9 September 2015 (Day 14)

A city stands idly, lifeless and dark, with the exception of an occasional illuminated streetlamp and soft yellow light spilling out of apartment windows. The day, although previously encompassed by loud chatter from various cafes and bantering that vacillated across the cobbled streets, has been hushed, and blanketed by the stars. In its place preside the sounds of the night: crickets and a shout from a nightclub two blocks away. The searing heat that rose with dawn has sunken with dusk into a tub of airy bathwater.

A thin, awkward girl traipes alone down an empty street in her leather wedges, disorientated, apprehensive, and perplexed as to where she is. The girl would ordinarily find peace in the darkness if not for the circumstances. The girl is, unfortunately, somewhat of a fucking dumbass.

Can you guess who that girl is?

BINGO! Me.

But that’s not the end of the story. Oh no. (family, I ask of you, to preserve your sanity, do not read on)

Did I mention she was alone? Alone? At four in the morning? Really? REALLY?!?!?!?! (mental self-slap)

Okay, calm down, intelligent part of Elizabeth. Allow me to finish.

She realizes what a fucking idiot she is (in fact, she’s been thinking it the entire time she’s been walking) and decides to end her brainless promenade through the streets. As she nears the night club from which she departed ten minutes ago, she spies a man in the distance. And the man sees her. And he smiles, in a very sinister way.

This is how I die, she thinks.

She clutches her purse as if it will protect her from the predicament which she has found herself in and begins hurriedly scuttling the opposite direction. The bulky, bald-headed man (a typical horror movie antagonist) begins sauntering very leisurely towards her. However, the timing of the following occurrence would imply that Jesus and the Dalai Lama were smiling upon her that day; for, lo and behold, a taxi flies around the corner. She doesn’t hesitate for a moment. Upon perceiving that wondrous yellow hunk of metal, the girl charges towards it, jumps in and slams the door.

“SKAPTA TWO!” she shrieks, and the cab screeches away. She glances back. The man is still watching her. He is still smiling.

COMMON SENSE RULE #1: DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT WALK HOME BY YOURSELF AT FOUR IN THE MORNING. REGARDLESS IF YOU ARE HEAVILY INTOXICATED OR NOT. IN FACT, IF YOU ARE NOT HEAVILY INTOXICATED, YOU ARE JUST A DUMBASS. LIKE ME.

Okay, so chances are that guy was another taxi driver who was going to offer me a ride, but at that ungodly hour, who the fuck knows (I was actually just compelled to implement a dramatic opener. Apologies if I frightened you).

So that’s my after-clubbing story. My actual clubbing experience was far worse and not one I want to discuss in detail, but, long story short, it was unpleasant. Partly because I was, singularly, not completely shit-faced or stoned (also the reason I was alone). But mostly because people are NASTAY.

Never again. (shudders)

Now, you’re probably wondering: Elizabeth, is personifying a dumb bitch all you’ve been up to? Actually, as a matter of fact, NO. My assfoolery was, fortunately, short-lived. After that wondrous shit-fest of a night (and a re-assessment of my judgment) I realized how fond I was of staying in my dorm, not hubbuda dubbuda hubbuda, and instead writing blog posts and watching YouTube (aka, being a pussy), because Netflix doesn’t exist in Bulgaria.

No, really. It doesn’t exist.

(cue Psycho music, screams)

I was discussing plans with my roommate, Tanya, the other day, when I spontaneously blurted out, “We should watch NETFLIX!”

She stared at me for a moment, stumped. Then she replied, “We don’t have Netflix here.”

(in slow motion)

Weeeeeee doooonnn’tttt haaaaavveeee Neeettffflliixxxx heeeeerrreeeeeeeeeeeeee.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTT?

I flipped open my laptop immediately, hurriedly typed in the address, and BAM!, came face to face with this screen:

“Excuse me?” I said aloud, half shocked, half offended.

