�EWWW, what�s that smell?� I pondered nervously, wrinkling my nose with distaste. Waves of aged salty sweat intermingled with overpowering blasts of stale cigarette smoke, rotting flesh, ghastly breath, and other undistinguishable odors hit my nostrils like an express train and I nearly keeled over in disgust as I grasped the rusty tram pole for dear life. �Why is it,� I wondered, feeling faint. �That every time you set foot on one of these trams, the body odor sends you into violent convulsions?� I held my breath until my face turned blue as I made my way to the ticket-punching machine on the other side of the crowded Sofia tram.
I daintily shoved Babas aside, I leaped over small snot-nosed children, I stubbed my toes on Dyados� wooden canes, and I squeezed past Bulgarians of all shapes and sizes to reach the puncher, before I was caught red-handed with an un-punched ticket. I had sworn off these trams long ago, when I was fined 4 leva for not stamping my ticket before the frizzy-headed Bulgarian of death reached me. �That�ll be 4 leva,� she screeched as she waved the un-punched ticket with unadulterated joy, a fisherman (fisherwoman?) displaying her proud catch of the arduous day. �Grrrrrr,� I growled, obliging deliberately since this was my first tram ride. Unbeknownst to the woman, but very beknownst to my dear friend Marisa, I grumbled and groaned the rest of my ruined day, swearing off trams, trolleys, and go-carts ANYWHERE for the REST OF MY LIFE. Yes, from that moment on, it was taxis for me! Until I had to cut back on MacDonald�s chicken nuggets, black see-through panties, and additions to my extensive Britney Spears collection because of extreme lack of funds . . . it was back to the wonderful world of Sofia trams for me!
However, ever since my incident with the fine, I was determined not to let it happen again. After that, I jumped on to trams and raced to the ticket puncher, not caring whom I hit, punched, stepped on, jabbed, finagled, or manipulated. I was going to PUNCH MY TICKET, so help me God!!! On this particular day, I slid onto the tram, overcome by the smells, and toted wet tickets to the puncher, tickets which obviously hadn�t survived the threatening rain and my wet fingers. I carefully tried to punch two tickets for my backpack and I, but to no avail since the wet paper seemed to suddenly evolve into metal. So, I tried again. And again. Finally, I shrugged, figuring the marks where the little holes should have been were good enough. Besides, the tram was moving at full speed, threatening to send me into the lap of the Baba in front of me. But, little did I know, a bald-headed Bulgarian of death was making his slimy way across the tram, headed straight for me.
I handed him my tickets, he grinned viciously; I flashed him my winning smile, he drooled over my flesh like a hungry wolf awaiting his kill; I pointed meekly to the indentations protruding from my tickets, he dragged me off the tram at the next stop. �You need to pay 8 leva!� the Bulgarian of death gloated, trying to swindle the stupid American. I gasped, I gurgled, I grunted. 8 LEVA?!!? There was absolutely NO WAY. �No,� I challenged him, daring to be brave. �I can�t. I don�t have any money. Your machine doesn�t work because the tickets are wet! I WON�T pay it.� He rubbed his hairy palms together gleefully, delighting in the challenge. �How can you not have money?� He repeatedly questioned in all of his nosy glory. �Where did you come from? Where are you going? How can you NOT have money?� Now HOW is it that you say, �None of your BEESWAX!!!� in Bulgarian again?!!? I opened my purse to show him my lack of money (which I really DID lack!) and he refused to believe that I had none. So, I angrily shoved the few stotinki I did have into his grubby hand and attempted to run, as he gripped him slimy paws on my backpack and refused to let me make a move. �There is a change shop right there,� he repeatedly argued, just ASSUMING that a stupid foreigner would have money to change. �We can go change money!� �I have NO LEVA! NO DOLLARS! NOTHING!� I screamed, again, attempting my escape as he held on ferociously. �Please can I go?� I resorted to begging as he resorted to mocking me and causing a scene. �I will get the police!� he threatened. �You will be arrested!� I shivered in spite of myself as he turned to discuss the validity of my holes with the street side ticket-seller. And that was when I made my escape.
Like a mad woman, I ran across the tram tracks, through the rain and through the slippery puddles and crevices. I dodged oncoming cars and trams, I hurtled stray dogs and begging Roma children, I sideswiped doodads and thing-a-majigs galore. My head spun to the left and to the right, fearful that the Sofia police would be around the next corner to nab the �criminal� that I had become at any moment. I slipped and slid through the crowded streets, heavy rain matting my hair to my skull and chilling me to the bone. My backpack bounced joyfully on my back as I darted and dashed, my heart thumped from my chest and I delighted in the fact that I had escaped being taken advantage of once again. I ran like a bat out of hell, all the way to my haven, the Peace Corps Office. And, boy, did I breathe a sigh of relief once inside those blessed gates! I had escaped, I was free, and I was 8 leva richer. Break out the rakiya and the Britney Spears cassette, it�s time to celebrate!
And, the moral of my story is: Beware of the evil tram goblins!!!
Love Always,
Chantel, Goblin-Defeater Extraordinaire
