Tuesday, 6 February. Today, tonight, really, turns into a good time. One vernissage, two vernissage. The second one I like a lot – at Art Alley, and the artist is French, and people I know are there, like RR, and other people, and they speak French, and we speak French and I am happy.

Then some girlfriends and I meet up, and we go to some birraria that I had thought looked interesting previously… but it really is a beer hall; the only food is kebabche. We leave, and go to Satchmo Boy, and have girl talk and drink pelin and listen to a friend of ours sing with a jazz band. The purpose of this evening was to eventually head out to some club where Maximus (a male strippers performance group)

as to be on, but they’re not till 1am, and to wait that long for something you don’t really want to see anyways… So we turn in early.

We’ve been discussing this: for girls, male strippers are simply a hilarious amusement, nothing erotic. Hmm. Overly muscled guys prancing around on stage in streaming tropical costumes. Nope, sorry.

Wednesday. Yeah! French again (reception for Arab ambassadors in Bulgaria). This is turning into a happy French week. I want to learn Arabic (I’m half Lebanese, and that mostly by the cooking, but want to be so more). Asking around, people don’t know if lessons exist here.

A friend is bemoaning the lack of couscous here, so I’ve been looking for it. The only place, it seems, where real couscous (not orbed pasta cut-outs) is sold is at the Arabic stores around Zhenski Pazar. It’s 8.50 leva a kilo at every shop. I ask one of the guys why, and he explains that there is one guy who imports it for the whole country – he flies it in from Tunisia or something. Couscous mafia. Nice.

Walking to work in the morning, I bought a cooking magazine. It’s the first magazine I’ve bought, ever, in Bulgaria. I had thought that it would give me some new, Balkanish ideas for what to do with the abundance of carrots and cabbage at market. Nope. Instead, for my 4 leva, I get numerous recipes for pesto, pasta salads and chicken fillets with sun-dried tomatoes. Euf. And tabbouleh and baba ganoush. Ha. If I’d wanted this, I’d, well, I didn’t want this.

It appears that Sofia will soon have a gated suburban housing development. I’m disgusted. The minute Starbucks comes to Bulgaria, I’m moving to Georgia (Sakartvelo, not the US state!).

But, I don’t know if they have as good of honey there. Bulgarian honey is really nice, and you can buy it jarred, with the honeycomb. And then, when you chew the wax, ‘tis all squeaky. Like those wax lips we used to wear at Halloween. But this tastes better, and doesn’t have artificial colouring or scents. Reading the label, it says that for health purposes, take a spoonful (with the wax?) one-half hour before eating, or three hours after. That’s a new one.

Thursday. This morning, I’m buying biscuits by the 100 grammes at one of those ground-level windows on Shishman. The guy in line behind me beckons as I’m walking away. After talking for a few seconds (the usual “You’re not Bulgarian. Where are you from? Why are you here?” etc.) he tells me that I dropped 20 leva and hands the bill to me.

This evening, I’m walking to the Sheraton, and come across him again. We talk until I arrive at my destination. He’s a decent guy, actually.

And it’s again a French day! Talking at a company awards ceremony to the executive director (he’s Greek), I discover that he speaks French, and so we carry on in this much beloved tongue.

Friday. Too weird. Guess who? Walking back from an interview this morning, it’s none other than Dv, the guy from yesterday, who’s heading to work. “Fate,” he says. “Until tomorrow.” I’m smiling.

Saturday. No Dv, but then again, it’s not a working day. Go to J’s house for dinner. More so, we talk for a long time while she’s cooking, and then I leave and go to a costume party. Which also is much fun, with dancing and meeting interesting people. But J – she’s American. At the beginning, I avoided Americans. Now, I appreciate spending time with them, because we relate well (and the Americans here are not your typical Yankees). Actually, I’ve learnt that a friend’s nationality doesn’t (or shouldn’t) really matter at all. And J’s cool, too, and I enjoy talking with her.

But she’s leaving soon, and I’m reminded again about what C said months ago: foreigners always leave. For friends who stay, get to know Bulgarians. And I do know Bulgarians, and would like to know more, but… it’s hard. I’m always looked at (in a good way) as the chouzhdenka. With this come their thoughts (perplexing to me) that I prefer to not hang with Bulgarians. And then I’m confused even more.

One thing I don’t understand: why people not exactly throw their old books away, but get rid of them by the suitcaseful next to rubbish bins at the streetsides. And then gypsies or others come collect them – their old books, their history! – and take them to some recycling centre (or maybe resell them? I hope), where they’ll be forever annihilated. In some ways, it’s like saying that this part of history (Hristo Botev seen through communist leaders’ eyes, Socialist Party folk songs for youth) did not exist. Peculiar, and sad. It reminds me of Montaigne, when he was quoting another guy in Latin, about using old documents to wrap up fish at market... I can’t think of in which writing it was. At that point, when I read it in college, it didn’t make sense. Now it does.

Sunday, 11. There is a big, nasty fly fwumping against the window, trying to get outside. It doesn’t realise that it’s travelled too far, and must re-enter the kitchen to find an outlet. I like leaving my windows open; flies seem to like it, too.
Now there is an itsy-bitsy burnt orange spider scurrying diagonally up the wall. It’s cute.

Monday, 12. Why I like Bulgaria: there’s no umbrella snobbism. Why I don’t like the rain: because I cannot manage to walk without soiling the back of my pant legs. If anyone has any tips, I’m open!