letter38

Dear Family and Friends,

For me, moving from one place to the next is usually a disastrous ordeal. Anyone I have ever lived with can testify to that (a.k.a. my parents and dear, understanding Jennifer), as well as scream in fright, tremble uncontrollably, and hide under the covers in a weak, whimpering mess. I went to school last Monday, with a little more optimism, thoroughly pleased that the sun was shining brightly, the wretched snow was disappearing by the handful, and by the fact that that first nasty old apartment was no longer available. Life was looking good. And then, my director told me that she had another apartment for me to see . . . and, with that, the fear consumed me all over again. My stomach heaved a thousand times that day, but I ended up liking this new apartment (by Bulgarian standards!), thus preparing myself to move once again.

And, then, I suddenly found myself in a clutter of boxes, bags, doodads, gadgets, and rusty thing-a-majigs. "Wow! I didn't know I had one of these!" I breathed in awe. "Where did THIS come from?!!?" As always, my focus was so easily lost, my desire to explore continually got the best of me. I made dents in the floor and bumps on my forehead with my yo-yo, I practiced shadow puppets on my living room wall with my flashlight, I danced around the cluttered room to the likes of "Annie" and, "The Sound of Music", I poured endlessly over the reasons and technicalities concerning why the Peace Corps forbids the use of motorcycles and firearms. "Focus!" I chastised myself, pounding my head on the wall until it throbbed. "FOCUS!" But, then, "Hey, I forgot THIS was in here! Cool!" . . . and all was lost once again . . . And you never realize just how much JUNK you can accumulate until you have to move. I flipped through ticket stubs, brochures, sticky clumps of chewing gum, webs of matted hair so lovingly ripped from loaded combs, a wrinkled paper explaining in detail exactly where I needed to meet for my Peace Corps staging before they would let me come to Bulgaria, etc. I flipped through these things like a fascinated turtle, examining, pondering, reminiscing, coagulating. I grinned in psychotic bliss and unrestrained flames shot through my fiery green eyes, as I quickly tossed a half-eaten ham sandwich into the nearest box and dove in to a box labeled, "Educational Materials" . . . alas, my joy was unadulterated.

I sauntered casually into the bedroom next, as if I had all the time in the world, and I examined all of the watercolors that my little host sister had painted for me, which now hung gracefully on the bedroom wall. Hmmmm, I thought reproachfully, those must come next, but I must be very careful not to destroy such FINE workmanship! I eased onto one of the beds, took a hold of one of those lovely paintings, and PULLED ever so carefully. I cringed as I heard the sound of ripping tape and squinted my eyes in order to avoid the imminent disaster; I breathed a sigh of relief when I discovered that I held a perfectly uninjured watercolor in my hands. But, suddenly, something else caught my frantic eye, a gasp of horror escaped my
pursed lips, I fainted across the bed with a watercolor grasped tightly in my fingers. When I came to, I looked at the faded, dirty, pale yellow wall in horror. Was it true?!!? I looked again. No, it couldn't be! But, it was. For, paint in Bulgaria can be compared to washable Crayola markers in America, especially when it's aged. Along with my precious painting, were
crumbling clumps of pale yellow paint, leaving four large white spots where the masterpiece had been. I gasped once again just for the effect, breathed deeply to prevent myself from fainting, and then I went after the next watercolor. "Please, please, PLEASE don't let it take off the paint!" I prayed as I yanked swiftly. I moved from one painting to the next, groaning each time as white spots marked the spot which once held such beauty. I pondered the reaction of a wretched landlady, I only paused in the yanking process to marvel at a painting or at the area where the splotches of white seemed to strangely resemble one of my old college professors.

And, finally, I stood to gaze at a pale yellow wall covered in a myriad of white splotches, wondering, with a tilted head, "I wonder if she'll notice?!!?" Suddenly, "focus" took on a completely different meaning as I rifled through my stash of cheap Bulgarian markers for the yellow. No sooner had I unearthed the marker did it hit the white spots on that wall,
but, to my dismay, it didn't work. Where is a Crayola marker or a yellow highlighter when you really need it?! (HINT: SEND CRAYOLA MARKERS TO BULGARIA AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!!!) So, I rifled again until I came across the
little bright yellow crayon-thing that is supposed to be face paint, which I used on Halloween to transform myself into a brilliant version of the Exorcist. The crayon-thing shone like a beacon, glimmering in all of its useful glory and I went to town on that wall. I colored in the white like an artist on the verge of a breakthrough, my fingers numbing and growing
limp in all of my artistic fury. I colored in the splotches that resembled animals, those that resembled states, and, of course, those that reminded me fondly of college professors. And, then, with a titled head, I once again stood back to examine my handiwork. Not bad, though the pale yellow wall is now covered with bright yellow splotches instead of dull white ones.

And, then, as my work on the wall was done, I once again sat to take a much-needed break. I cracked open my book, kicked up my feet, and took a deep breath . . . breathing in a stench that I was sure could kill flies at the drop of a hat. "What is that smell?" I grimaced as I wrinkled my nose. "Is it me? COULD it be me?" I sniffed my underarms and shrugged as the
stench overtook me and I realized that I had better find the cause or go into convulsions. And that was when I became the dog that I was. I sniffed high, I sniffed low, I sniffed under and above tables, chairs, old sneakers, bathing suits, scattered papers, and rusty thing-a-majigs. What could it be? "Oh well, I am moving in a couple of days anyway!" And, then, when the going got rough, my nose led me to an old refrigerator in the living room, which I sort of used at one point when my other refrigerator wasn't working. I opened the door cautiously, unaware of what I'd find. Upon opening the contraption, the fumes from within overtook me and I fell to the floor in wild convulsions. Once I recovered (God-willing), I dared to peek further into one of the small compartments . . . my eyes grew large at the sight of three bubbling rotten eggs tucked in the back of an unplugged refrigerator. I screamed in horror, I gagged in revulsion, and I pinched two fingers on the plastic bag that harbored these vile creatures as I ran onto the balcony. What was I to do? The fumes were over-taking my apartment like an unwanted visitor who wouldn't leave, three rotten eggs lay smoldering in my hand, I wasn't sure I would make it to the dumpster four floors below. I don't believe in littering, nor do I condone it, but all I could think to do was toss the stinking bag off the balcony . . . I sent it sailing, far from my sight, far from my apartment, far from my life never to be seen (or smelt) again.

So, now I sit here in my old apartment after having delivered most of my baggage to the new apartment this morning, with the aide of my school director, a teacher at the school, the school security guard, and my new landpeople. We were like a train of circus performers, trudging and lifting all of my accumulated JUNK from one apartment to the next. My new apartment
is cozy and comfortable for me to spend the rest of my time here, I am especially grateful that it is so much closer to my school and to the center of my town. I even already officially managed to lock myself INSIDE of it, so I guess it's pretty safe. And you KNOW you've been in Bulgaria too long when you get excited about a regular-sized stove, hot water, and a phone
with PUSH buttons rather than the old rotary dial! I'll move in officially tomorrow with the last few bits of my JUNK and I'm actually a little excited about it. Things are really looking up, after all, the raw eggs have finally been put out of their misery and thrown to their death, so what else do I have to worry about?!!?

Hugs and kisses,
Chantel