cheer
• assuming you can take a break from work and chat with me at any point during the day
• complaining about the length of words and lack of acronyms
• suggesting weekend trips that are several hours of travel away

-Age

How Low Can She Go?

I've been feeling low lately. Not at all myself. I blame the weather and almost believe it but I think it's just a case of Peace Corps Blues. I'm homesick and I'm weighed down with the thoughts of what these next four months mean. 

Also, I've changed.

I reached a lot of my limits. The limits of my patience, my compassion, my kindness. The things about me that I once thought limitless have reached their frayed ends. It's as if there are two sides of me, the old me and the new me, fighting for who gets what when this is all over. The old me is negotiating how much it's willing to allow as permanent change and the new me is negotiating which changes it wants to keep and which it wants to leave here forever. 

Here's what I'm afraid of:

• I've grown lazy.
• Will I be able to go right back to being busy? Will I be able to handle a 10-12 hour work day without once feeling overwhelmed or overworked, as I once did? Will I be able to work a normal, 8-hour work day and fill-in the rest of the time with practical and interesting tasks? Or has learning to relax and take things slower without the guilt (though, clearly, there's still guilt) something I want to keep?

• I've lost a sense of unconditional kindness and compassion.
• I've always had this strong idea of mankind as a whole. I help you if you need it and you help me when I need it. We give and take and try and perfect the harmony of a connected humanity. But, now, there are people I refuse to look at when I'm walking down the street, eyes I can't meet going down the halls of my own school, people I'd rather not associate with because of bad past experiences. These people aren't necessarily in need...but...is it still kindness when it's easy? If it's hard for me to lift my head and smile at a man I know will more than likely make me feel uncomfortable, isn't that all the more reason to do it because that may be the only smile he gets all day? When a student who makes it his job to flip me off at every chance walks past, shouldn't I still say hello just in case this time he'll keep his opinion of me to himself?

•  I've lost motivation.
• What do I want to do again?

• I don't listen.
• I used to pride myself on being a good listener. I genuinely cared and wanted to hear everything my friends, family, and students had to say. Now, I'm so full of my own worries, complaints, and ideas, I've suddenly so much to say, that I don't really listen anymore. I interrupt and I go on and on and when people need an ear, I'm all mouth. On the other hand, I've learned who of my friends are also good listeners, maybe something I didn't notice before but appreciated now (the inverse is also true, unfortunately). But, will I calm down and listen when I get home?

•   I've gotten grumpy.
• Where's the line between assertive and bitchy? Cuz I really don't know. Sometimes I think well done, you've stood up for yourself and other times I think why did you just say that? When several hours of train travel in one weekend, lack of understanding, cultural obstacles and the like become too numerous, I just let the bitch out. I didn't even know she was there. Do I like her? Do I wanna keep her? Maybe as just a weapon for extreme situations? I really don't know.

I'm afraid of those things and other things too - like rabid dogs, the plague, and rejection letters. That moment right before you go over the edge on a roller coaster. Cauliflower.

I'm interested to see how this all turns out. But, right now, I'm feeling a little low. But spring is apparently here as of today, so that's encouraging. Maybe I'm just an icy snow queen who should avoid places like Siberia, the North Pole, and Minnesota.

-Age

Anecdotes From My Father's Childhood: Part 2

When we last left little Dennis, he was waiting for his mother to finish applying the chamomile lotion that would sooth his many hornet stings so he could run down to the lake before the other neighborhood kids had gotten bored of surfing and moved onto something new.

His impatience overtakes him and he stands up, telling his mother he’s fine, and runs towards the front door.

“Hey, hey, hey! I don’t think so, buddy. You’re not going anywhere with all those stings. You just sit inside for awhile and stay outta trouble for the next hour or so. I don’t need to be worrying about you running all over town lookin’ like that. Sit down.”

As his stoic father leaves the house for work, Dennis tries to convince his mother he’s fine. It’s pointless, she won’t budge. He isn’t aware of just how damaged he looks, covered in angry, red bumps and his mother isn’t prepared to answer questions about why her son looks the way he does. Small towns are notorious for gossip, Bedias being no different, and she refuses to allow rumors of her as an unfit mother to spread around the neighborhood. She's worked too hard to keep her four children – 2 boys and 2 girls – clean, fed, and well-behaved for a hornet attack to change things.

The day wore on and hour after hour Dennis asks his mom if he can go outside to play. “I’m fiiiine, mom. I really am. I feel good. Fit as a fiddle!” It was like talking to a brick wall. He was beginning to worry she might not let him ride the tractor and the thought was so terrifying he immediately reassured himself that no one could be so cruel.

His father comes home tired and in need of a hot shower. He says nothing but pats his injured and clearly miserable son on top of his sandy-blonde head before heading to his room to clean and feel human again. Dennis knows he’ll have to wait ‘til his daddy reemerges from the bedroom before he can state his case for freedom. He’ll tell daddy that mom’s “actin’ real crazy again” cuz sometimes that makes him laugh, knowingly.

His plan fails. His father's just as obstinate as his mother, refusing not only to let him play outside, but to let him ride the tractor as well. Dennis realizes he must look a lot worse than he thought and runs to the bathroom to survey the damage. He’s shocked to see red, mottled skin and quarter-size bumps all over his body, some overlapping one another to make miniature mountain ranges on his shoulders and back. He admits to himself that they still sting a bit and are beginning to really itch but what could be better for such an ailment than a slow ride on a big, yellow tractor? Tears begin to well in his eyes before he can stop them but he refuses to let any spill over onto his face. He is 12-years-old after all.

When all the kids begin to gather on the road outside, pushing and arguing about who gets to be first when the tractor pulls up, Dennis’ brother and sisters join the group. It’s only Dennis who’s left to peer out the window, seething with jealousy.

After the tractor has been chugging up and down the street for over an hour, each time passing with a different group of kids sitting on and around his uncle, Dennis hasn’t moved from his seat near the window. Head resting on his chin, permanent frown on his face, his mother finally gives in and tells Dennis he can go for “one ride. Just one.”

Dennis is beyond surprised, he’d given up hope long ago, and he runs out the door as fast as his feet’ll carry him before she can change her mind. He runs down the front porch, mom watching from the kitchen window, down the lawn and around the front gate. He decides he’ll cut through the neighbor’s yard in order to get to the queue of children that much quicker. It’s as his colt-like legs are really flying that he sees a couple stubby posts ahead. He realizes, with only milliseconds to spare, that he’s about to run into a barbwire fence and puts on the brakes, his heels sliding against the dirt, his arms flailing in big circles trying desperately to stop himself before he slams into the nearly invisible steel cables. He manages to stop inches away from the rusted spikes and chances a glance back behind him, at the kitchen window. He sees his mother’s face and even from this distance he knows it’s not good.

His mother marches out the front door, down the steps and with hands on both hips she yells, “Get your butt back inside. Now.”

That’s it. He’s done for. He has no choice but to march back inside, head hanging, feet dragging. He was so close. Without a word he resumes his watch of the tractor’s circuit through the living room window, defeated. He’ll not be getting a ride on the tractor this year. He spends the remainder of the evening debating the usefullness of hornets and barbwire.

Thirty years later tragedy becomes comedy as my siblings and I listen to the grown-up Dennis tell this story. He still feels sorry for that poor kid who spent the longest day of his life covered in hornet stings and chamomile lotion.  But now he has his own tractor and gets to ride it whenever he wants - he's even used barbwire on a professional level. Though, even today, he still has no idea why God created hornets.

-Age