Then I slowly turned toward her. I gazed deep into her brown eyes and pondered how dismal her life, as well the lives of all Bulgarians, must have been all these years, with a vacant hole in their existences where Netflix had filled mine.

In the armmmmssss of the angeelllll, fly awaaaaayyyyyyy from heeeerreeeeee…

Outrage flooded my veins. Revolution stirred deep within my soul. I wanted to throw my laptop out of the window (a sacrificial ritual to the Netflix gods). But I mostly wanted to binge-watch Scandal. And when I realized my inability to watch the fourth season of House of Cards upon its release? The internal meltdown that followed was (in nasal-y voice) INCONCEIVABLE.

Fortunately, field trips to cool, ancient European places kind of make up for the lack of unlimited binge-worthy TV shows.

The day before yesterday, I was bestowed the opportunity to traverse a mountain so as to feast my eyes upon the grandeur that is the Rila Monastery. Unfortunately, as soon as I departed the bus and arrived at the entrance, a cultural reality slapped me in the face:

It was a men’s-only monastery. And what was I so opportunely clad in that day?

A tank top and shorts. I know, scandalous. It certainly was to the men guarding the entryway.

“You cannot enter,” one said, gesturing to a girl at the head of my group, whose outfit resembled mine. She gaped. So did I.

We turned back, and, lo and behold, indignantly seated outside of the gate were more scantily-clad girls, stupefied by the situation and in disbelief at the seemingly sexist rules. My university never informed us that this was a requirement, so irritation was justifiably evident on everyone’s countenances. However, a solution was made present when we were informed that we could purchase what I so affectionately referred to as ‘indecency scarves’ for four leva each. I of course was obligated to buy two, one to cover my arms, and one to shroud my legs.

I’m not going to lie; my initial reaction was that of disgust and resentment. But after considering the circumstances for a moment, I realized that I was standing on the grounds of an ancient monastery which did not heed to the implications of the modern world. In simpler terms, I was merely a visitor of a place that honored the customs of the past. Therefore, I possessed no right to impose my modern views here, even if they are universally accepted in the developed world. So, instead of rattling off about feminism, I took a deep breath, composed myself, and actually enjoyed the self-guided tour extensively.

Well, almost.

Two major items prevented me from completely enjoying my visit. The first? The employment of the monastery. Not the monks. I mean, it’s not like they talk anyway. The worst they could do is spill some holy water on your shoe, and even then, your SOLE would be blessed, amiright?

(hesitant ba-dum-tis)

No, the cause of my displeasure were the clerks/vendors at the museums and souvenir shops. After crossing paths with my roommate (as we were separated due to my sinful clothing choices), she recommended that I visit a museum she herself had just gone through, but insisted that she follow along until I went through the woman working there.

“Why?”

“She’s charging foreigners more.”

            “What?”

And sure enough, while I was waiting to purchase a ticket, I witnessed the people in front of me get metaphorically ingested and then spat out by a demon. Although they fought to the bitter and hellish end, they still ended up paying three times the price that a Bulgarian would pay for entrance into (ironically) the place of historical holy artifacts.

It was my turn next. I tentatively wobbled up to the counter and found myself face-to-face with Satan, who had taken a particularly peculiar form: a saggy old woman with a clipped haircut, dark brown eyes, and spectacles perched at the end of her nose.

“O-o-one ticket, please,” I stuttered, thrusting my lev across the counter.

Satan eyed me carefully. I gazed back into her hellish pits.

The instant our pupils locked, a dark mysticism stirred within me, and I found myself traveling beyond worlds, past dimensions, and outside of the universe itself. I found myself a futile mortal sucked into a void where time is irrelevant, and morality nonexistent; a void that Jonathon Edwards preached about with unrivaled fervor and intensity; that led his revivalist audiences to literally quake and convulse to the point of sheer madness, and even suicide, for the implication of everlasting torture from the mouth of passionate Protestant preacher was actually that distressing.

I found myself in Hell.

