November 7: A most lovely thing: a letter arrived from my dear friend CAP in New Jersey (we know each other from university, and haven't seen each other in two years. I don't get to the East Coast often.). First, I love getting mail (yes, real posted mail. Me and mine can be slightly old-fashioned like that, as we're devoted letter-writers.) Second, this is the first piece of personal mail that has arrived chez moi since early August. And it's not because no one has sent anything. By now, I should have received at least two letters from grandmas, one from my dad, one from my mum and probably another from CAP. No, it's that mysterious thing called… Bulgarskata Poshta (the Bulgarian postal system).

I know we're not to use the phrase "go missing", but that's exactly what my letters and packages have done… and it's not because they're incorrectly addressed: I've received things from the same people here, before. Now, I won't go so far as to actually accuse someone of appropriating my letters, but will admit that the thought has crossed my mind more than once. But what would someone want with a letter from my grandmas? They're not naive enough to actually send money. Ok, so someone who was naive enough to think so maybe opened the letter: so s/he didn't find anything, ok. You can still give it back to me!

Maybe this is one area the EU should consider addressing. (Though, on the whole, I am rather ambivalent - dictionary sense, not common connotation - about the EU thing.)

November 13, Monday: I did it. I bought some shoes, Camper-brand brownish mary jane-ish ones. Every time I look at my feet, I smile. This means that I can now put the three-year-old cracking ones out for someone to come collect and reuse. Why is it that I feel the need to justify purchasing (any)things for myself?

November 14: Oranges are now in season! Yeah! This is better than grapes. First, they don't have those annoying seeds; second, they remind me of the delicious ones we used to pick back home; third, it seems the sugars are digested better, more slowly, maybe, and there's no sort of dropping-sensation an hour after eating them. And they smell good.
People sometimes ask if I miss the States. The answer: no, not at all. My family? Yes. Even then, though, "miss" is not the right word: want very much to see them? Yes. It's the type of thing that, unless someone asks, I don't really think about. But when someone asks, a lump forms in my throat. And sometimes, lying in bed at night, the lump returns. It's the knowledge that, when I have a child, my mum won't be there to see it grow. My dad won't be there to teach it about trees. My little sister and zet won't be there with their brood to have cousin play time.
I'm going to stop now, or I'll really start to cry.

November 15, 12.53pm: Walking down the street after having picked up lunch, we see each other: it's the girl who runs the guesthouse where I lived my first six months in the country and the guy who assists her. We haven't really seen each other - despite good intentions - since I moved out back in March. This is a very happy thing (seeing each other! not the other way around). They invite me to the hostel for coffee, and I agree, though I feel slightly guilty. But what can I say, particularly to Bulgarian friends? "No, sorry, I have to go to work (again, always)"? A half an hour later, I leave and am very happy, because they're great people and did a lot for me, helped me survive the first hard months here.
Some friends went bowling tonight. I didn't.

November 16, morning: My landlord is here, putting foam weather stripping on the windows. (I had told him that cold air comes through the window frames. But it comes in under the window frames.) He says something about how he and the missus didn't think that I'd stay in the place so long (nine months is long?), and this is good, because it's motivating them to do stuff to the place.

Later: The first L'Occitane en Provence store has opened in Bulgaria. Very nice. Makes me want to go to France even more. Mum, grandmas keep asking what I want for Christmas. I've finally come up with a suitable response: money for a trip to France. Perhaps this is sufficiently material to avoid more XX XX (I won't say, first because I have no idea as to what they might give me, and second because they might be reading this on the internet). Anyway, my flat is too small for more stuff.

My dad is coming on December 22! Yeah!

November 17: I feel bad. The weather stripping on the windows is useless. The first time I opened the windows, it all peeled off and is now hanging like limp spaghetti.

November 18: The moushmoula lady is back! I'd bought some of these strange-looking fruit last Saturday, and was perplexed as to what they could be. Handy, trusty dictionary: medlars! But what's a medlar? Apparently, it's a tree that originates in the region, so this is very cool. How many fruit trees do we know that actually originated in SEE? And, like many other good things, it's in the Rosaceae family. They, appropriately, look like overgrown old rosehips. And taste like applesauce. Ready-grown packets of applesauce. Spiffy.
Later: Please let this be a general announcement: I sign my name as Magda(lena) and introduce myself as Magda(lena) because I do not like the name Maggie/Magi/Maggy. Thank you.

November 19: I am reminded of a good lesson today: if someone disregards you, treats you as a second-rate citizen (be it because of age, profession, PMS or whatever), be even nicer to that person. While remaining truthful, make that person feel worthwhile him/herself. That way, no one will have grounds to heap coals on you. Even though you (still) feel like a worm.

They replaced the piping in my building about a month ago. Now it's not brown, and it becomes warmer quicker. I like this.