1 September 2015 (Day 6)

 At long last, after days of muckin’ about the city, trollopin’ from bus to taxi, I ‘ave made it to the skolliwad where I will be studyin’. As I approached dis towerin’ box of o’ buildin’, I shriveled up in anticipation of what wus ta come. Me eyes squinted in the blindin’ sunlight. The heat was blisterin’. Sweat dripped from me back down to me asscr—

WH-HO-HO, let’s stop riiiiight there, Elizabeth.

Sorry, guys; apparently I’m John Cleese now. Anyhow, yes: I’ve arrived in Blagoevgrad.

Thank God.

Over the last couple of days, I was exposed to cultural realities that I would have rather lived blissfully without observing (okay, that’s a lie, but still. YIKES)

Before I commence my wondrous tale, however, let’s pick up from where I left off in my last blog post, shall we? If you didn’t read it, um…why do you exist, again? Just kidding. But seriously, go read it. If you’re a lazy motherfucker like myself, allow me to mise en scène:

INT. ROOM IN AUNT’S APARTMENT - DAY

ENTER ELIZABETH. SHE SITS DOWN ON THE BED, GAZING DREAMILY OUT AT THE SOFIA SKYLINE, AND THE SETTING SUN. SHE OPENS HER LAPTOP. SHE WRITES. SHE SNICKERS TO HERSELF, APPARENTLY FINDING HERSELF AMUSING. WHAT A TWA—

Okayyyy, fast-forwarding to the next day!

Ahem.

After a night of inadequate sleep due to barking dogs, screaming children, and whinnying horses, I awoke sickly and frail. If I thought this was the low of my day, SURPRISE, MOTHAFUCKA.

I was wrong.

The downward spiral of profanity began at the onset of the journey to meet my cousin Venko downtown. At about one o’ clock in the afternoon, my mother and I departed for the subway in Lyulin. However, this required us to wait for a bus that would transport us there.

Lingering near my mother and me at the bus stop was an elderly woman dressed in a bedazzled headband, a loose shirt and a long skirt that flowed down to her cracked feet. After hopping from foot to foot for a few moments, she finally hiked up her skirt and darted across the street, only to drop her panties and embrace her inner Bear Grylls. Yup, that’s right.

SHE TOOK A PISS. IN PUBLIC.

I stared. I mean, only for a moment. Because watching strangers pee is weird. (cough, cough)

After shaking herself out, she shambled back across the road to rejoin us, and I was no longer capable of eye contact. Or words, for that matter.*

*Unfortunately, due to the scarcity of free public bathrooms in Europe, and her likely state of homelessness, she probably had no other choice. Yes, I realize this.

Hi, I don’t know you, but I watched you sprinkle the greenery across the street. So, what cafés do you recommend that are near Zapaden Park?

However, the distasteful behavior was only magnified upon our arrival at the Lyulin station. After entering the terminal, we were obligated to go through a rather sullen and coarse woman who gestured rudely to the timetables after my mother asked her a simple question about the schedule. Unbelievably, this was kindness compared to the vulgarity she exhibited to the young woman behind us.

Following our trek through the turnstiles to the seating area in the platform, our ears were suddenly subjected to screeching originating from the window from which we had just departed. A moment later, the woman behind us flew down the stairs, tears bursting from her eyes. She spoke rapidly in Bulgarian and gestured wildly to old man at her side, who was patting her arm kindly and attempting to calm her in her state of anguish.

“What happened?” I asked my mother, aghast at this public display of despair.

My mother listened for a moment. Then her dark eyes widened.

“That young lady had a dispute with the woman behind the counter. The man she’s with is blind, so she needed to assist him through the turnstile. The woman ignored her and asked her why she was with an older man. She called her a whore.”

My jaw literally dropped.

“WHAT?”

My mother shook her head, speechless. I bristled in anger. If I was a porcupine, I would have been shooting quills all over the fucking place.

“That’s HORRIBLE!” I shrieked. “That would not be tolerated in America.”

I paused, shocked at myself. Never for a second did I think I would be alluring to my country in such a patriotic manner, and certainly not within the first three days of my stay in Bulgaria.

But I was disgusted.

Trembling with rage, I continued rambling: “If I spoke Bulgarian, would I have words to say to HER. That hag is disgrace to the human race.”

The young woman was watching us curiously, tears still streaming down her face.

“I understand,” she said solemnly, and little appreciatively, I think.

My mother nodded. After a moment she, too, began bawling.

“You’re right. If we were in the United States, someone would have called the police,” she sniffed, wiping her face.

My mother? The ultimate pessimist, defending the land of the free and the brave?

Well, okay then. At least we were united on that front.

We arrived in downtown Sofia, and another unsavory fact was made apparent to me:

EVERYONE smokes.

Don’t get me wrong. I can handle one person waving a cigarette in my face. I’m not a pussy. But when I step outside (might I add, in heat equivalent to any of Satan’s private orifices) into a cloud of fumes, it’s not exactly pleasurable to the nose. Or eyes. Actually, to add to the list of undesirable attributes of Sofia, my glazzies burn every time I skalliwag about the city; because the half-starving horses, polluted air and vile old biddies don’t contribute to the real horrorshow atmosphere already (there I go again).

Despite the unpleasantness from the amassment of developing lung cancer, I enjoyed a pleasant afternoon at the park with my mother and my cousin, and was able to forget the pitfalls of Sofia in ginormous chocolate ice-cream cone and free WiFi.