In the underworld, I bore witness to unspeakable occurrences: tormented souls drowning in lakes of fire, men and women hanging upside down from gallows, and, yes, even unfortunate victims enduring pitchforks in their fleshy posteriors. The last sight was especially impressionable.

Despite observing these horrors, I raised my chin defiantly and stood my ground. Satan was testing my sentiment, weighing my strength, measuring my virtue. Eternity passed. Then, after evidently deciding that I was worthy, she snatched the lev in her six-pronged tongue and burped out a ticket from the ninth layer of the inferno.

Okay, okay. The truth? Tanya asked her (in Bulgarian) for a ticket and after grumbling for a moment she shoved one across the counter. That was all. Evidently, until my roommate fought viciously with this harpy earlier in the day, she was making the same vile request of the other students that were with her. Tanya don’t put up with ANYONE’S shit. (snaps fingers)

The museum itself was fascinating, however, and more pleasant than its gatekeeper. It contained artifacts dating back to the tenth century, including numerous works of art, the guards’ guns, and handcrafted Bibles from various European countries. The greatest spectacle, however, was a giant wooden cross that was handcrafted by the monastery’s founder, who apparently went blind upon finishing it. Just like Oedipus after…never mind.

I think it’s fair to say that was literally the worst comparison in all of human history.

The rest of the day constituted of me buying doughnuts, wandering around with/eating said doughnuts, and innately finding myself lost amongst ghosts of the past. My trip concluded with a bus ride back to my college.

Speaking of, how is college, Elizabeth?

So far? Like prolonged summer camp. Except with higher-class facilities and an education that involves something other than making fires and learning which leaves are usable for toilet paper (true story). For the most part, it’s fun. I haven’t really gotten far into my classes yet so I can’t say anything with absolute certainty—except for one particular testosterone-related circumstance (wink, wink).

Hello, ladies and homosexual men. You may be wondering about the male situation here, and w-he-helllll, let me tell you, it is WAY different than in America. Most of the boys here are ridiculously attractive. The girls too, actually. I mean, if I’m enticing in the States, I look like Donald Trump and Gollum’s love-child (barf) compared to some of these babes.

On the upside or downside, depending on your perspective, boys here also tend to be way more straightforward when they want something. There’s no dawdling around—the attitude is sit down and get to business. It’s not unusual for the subsequent conversation to occur:

“Hi, I’m So-and-So. I’m from some exotic place you’ve never heard of. How about you?”

“Hi, I’m Elizabeth! I’m from the States.”

“Cool, wanna bang?”

“Uhhhhh—”

Okay, so that’s a little exaggerated. But seriously, it’s kind of jarring.

If you’re a close friend of mine (hi, Jen), you’re probably wondering if I have yet to score with a member of the opposite sex. The answer is no. Not because boys here are repulsed by me. Oh no.

It’s because I’m a LOOOSSSSEERRR.

The truth is, I haven’t gone out a lot. Despite the ‘balcony parties’ that have highlighted every weeknight (hello, party school), I’ve only made it to one so far and ended up drinking cranberry juice. The warm beer in a solo cup just wasn’t doin’ it for me (real alcohol, please). The second reason is that, unfortunately for me, I examine people’s character before I scrutinize their physical appearance. Which rules out ninety-nine percent of the boys I’ve met thus far. No offense.

Exhibit A: I was walking to the pool with my American girl friend and a bunch of dudes, and at one point I found myself marching ahead of the rest of the group (as per usual, due to my impatient walking tendency). The moment they thought I was out of earshot, the following conversation took place:

“Hey, that girl is cute.”

“Yeah, she has, nice, uh…”

(muttering in Bulgarian)

“Assets. Yeah.”

(self-satisfied snickering)

I also have a nice can of fuck torpedoes, you horny bastards.

And I’m honestly just not interested. I’m attending college to delve into my passions, not get laid. Unlike some girls. (cough, cough)

Anyway, you’re probably sick of reading about me, and interested what I’ve observed culturally since my stay here. Namely, the contrasts between the civilization which I ditched, and the civilization which I am now encompassed in.

