Welcome to Plovdiv. I hope you enjoyed the burnt orange-themed bus ride.
We are here, at least partly, because of a Facebook post. Someone who was looking for an editor for her book. I answered, and got the gig. Didi is writing about many things that happened in her life, and also about a therapy modality called RTT. We got along like a house on fire.
She’s Bulgarian-American, and she and her family spend their summers in Bulgaria, which, as we all know, is just an easy bus ride (etc.) away from Turkey.
“You should visit,” she told me.
“I couldn’t possibly,” I said, trying to disguise my excitement.
What this means is that even though we haven’t met in person, I feel like I know her. I know that she grew up through the fall of communism. How she moved to American with $75 in her pocket. How she learned to speak English by getting a job at a nail salon. That she has twin brothers who live in the same Bulgarian village outside Plovdiv that we are staying, whom I will meet later today.
We’ll get to that in a minute.
The morning after the bus ride, I wake up and am positive I’ve made a huge mistake.
What was I thinking? I barely know this person. And this is her whole family. What if I make an idiot of myself? Should I change out of my pyjamas before I go into the kitchen? Or does that look like I’m trying too hard?
I stay in my pyjamas. Didi makes me coffee and offered me a plate of banitska, which is kind of like mini cinnamon rolls except for with cheese instead of cinnamon and without sugar and so much better than I’m making them sound. We talk and talk at the kitchen table. Then we head into the city.
Plovdiv is one of the oldest cities in the world. Who knew? No one except some YouTubers, apparently, and now you. We buy tickets for the 3D movie about the ruins that Didi insists that I see. The woman selling tickets says, “Make sure you go to H&M after the show.”
Didi, understandably confused, asks if there is some ruin-related H&M discount.
“Go to the ground floor. You will find a man there. He will show you where to go.”
Mystified, we watch the 3D movie. It recreates the giant stadium with Olympics-style tournaments that we are now sitting inside of. It shows some of the games the contestants played. It might be the best thing I’ve ever seen.
Afterwards, rubbing our eyes in the sunlight, I babble incredulously, and we both shuffle over to H&M. Sure enough, there’s a man on the ground floor. Next to him is a sign that says, in three languages, “I do not work in the store.”
He points us downstairs, and we descend into part of the ancient stadium, steps and all. Lion paw ornaments and all. Carving marks right in the stone that you can run your hands across and sit on.
While upstairs, people shop for $10 shorts.
In another part of the city, we go to a theatre, and descent into another part of the ancient stadium. At the communist-era post office, with a second hand clothing store inside, we spot another part. A thunderstorm hits, and we sprint into a co-working space that is also specializes in craft beer, upon which we decide that craft beer is an excellent way to ride out a thunderstorm.
As we sit at the bar, soaking wet people filter, everyone chatting with each other. A woman comes up to Didi and tells her how much she admires her hair. (I understand this even though it is in Bulgarian. The language of hair is universal.) Eventually, the skies clear and we head home, where find an army of children—Didi’s kids and their cousins—sprawled around the living room.
They are not on their phones.
They are not watching the TV.
They are, with much enthusiasm, melting beads.
They come up to me one by one, shake my hand and introduces themselves in polite, learned-in-school English. Then they return to their beads. They’re so engrossed that I wonder naively if they even have phones. Didi serves me a nice light snack of egg and cheese casserole with black olives and ham, followed by a “little try” of what one could call Bulgarian tiramisu but made with raspberry jam.
One of the her nieces, Christina, who’s about 9, eyes my food. She sidles over and sits down next to me, her eyes twinkling.
“Yes,” I say, feigning bashfulness. “I ate it all.”
Christina’s friend explains that Christina doesn’t speak much English. I keep talking anyway, because she keeps giggling.
Then she clears her throat and says, with excellent enunciation: “Do you have any pets?”
Delighted, I get out my phone to show her Django, who, obviously, is my backdrop. She lets out a long squeal of delight.
With her friend translating, Christina pulls her phone out (so they do have phones!) and shows me photos of each and every dog and cat that she and her cousins has ever had. Then the friend gets her phone and shows me her dog. They start gesturing for Didi’s daughter to translate.
”We are best friends,” they say.
I smile.
“We have known each other since we are born.”
“We used to live away from each other, but now we are neighbours. So we are even closer friends now.”
This is hitting harder than maybe it should. I swallow a lump in my throat.
I tell them that having a best friend is one of the best things ever.
They light up.
All the while, everyone else is still busy with their beads.
Later, Didi’s twin brothers and one of her sisters-in-law come over for dinner. And by later, I mean 9:30pm. I’m still stuffed from my evening snack, but that doesn’t stop me from trying shopska salad, one of Bulgaria’s national dishes, and then fasul soup, which is too good to even talk about right now. Both brothers give me a Bulgarian history lesson and a Bulgarian political lesson, the thesis of which is that Bulgaria is a stunningly beautiful country rich in natural resources, minerals, gold and ancient ruins that no one outside of Bulgaria knows or gives a shit about.
We start to clean up the plates, and get onto international politics.
“I like Donald Trump,” one of the brothers says.
“Shit,” I think. “Fuck.”
It’s been such an awesome evening. I don’t want to ruin it.
“I’m not going to say anything,” I say, politely, focusing on the dishes I’m loading into the dishwasher.
“Why not?” the brother asks. “In Bulgaria, you can disagree about politics and still be friends.”
I squint at him.
“Really! This is important. You can tell me why you like Biden, and we can argue, and then we will say cheers and be friends. We are not like Americans,” he adds.
I take a deep breath.
I explain that I do not like Biden either, or Kamala for that matter, and a little bit about why. We talk about immigrants and refugees. We talk about Ukraine. Then he says,
“We like Trump because we know that if Biden gets voted in, there will be a war in Bulgaria.”
This is not something I’ve ever had to consider.
“We do not want a war here,” he goes on. “Who is president in America is important to small countries like us.”
I nod, and stay quiet. I realize that in this moment, it doesn’t matter whether I agree with him, or what I think about Trump. It matters that I listen. It matters that his thoughts and fears are just as valid to him as mine are to me.
Tomorrow night, he promises, there will be more stories.
“And then we’ll say ‘nazdrave’,” he reminds me, and mimes clinking his glass. “Because we are friends.”
I’m so grateful to be their friend. And their kids’ friend, and (by proxy) their cats and dogs and five fish, none of whom I’d met until today. With more calories in a night than I normally eat in a week.
In this ancient, beautiful place, layered with stories.
I think that's the first perfectly good reason I have heard for voting for Trump. I totally approve.
Really enjoying your Bulgarian trip Nat👏👏👏