There was nothing dull or ordinary about my childhood. My parents were vegetarian, rare and strange at the time, did not drink or smoke and were involved in Western and Eastern philosophies. My mother was a foreigner, although she was only from nearby Russia; being one of the few immigrants in the neighbourhood was significant. She was also one of the best English-language teachers in the city (Stara Zagora), which made us stand out too.
My father was involved in distributing philosophical books, an illegal act at the time. I remember how on winter evenings we would sit as a family on our Persian-style rug, all with big scissors in hand, cutting these photocopies and putting together the publications. It felt excitingly adult and illicit.
Due to my mother’s English, and my father’s underground philosophy, they had a number of unique friends. One was an elegant aristocratic lady who lived in the capital and occasionally travelled outside the country. She was able to shop in the only Western goods store of Bulgaria, Corecom, reserved for those with foreign money. At times she would bring gifts to my older brother and me, exciting items like colourfully wrapped chocolates and biscuits, and prized blue jeans. Another friend was a lovely gentleman from England, who, during one of his visits, somehow fell in love with a gypsy girl, my mother being their translator since neither knew the other’s language. The gentleman ended up marrying her in England. He would bring us toys and kitchen plastic wrap. It was all quite fun.
My summers were consistently spent in a small seaside village, frolicking on a nude wild beach with a few other similarly inclined families.
However with the travel barrier down in 1989, and my parent’s English connections, we managed to get visas for the United Kingdom, in hopes of a better future. During the summer of my eighth year, my mother explained to me that we were moving in a few days; she asked me not to tell anyone because she did not want people asking questions, and she always believed in keeping family affairs private. So I kept quiet, the day before we were flying she allowed me tell my friends. Yet considering the amount of time I had, I was only able to tell one or two, the rest must have heard the gossip after my disappearance.
It was exciting, I would fly in an airplane and have foreign toys and see the world. I had no sentimental or sad feelings because, even though there were a few good friends, the school I had attended for two years was just awful. We were overloaded with difficult homework, which my father would often do, there were plenty of bullies and the headmaster was a frightening tyrant. I had no warm or comfortable feelings towards the school. My only memories were a persistent feeling of dread and fear. I was glad for that farewell.
England was a complete new world for me, new language, new cuisine, new weather, new mannerisms, everything. Unlike the school I had attended in Bulgaria, this was a private Waldorf school of luxurious quality. The buildings, the equipment, the grounds, were all glorious. That philosophy my parents were reading and distributing, well this was a school based in that vein, and my mother was doing the same Waldorf teacher-training programme. The main teacher was extremely kind and nurturing towards me and the other children, unlike the debasing ones back home. If a student hurt himself, he would receive a kiss on the “boo-boo” to make it better. School days were filled with art, plays, singing and laughter, and my class would occasionally go camping on his private grounds that included a field or two with grazing horses and a river. This was normal as most of the school lived in such style. I had arrived in wealthy Sussex.
In comparison we had very little money, no car and only second-hand clothes. I just can’t imagine what people were thinking, a girl from practically a third-world country who could not speak the language, there, amongst them. The children were polite, though mostly did not know what to say to me and I felt so awkward and out of place.
Fortunately there were other foreign families in my class, one from Norway, one from Iceland and one from Israel, so we bonded with them. Still I was mostly miserable and cried regularly, not of homesickness but because life was just so difficult. That ninth year was the most difficult one in my life.
The following year we moved to another city, that was hard too. The next year my family moved yet again. By this time my English had become fluent, and so, too, my adaptation to the Western way of life. The situation was improving, though still some unkind boys would occasionally say to me “Go back to where you came from Lydia dustbin”, not because I was dirty but because I was a foreigner and Dimitrova apparently sounded similar to dustbin. Thankfully my universal first name was never a problem, unlike many Bulgaria names.
Every summer of my life abroad, we would spend a month or so in Bulgaria, seeing relatives and taking a customary visit to the Black Sea. This was the highlight of the year, at first for the more basic needs of talking in my native tongue, eating loukanka and lyutenitsa as there were none in England, and getting away from the rain. And as I grew, I looked forward to going to Bulgaria for more teenage reasons of shopping, tanning and romance, though interestingly, never for friends.
