Communist Kitsch

Kitsch is cool.  But I wonder: what kind of a sense of humor do you have to have to laugh at communism? What kind of perspective do you need? What kind of space and time is necessary for communism to become kitsch in Bulgaria?

My friend Robyn (a former Fulbrighter living in Budapest) wrote this yesterday and she got me thinking about Bulgaria.

As an American in a post-Communist country, I got plenty of cheaper prices and Commie kitsch: you could enjoy Trabi-spotting in my Budapest neighborhood (or sit in one at my favorite bar) or buy candles in the shape of Lenin’s head at Statue Park. When in Berlin last March, tour guides dressed as East German soldiers sold visas with faux GDR stamps and Sometimes, it all felt a little slimy: are we laughing at what happened? But then, another part of me wondered if the “laugh” wasn’t a good thing: doesn’t the fact that people have turned the oppressor into kitsch become an act of defiance and freedom from the old order?

It got me thinking and asking myself lots of questions.  Where is the kitsch in Bulgaria? Why haven’t we comodified communism yet? Could it be that communism isn’t cool or chic enough to be kitsch yet? What does it take for the transition to happen from fact to frustrating to creepy and then to kitsch? Isn’t 20 years enough?

Okay, we don’t have the East German Ampel Mensch, Lenin, Aeroflot, Marx, Red Square, or any major popular (but failed) uprisings but this doesn’t mean Bulgaria should be left out of the “post-communist county capitalizing on communist chic/communist kitsch” market.

But I don’t see it. I can’t think of any place in Sofia that is marketing kitsch.

Twenty Years

The Berlin Wall came down 20 years ago today.  I was 8 years old. (I am 28 years old now. Go figure.)  I heard about the wall.  I knew that it was important.  I saw it in the newspaper, on tv and I heard people talking about it.  But to me at that moment it was like magic.  It seemed to have just happened over night.  One day there was a wall.  The next it was coming down and people were jumping on it.

What's left of the wall today

At eight years old, I didn’t get that it was a process.  No one said to me: Carolyn, there have been signs that something like this was going to happen for a long time.  No one told me about the East Germans crossing to the west through Hungary. No one talked to me about glasnost and perestroika. I didn’t know about Reagan’s demand: Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!

All I knew was the wall that had divided Germany since the 1960’s had come down.  My eight-year old self was relieved that these people who spoke the same language, shared the same culture and had once lived in the same country were reunited and free.  But the freedom thing was secondary.  I really liked that they were reunited.  These lucky Germans.

Scones in Sofia

I love scones. Love them. I spent a couple of days looking at recipes online. I have a love hate relationship with finding good recipes that work with the ingredients I have access to in Bulgaria.

Scones in Sofia.

School & N1H1

Well it’s official. We wont be teaching for a week.  We’re in the middle of a little crisis.  A swine flu crisis.  The whole thing’s a little strange but that’s that.  No school. The Bulgarian Health Ministry has declared a national swine flu epidemic.

It means that my time has opened up a little bit.  I’ve got some papers to grade, some Bulgarian to study and now I think I’ve got some travel plans to make as well.  There’s also a piece of me that’s pretty glad I was sick last weekend.  Funny, I never thought I’d say that.

Anyhow, that’s the big news: no school for one week.

Health Care Abroad

We had a meeting today at school about our health insurance. The good news is that we have an excellent world wide plan. I of course am hoping that I will only have to use it for routine things rather than for anything major. The representative who was leading the meeting went into much, much more detail about things like medical evacuation than I ever imagined I’d need to know.

She said that for Sofia probably the closest major western hospitals to be evacuated to would be either Vienna, Thessaloniki or Athens. Um. Okay. I am not about to say that these aren’t good hospitals but she wouldn’t stop going on about how good the facilities are, what high quality they are and how fast they could get us there.

It was also explained to us how we can get coverage in the States and how we can seek and pay for health care abroad. Of course, the key is having itemized receipts or bills. Itemized, itemized, itemized. Nothing new here. Oh and they’ll accept them in any language. And the best part, you don’t have to provide a translation. Phew.

Then we heard a few stories about people who’ve forgotten their insurance cards at home only to need them. Moral: take your card every where with you. (No really!?) Followed by a couple of stories about seeking reimbursement for medical expenses. Lesson: sign your name on your form. She chased these tales with a pair of medical evacuation stories–one based in Krakow, Poland and the other on the Croatian coast. The take away? It seems to be something like: no matter what country (or situation) you get yourself into if you need first rate medical care you’ll get it–even if it means evacuation.

Pharmacy: Medicine Upgrade

Today after work, I upgraded my medicine cabinet.

I bought a new thermometer.  It’s digital and if I drop this on my tile floor I think it has a better chance of surviving than my old glass and not-mercury version.  The woman was really nice to me. I’ve seen her three times in the last week and each time I buy more than the time before.  She gave me three different choices of thermometers.  I picked the one with the big screen.  My other choice was one with a small screen–no thanks.  Or one with, well, some other attribute–which I didn’t understand.  So I picked the nice one with the big screen.   It works pretty well.  And I am happy to announce: no fever!

