Saturday. Two weeks ago we visited a Bulgarian village. A friend insisted that I have the “experience”… and so we went… and “experienced” an hour or so of novelty and then two days of boredom. We blamed it on the lack of entertainment there. But now I am rethinking. Here I am, on a glorious sunny day in Sofia, with absolutely nothing to do. We’ve walked the town and done our shopping.

Yes, I know we could go up to Vitosha (again), but what we really want to do is ski. And if not ski, then some other outdoor, sporty-type activity.

At home, in San Diego, on a day like today, we would spend our time at the beach, riding our bikes, kayaking, throwing the ball for the dogs. There, we live during the day. Here, we must live at night. It feels unnatural.

Sunday. We have finally found the pub in town that shows American football. I prefer American soccer, but I’ve grown up with football.

It’s that time when the season is drawing to a close and the play-offs attract even fair-weather fans. The San Diego Chargers have made it to this round… and look surprisingly hopeful to make it to the Superbowl. You know, the Superbowl? The holiest of all American holidays? But we didn’t make it. An off night for us. Surely a coach will get fired over this. My love for sports just intensifies.

Monday. My husband spies me checking the mailbox. He says I’m obsessive about it. I check day and night. He reminds me the post only comes once a day… so really I only need to check it once. “But then I may miss finding this,” I tease, as I hold up a card sent from home. He never gets to open them first. I suggest he check the mailbox more often.

Tuesday. A conversation last night about “fitting in” and recent encounters with people spending their post-graduate time here have me thinking. Several times, when we are asked what we are doing here, and when we explain that we have a business, we have gotten the LOOK. The one that says, “Ahh, capitalists. The most evil of all the Westerners here.”

This is America’s reputation, isn’t it? Exploiting cheap labour sources for profit. We get richer, they get poorer. At least that’s what people think. But that’s not us. I could list all the reasons why it’s not us, but it’s no use explaining. The people/volunteers here on do-good missions cannot see the moral benefits of investing in the country.

I’m not here to educate the Roma or bring shoes to the orphans, nor to beef up my CV. My profession of choice is to teach in the ghetto. And I’ve done it every day for a decade with dedication, passion and vigour (and low pay). We’re just here to live. And work. And not justify our existence. So we don’t “fit in” with the others. And that’s okay. Good even.

Wednesday. Ha! Ha! My obsessive post-box checking has yielded more cards. Apparently, Christmas is coming mid-January this year, despite the fact the cards were sent in mid-December. No matter. All the expats I know love getting cards and packages from home… anytime, and for any reason. It’s the evil streak in me that makes me brag.

Thursday. I was gone too long today – at meetings, lunch with friends, working at our company. The dog missed me. He let me know in a not-so-subtle way that required an entire roll of paper towels. He’s so demanding. And devilish when he doesn’t get his way, like when he is not taken for his afternoon walk at precisely 5pm. And then so charming when he is satisfied, especially if I let him sit with me at NDK and people-watch. Maybe he’s bi-polar? Or perhaps I’m being manipulated?

Friday. Ice skating. Not so popular in San Diego, although there is one rink in a mall there. I’ve only gone twice, and with rather dismal results. But I’ll try it again because it sounds fun. And I have one more day on my insurance before I have to renew. This could be a good way to test the policy, see if I receive quality care before I decide to re-invest. I start holding on to the side wall with a death grip. I am not alone in this method, as half the crowd is employing it. After a few laps, I feel more confident and let go of the wall a few times.

Then… no wall at all.

By the end of the night, I can complete a Michael Jackson-type spin, though without the final lift on to the toe points. No, no. My spins often end up with me flat on the ice, wondering how to get back up. But it’s those few good ones that make me dream of an Olympic career. Maybe I have found my sport here after all…