In just one year abroad I had changed dramatically; there was no way my friends from Stara Zagora could comprehend my new life, I tried to explain to myself, yet I instinctively felt envy on their part. They could not help but assume I had money, and that I should be presenting everyone with generous gifts.
Nevertheless I adored my summers in Bulgaria, but only as a summer holiday; not once did I have the desire to move back. The Western world was now my home. I felt I had no prospects in Bulgaria. Every year when we had to go through the process of acquiring new visas for the UK, I would think in horror of the idea of being denied. I was gradually becoming a foreigner to my homeland.
After six years in England, my now-adult brother moved to Germany for furthered studies, and my parents and I left for America. They had heard news that many Eastern Europeans were being refused visas and decided to venture with another English-speaking country. This was very exciting – what 14-year-old would not like to live in Los Angeles? Due to my accent, everyone assumed I was British and I frequently did not correct them, as rarely did anyone know where Bulgaria was, and they often confused it with other similar-sounding countries.
I sensed their underlying feeling of Europe being one country, like the US, at least among the young adults. That behaviour disgusted me, for although I did not want to live in Bulgaria and had forgotten a large part of the language, I was still patriotic, and valued and loved Europe immensely. Yet I liked LA, too, the seduction and glamour of Hollywood pulled me. I dabbled with acting, and participated in a small movie with a supporting role. This city being the epicentre of fame and entertainment there was the constant possibility of greatness, an energy of anticipation always presided in me.
If during my years in England we never met a single Bulgarian, in California this aspect was quite different. A chain of Armenian supermarkets sold a multitude of imported Bulgarian items, even my hometown pride, Zagorka beer. Hundreds of Los Angeles’ Bulgarians were able to live in a considerably unchanged way, and many managed with near minimal English, as did plenty other foreigners. Two Bulgarian churches were available, with a preceding traditional lunch, accompanied by music, drinks and flown-in newspapers. The first time my father and I attended was pleasantly nostalgic. We continued attending often, and that is where I met my husband.
I never imagined I would be with a Bulgarian man, yet he was not the typical kind, and love has its own ways. We communicated in English due to my poor Bulgarian, until I spent two summer months in Bulgaria, re-absorbing the language, upgrading our linguistics to a mixture of both. Through him I discovered a Bulgarian artistic community. He was a successful animator and had many talented Bulgarian friends in the entertainment industry. I became so proud of my people, that they had achieved such high and respectful positions.
After completing school, I began modelling professionally and ardently, getting some good jobs in LA, and even travelling to Milan. This was my priority for a number of years.
In time our duo expanded to fit another member and we became a family. At this time the real estate market was experiencing great heights and we put our house up for sale, as a business move to see if something may come. It sure did, and soon we were out of a home and living as tenants. We considered investing our profits in another house, but our growing daughter conjured up our nature-and wonder-filled childhoods in Bulgaria, making us rethink Los Angeles as a suitable place for our family. After nine years in this traffic-filled megacity, the lights were no longer so bright and glamorous. We were struck with an impulse idea, to move back to Bulgaria!
As soon as the decision was made, we began seeing the delusion of LA, our priorities had changed. Yes the city had been good to us, but it was time to move on; we wanted a beautiful European life and a healthier childhood for our little girl. We had both experienced Hollywood and had enough soaking in it.
We ordered two gigantic metal containers, packed all our belongings and vehicles, and as instantaneously as I had immigrated out of Bulgaria, so to I re-immigrated back. Most friends thought us crazy, but this was right and perfect for us. My husband wanted to expand his new passion of photography without worrying about the mortgage or a company boss over his shoulder, and I to explore my adoration of writing and art direction. Both of us wanted to create, and what better place than the historic grand architecture of Sofia, its golden cobbled streets and near by mountains. And so we arrived in our capital, with American passports in our pockets, poised and thrilled.
The first few months were hard, as the bureaucracy here has no logic, but after this adjusting period phased out, there has only been excitement and adventure, and never regret of our decision. My husband has been photographing for the great fashion magazines of Bulgaria, and I am writing for this newspaper. We are happy.
I am always presumed to be American, but that is customary, as I seem to have a foreign accent in every country. I am a Bulgarian and also a citizen of the world. I do hope my daughter does not have the same Bulgarian school experience of my childhood, but who knows, we may be in another country by then. The world is at hand, and we are cosmopolitans. Perhaps America again, perchance Europe, we shall see and muse.