The major difference between Bulgaria and America? The atmosphere. It’s extremely slooooowwwwwwww. I swear, even the flies buzz around in a leisurely manner. I wonder if they adopt the mentality of their superiors. Maybe that’s why they fly around like crack addicts in the United States.

Anyhow, you enter a restaurant, and you wait about ten minutes for a waiter to appear. If you’re not a local and don’t know what you want (like myself) you have to order a menu, and wait another millennium for the server to return and take your order. In the duration between you ordering your food and your source of sustenance arriving, you undergo extreme aging. This constitutes of first your skin shriveling until it completely dries up and peels off, after which your internal organs sizzle in the hellish heat, resulting in you resembling a half-eaten carcass, which then entices vultures swoop in to pick them off so that all that remains are your bones, and even those gradually turn into dust. (inhales deeply)

And then you get your food. But your food is so delicious that it revitalizes you and you reincarnate as Zeus, and b-h-hoy you are glad you reduced yourself to a pile of ashes because the garlic sauce on your pork was SO WORTH IT.

Man, would I love to throw some east-coasters in this country. The lack of a rapid-moving, no-time-to-stop environment would undoubtedly drive them to the brink of hair-yanking, eyeball exploding (?) hysteria. Coming soon to TLC? (I think yes.)

Another difference? Being a pedestrian here is scary as FUCK. I think I almost die like thirty times on a daily basis. 

MAYBEYOUCOULDNOTSTOPSTUDDENLYATTHECROSSWALKORKEEPGOINGEVENTHOUGHI’MALREADYINTHESTREETANDMAYBEJUSTSLOWDOWNPLEASETHANKS.

After I unloaded my European-inspired vehicular fears to Tanya she informed me that apparently, in Bulgaria drivers are trained to not stop for pedestrians UNLESS THEY ARE ALREADY IN THE ROAD. Needless to say, this has resulted in unnecessary anxiety whenever I come into contact with pavement.

Also, the driving is just horrendous overall. People back out of intersections, spontaneously merge into other lanes, and leave like two centimeters of space in between their cars. And seatbelts? Eh. Those are for pussies.

Yet I still have not witnessed a single car accident. So I guess it works for them.

Okay, so I realize that every blog post has constituted of a ramble about everything wrong with Bulgaria, and you’re probably getting the impression that I hate it, but I really don’t. I just like making fun of everything to cope with my insecurities. To counterbalance my criticism, I have compiled a list of what I love about my temporary home:

1.                  THE FOOD. I know I’ve mentioned this countless times before, but the food here is MAAA-VEEELOUSSS. However, since my arrival in Bulgaria I’ve developed a bit of a problem:

I CANNOT. STOP. EATING.

It’s actually frightening. During the summer, I was so anxious all the time that I literally struggled to choke down a forkful of rice. Now the opposite holds true, and every meal is comprised of me eating to the point of wanting to upchuck everything. Not to mention the desserts I partake in two to three times a day. Fortunately, I’m blessed with a fast metabolism, but even that can’t prevent me from gaining a few pounds.

(UPDATE: my abnormal eating habit has since curbed. Whew.)

ANYWAY, this list is supposed to be POSITIVE, so let’s move on.

2.                  My classmates. For the most part, they’re pretty rad. And the diversity in the university in INSANE. I’ve absorbed/learned about so many different cultures from across Europe and Asia, and can now confidently say I’m no longer an ignorant American asshole. Success!

3.                  The close proximity of everything. I’ve already been to Greece (beyond the date of this blog post, but, nonetheless), and in the next couple months I’m hopefully traveling to Turkey and Germany.

Well, there you have it. I think I’ve basically covered my first week at my university. School is starting and these blog posts will most likely be eked out every two weeks rather than one. But don’t despair, my loyal readers—the adventures I’m going on will be worth the wait.

Until next time,

Elizabeth