I got some Coldrex tablets based on a collegues’ advice and a blog reader’s comments.  I am not sure exactly what the pills are supposed to do but based on the head and the arrows that it points to 1. forehead, 2. nose and 3. throat.  Eureka!  I think that it will cure everything that ails me.  The one thing is that the pharmacist did ask me some question that I didn’t understand and thus didn’t know the answer to.  She then said something about caffeine.   At home I confirmed that the medicine does contain caffeine.

I also picked up the blue Strepsils.  Amazing.  They are very minty. So much so, that they sooth my throat, temper my scratchy cough and they cause me to sneeze. That’s the sign of a good mint.  I feel great and extra minty.

The one thing I wonder about after my third trip to the pharmacy is this: are the people who work behind the counter at the pharmacy actually pharmacists? What kind of knowledge, training and power do these men and women have?

(Home)Sickness

Recently I was asked by a friend to write a piece about being homesick.  I thought: what do I know about homesickness? I love being away from home and I love returning home with equal measure.  So what then do I know about the Heimweh described by German poets and writers like Goethe? What do I know about that longing for a home, a homeland or a place I cannot have?

Then this weekend I had a crash course in being sick (and homesick).  I got a cold or the flu… I am not sure which and I don’t think it really matters one way or the other.

On Friday afternoon it was all I could do to drag myself from my classroom to the bus stop.  On my way out of the building a student I don’t teach (but have talked to a few times) said to me: are you okay? you don’t look as happy as you normally do? I told him: nope, I think I’ve got the bug that everyone has been passing around school.  He told me to feel better soon.  At the bus stop on Friday afternoon the students were all in a good mood.  I made small talk with a few of them.  The last thing I did on Friday before crawling into my bed was to go to the pharmacy.

The pharmacy.  The place that is supposed to have something to make you feel better.  Well, if you speak the language.  It’s hard enough to navigate a grocery store when you don’t know the language let alone a pharmacy where everything is behind the counter and you have to ask for it and on top of this you don’t feel well.  It’s pretty overwhelming.  So I bought what I always do when I am feeling bad: ibuprofen, cough drops–strepcils–and some cold medicine thing that you mix with hot water called fervex.

I made it home and then promptly slept for all of Friday night, most of Saturday and Sunday.  In my waking moments, I drank copious amount of tea with honey and lemon.  I lamented how horrible it is to live in a country without Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.

Halloween Project

Pumpkins in BG

I just bought 10 kilos of pumpkin. Two pumpkins, 10 kilos and about eight blocks later I am tired and I have green pumpkins. Yep. One is green and the other one is some where between white and green. They are not orange.

I like orange pumpkins.  In my mind, orange pumpkins are a part of fall.  Pumpkins sit on front porches, windows and we carve them.  We eat pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins and sometimes even roasted pumpkin. But they are orange.

Okay, I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t like the green Bulgarian pumpkins–I do.  They taste great.  But they are green.  Somehow it doesn’t seem very fall to me.

Why, why oh, why Bulgaria do you only have green pumpkins?! Зелелна тиква–really!?

Still I bought two big pumpkins because tomorrow after English I am teaching my students how to carve pumpkins.  Heck I think that to have a well rounded eduction you need to have both academic skills but also real life skills–like pumpkin carving.

So we’ll be carving (or trying to) a white-ghost pumpkin and a green-goblin pumpkin… But I’m still wondering what makes some pumpkins orange and other green or white.

Good-bye Shoes

I bought these shoes last spring in Moscow visiting my cousin (Hi, Beth!).  Moscow was lovely.  I had a wonderful time seeing the city and while there on a rainy day I bought a great pair of shoes.  I didn’t even try them on.  I just bought a size 41.  I know, I know–big feet, I am after all 5′11 (or what… 180 cm) and they fit like a charm.

They looked good with jeans, skirts and leggings.  It’s too bad because they are dead now. Good-bye shoes.  (Parting is such sweet sorrow.)

Good-bye Shoes

Today they took on water. And dirt was coming in the crack.  Somehow though it wasn’t until one of my feet was wet that I realized what poor shape my shoes were in.

But they are dead now. Very dead.  So I threw them out this afternoon.  I am going to miss them. I know I didn’t pay more than $5 for these shoes at an outdoor market in Moscow but I’d really grown attached to them.  I liked the sculls. I liked how easy and comfy they were.  I liked what good traveling companions they were in Eastern Europe this summer. I liked that they made me smile when I was putting them on.  Now they are no more.  Good-bye tennis shoes.  I miss you already.

Finally, I am pretty sure that you’ll still be in my garbage can at work tomorrow morning when I get to school (since the garbage never seems to go out at night). I want you to know, it will be a test of my will not to extract you and pretend that I can rescue you.  Even though I know I cannot.  You’ve seen your best days.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to find another pair of shoes like you.

The last days of my shoes