I left the following day for my final destination in Bulgaria, never having made it to the village of Batoshevo. Instead, I’m bussing there the weekend after next, if I’m not touring Thessaloniki with my classmates. However, before I blather on about Blagoevgrad, I must first disclose to you the marvelous affair that took place at the bus station, on my last day in Sofia.

Upon downing a tall glass of beer (my first legal beer. That’s right, #LEGAL, betches), my mind unwound itself, as minds do when under the influence, and a prodigious idea originated. I realized my new objective:

The penis game. European style.

How does one play the penis game, European style? Well, old chap, allow me to bestow upon you the genius of my creation. It’s quite simple, really. Whenever you find yourself in a part of Europe where the English language is rarely spoken, you simply utter “penis” casually in the presence of a stranger. If they don’t understand what vermin has just groveled out of your mouth and took a diarrhea-y shit in the once genital-free air around you (as well as in your morality) you’re in the clear.

Now, you might be wondering: Elizabeth, you scandalous goon, have you already partook in this dastardly, swine-worthy debacle of a game?

Yup. And I’ve done it everywhere (that’s what she said, snort giggle).

The two businessmen standing next to us at the bus station? Yup.

The accommodating, bubbly waitress at the restaurant down the street from our hotel in Blagoevgrad? You betcha.

The friendly woman waiting next to us in the notary’s office this afternoon? Check.

The trick is to be nonchalant when you say it. Or to use it in a sentence. For example:

“So I was washing my penis in the sink today, and the dispenser WAS OUT OF SOAP. Ugh. Can you believe that?”

“That penis costs seven euros? Are you kidding me?”

“Mom, can you check my penis? It looks it’s growing some kind of fungi in the crack.”

Hello, future employers. Yes, I am capable of maturity. Please forget you ever read this. I was a naïve, eighteen-year-old-girl, incapable of humor beyond that of a seventh grader.*

*Who's the profane and vulgar one now?

Anyhow, two hours later I arrived in Blagoevgrad. After spending the night at a hotel, I underwent my first day of orientation, where I met me new mates. This includes my Bulgarian roommate, who shares my love of Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, YouTube, classic literature, history, and basically everything nerdy. She’s perf.

The only downside? The heat is UNBEARABLE. A hundred degrees. Every day. And although the dorms themselves are air conditioned, the dorm rooms ARE NOT. It’s a Wet Hot European Summer, minus Paul Rudd and Amy Poehler starring as horny sixteen-year-old camp counselors. And talking vegetable cans. And outlandish government conspiracies involving Ronald Reagan’s ‘Falcon,’ who is supposedly Reagan’s agent but then actually turns about to be BFFs with the camp’s cook. Whoops, spoilers.

Actually, nothing in the show is relevant to my situation. I was just desperate to put a spin on the name and come across as the slightest bit whimsical. I know, I failed miserably. Excuse me while I crawl into my own asscrack.*

*PRIME EXAMPLE OF WHY YOU SHOULD NOT WRITE WHEN YOU ARE SLEEP DEPRIVED.

To add to the extremity of the situation, my red and blue nail polish not only leaked but melted due to the intensity of the heat, thus resulting my makeup bag resembling a patriotic shitfest. Every time I unzip my bag, I can’t resist belting “America the Beautiful” as I weep over my now-lacquered facial appliances. It’s truly calamitous. (pretentious sigh)

Nevertheless, in my brief duration on campus, I have grown acutely self-conscious of my American dialect, and my Americanness in general. The plainness of my speech contrasts sharply to the suave and exotic European dialects of my fellow students. Whenever someone introduces themselves to me, I find myself swooning at their sleek, creamy, peanut-buttery, melted chocolatey, mashed potato-y—

Okay, I’m gonna myself stop right there. Basically their speech is the equivalent to various delicious food groups. Then they ask for my name and where I’m from, and it goes like this:

“Hai, I’m ElizaBUTH. I’m from AMURICA. WASHINGTOn sTaTEEEE.”

For some reason, this triggers a switch in my classmates’ brains. Commence eyeballs popping out, ears perking and tongues lolling.

“Whaaaattttt?”

There are a grand total of six Americans my freshman class. Yup, you read that right. SIX. We’re basically as rare as African-Americans in my hometown. I apologize; only people hailing from Camas will understand that joke. I can make it more relevant. Like as rare as humans in Antarctica.

Or Belgians in Africa. JUST KIDDINGGGGG HAHAAAA

I’m going to hell.

But seriously Belgium, that was REALLY fucked up. Also looking at you, Britain, France, Germany, Spain, Portugal, etc., etc.*

*Not that America didn’t massacre millions of natives. Heavy misanthrope sigh.

Anyhow, you might be wondering how I’m handling this transition. Basically, my range of emotions have included, but are not limited to: OMG YASSSSS let’s go clubbing and get grinded on by highly intoxicated members of both sexes (true story, although ahead of this timeline), to WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY to FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU (in no particular order, although it can also go thusly).

Needless to say, it’s been an emotional rollercoaster. But after my first day, I actually settled in quite comfortably, and I can honestly say I feel more at home now. It’s advantageous that my classmates are friendly, and my roommate is flippin’ AWESOME.

Okay, I have loads more to discuss, but this blog post is getting lengthy, so I think I’ll wrap it up for now. How would I summarize my escapade to Europe so far? …Interesting. In both positive and negative respects. How would I characterize myself at the moment? A cross between “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel, and “Far From the Home I Love” from Fiddler on the Roof. Except the ‘backstreet guy’ in “Uptown Girl” is Europe. And so is the man in Hodel’s solo. But I’m doing good. Really, I am. And I miss you all.

With that, I bid you

ADIEU!

(vanishes mysteriously)

…Still working on that outro, guys.