Wednesday, January 17, 2001

Life began this morning when the janitor from our school rang our doorbell. Kate bolted out of bed, but I didn’t hear the bell at all. She said, “Josh, someone’s at the door . . .”, and I, in my thermal underwear, sweatpants, sweatshirt, and socks to keep me warm through the cold night, was elected to go to the door since I didn’t really look like I was in my pajamas. There was no hiding the fact that I just woke up when I answered the door. I mumbled a little Bulgarian – which is hard to do when you first wake up. Just think about how hard it is to speak English when you first wake up . . .

I struck out around quarter till noon to meet my English club, which is made up of the kind of students I wish were in all of my classes. About ten students have been faithfully coming to our bi-weekly meetings. But on my way I passed by the bazaar. This isn’t the main bazaar of Silistra, which is located in the center of town. I have a feeling this bazaar popped up around 50 or 60 years ago, when the block apartments on this side of town were built. It’s a little more convenient for the people who live on this side of town not to have to go all the way down to the center when they shop for fresh veggies and fruit (which is nearly everyday). The main bazaar has probably been in the center of town for the past 2500 – 2800 years, since the Romans made this town into a city, with streets, intersections and so on. When we first came to Silistra, every face was new, including the vendors in the bazaar. But now that we have passed by these people nearly everyday on our way to school, each face has become quite familiar. And they know us, too – we’re the Americans. During the winter, they hang a blanket or tarp around the back of their booth to keep the wind out. All the booths are lined up along the sidewalk, and sometimes we feel like we’re a little show for all the vendors as we walk by. Laid out in the most appealing way possible, are oranges, potatoes, carrots, onions, kiwis, bananas, spices, apples, eggs, and other odds and ends.

The man who sells the magazines and newspapers: His booth is on the end of the row of booths. He has a crate tied to the back of his bike, in which he carries all his magazines and newspapers. I’ve never seen him smile. He shuffles when he walks and he’s probably only in his 30’s. He knows who I am and I actually feel some kindness when I walk past him. I have bought one newspaper from him. He’s always got a look of weariness and unhappiness about him. But then I think, maybe that’s his job – I mean, he’s seen all the news before anyone else, there aren’t too many surprises for him. He’s got his share of pornography, just as every other news vendor has, hanging from the strings that display all the other magazines. He works alone and I don’t see him talking to many of the other vendors very often. I do see him sometimes standing outside of the booth, caressing his cigarette and quietly watching the many faces walking by. Just a moment of pause in my walk to watch some other people walk past his booth gives me a little glimpse of what his days are like. So many people walk on this sidewalk and I’m sure he’s familiar with most of their faces. Sometimes I think that he’d be a good person to sit quietly with and we wouldn’t have to say a thing.

The fish vendor: This guy is brave. Or maybe he’s just used to it. In his booth are live, flapping fish. He has plastic crates that contain small fish that were caught the wee morning hours, out of the Danube. And there they sit, dying in sticky water. Then there’s the big fish – they’re dead already. They’ve got blood coming out of their gills and they are lain in the crate with their head and tails hanging over the edges. They’re ugly and I can’t imagine taking one home. He’s also got an assortment of sauces and a container of frozen fish (the main fish store is just across the sidewalk, but it’s a little hidden, and this booth is their first attempt at franchising. . .) that are just pieces-parts of unknown types of fish, probably from the Black Sea. He’s got an apron on that is covered with fish-stuffs and other unknown fluids. When a customer wants some fish, say the smaller variety, he takes a bag, puts his hands into that sticky water, and starts putting them into the bag. I always wonder would I want to die like that? I can’t imagine it. He’s always talking with someone, unless he has a customer. He’s got a little happier air about him and I’ve seen him laughing many times. He also seems to like working hard and being busy. He’s always doing something and many people buy their fish from him.

The fruit and vegetable vendor who knows who I am: He seems to be different everyday. I’d say he’s a little more influenced by his emotions because sometimes he’s noticeably up and other days he’s noticeably down. One night I was on my way home from school and I stopped to buy some oranges. I asked him where the oranges were from and then he asked me where I was from (what, did my accent give me away?!?). And, just like everyone else, he was amazed to hear that I was a teacher and not a student. Yes, I know, I look so young. Yes, I know I don’t nearly look 26 years old. Yes, I know, you’ll think I’ll have difficulty disciplining my students because of it. (thanks for your impressions, did i ask? . . . ) So now I feel compelled to say hello to him whenever our eyes meet. Today he was leaning up against the corner of his booth, spitting sunflower seed shells out of the side of his mouth and he simply gave me a nod with closed eyes. When I asked him about the oranges he replied, “Turtsia” (Turkey). The way he said it will stay with me forever. He said it with all of the word between his tongue and front two teeth, as if he could have spit when he was saying it. I couldn’t tell if he was saying it with contempt or if he just likes pronouncing things with such gusto. So now I find myself mimicking his “Turtsia” whenever I hear the word. It’s sort of fun to say. He’s always got a great assortment of food – mostly fresh.

There are many more vendors – characters who I look at to give me a little inspiration on the way to school, and other times I just rush by. All the people out and about on their feet, and not in cars, makes life here in Silsitra so much more interesting. The chances of running into people you know are practically quadrupled, and the feeling of community is likewise quadrupled.

-Josh