When the wind is blowing, which it almost always is, with the walls groaning and the shutters banging, the rooms overloaded and the staircase wound tightly up through its center, the house seems the material equivalent of her uncle’s inner being: apprehensive, isolated, but full of cobwebby wonders.
– Anthony Doerr, ‘All The Light We Cannot See’
The specific relevant content for this request, if necessary, delimited with characters: How does time fly! I’ve recently returned from the most extraordinary three weeks abroad in a while. Tutrakan, Bulgaria. Sandwiched between two 12-hour journeys and over 3000km away from where I’m currently writing this post. My hometown is a place of quietude, steadily reclaimed by nature and obituaries of varying designs; car engine noise early in the morning, crickets chirping come nightfall. Moments of impossible stillness undulate in their own peculiar ways; timelessness punctuated by random events of infinitesimal significance. Small towns and their oddities, right? Luckily, I had the wherewithal to capture some of it in a series of short notes. Written in Bulgarian originally, here they are, interpreted in a language understood by many.
Day 1
Half of it, spent in a somnolent stupor. The voices in my head are extra careful lest they should startle the birds of silence perched on the dusty woodwork. The cherry tree is overripe; the weather – it’s temperamental. The house is taking its first breath of fresh air since September last year. I avoid double-digit prices at the store to fit into my arbitrary “budget.” And now, a morning filled with unclear plans and black water pretending to be coffee.
Day 2
“Аз съм българче!” I am a Bulgarian. I love naively. Emerald-green, azure-blue, red-orange – I’ve eyes for little else. The products bought from the store sit like a stranger, an unknown guest in the stomach. A garden is hard to maintain, with attention given to it only once every few years. In human relationships, it is no different.
Day 3
It’s teeming with creepy-crawlies, while scumbags – they are only ever seen on the TV. A constant diet of “news” self-medication and the humdrum of everyday life proves taxing. I can’t rely on the water supply, but it rains quite often. The glass is half full because I am not picky about my drinks. I keep tossing and turning in bed at night. Haunted by thoughts of chargrilled meat. Relatives and friends still hope for me to start a family and have children while I walk around with a dictionary in my pocket.
Day 4
Smoky, sweaty and unclear. That’s everyday life, currently. Nothing seems to work as it should. The flames of a makeshift barbecue caress cardboard and thin paper napkins, much to my dismay. The flames of life are rarely this kind to us. The cherry tree’s fruit is now thoroughly rotten. I guess I’ll have to wait until next year. The word nostalgia originates from the Greek language – ‘nostos’, to return home, and ‘algos’ for pain. I am being eaten alive, both from within and without, but there are no antihistamines for what ails one’s essence. And now, on my way to the city of Silistra.
Day 5
The sun’s burning caresses are merciless but also somehow familiar. Two kebabs, meatballs and beans with lutenitsa (vegetable chutney). People call that lunch. I concur. For dessert, coffee and cheap orange juice. “5 leva, please”! I find idyll in the monotony of everyday life here, a melancholic beauty in the shattered hopes and faces scarred by compromises. I have a limited understanding of chemistry, physics, history, psychology, pedagogy, medicine, geography, literature, politics, art, architecture, design, programming, economics, military strategy, aviation, space programs, astronomy, geology, archaeology, mathematics, cinema, kinesiology, orthodontics, gynaecology, agriculture, automotive, pharmaceuticals, industry, corporate management, construction etc., but I think… everyone could use an accurate moral compass.
Day 6
The village of Ravda. Rich-Poor. Short coffees and long yawns. It reeks of sewage! Must be the Southern Beach, with any luck. Hotels and guesthouses are more densely packed than the crowds at Oxford Circus on a Friday’s eve. Seagulls keep laughing at me while the landlord – oh, he too is one strange bird. On the second day, he half-joked that there was a fire in the BBQ pit but no steaks. I replied that it was almost always the opposite with me. It’s rather gloomy and overcast today, but I’m on vacation.
Days 7 & 8
There will always be a tomorrow for some of us, and every “yesterday” feels like a dream. The old town of Nessebar – claustrophobic, crammed with shops selling similar items, stalls and restaurants like the weeds of an overgrown backyard. All of the noise is probably reaching the Heavens. I gasp for air. With patience and effort, one can still find a quiet corner steeped in ancient history. And yesterday was a waking dream, and I hadn’t smiled so much in a long while. My cheeks hurt.
The village of Kranevo, on the other hand, resembles me at my lowest. Unkempt and neglected. Characterless hotels and dispirited vendors of cheap Chinese goods dot the streets. Small-time dreams and vague life goals, illusions commixed with foreign speech. Hey, we all grow weary of things, eventually. Except for the good things, especially ones with a slight speech impediment and a charming smile. Ah, how the mind wanders, how it fervently craves eyes of sincere blue, hips swaying away from my table. But I’m not from around here, and I’ll be gone in the morning…
Day 9
The kids are alright. The little one is splish-splashing around on the bottom of a glass of brandy, almost every night, while the older one has managed to convince himself that if he eats fish three times a day, he will swim like one. Small fishes from the city of Tutrakan. They fish for us down Kranevo’s main “boulevard” with “tempting offers” and “rich” menus. Relatively speaking. Thoughts of work haunt me again, but at least the breakfast is complimentary. You can walk to the beach from our hotel, as long as you don’t get hit by a car or truck. On the other hand, the sand is, oh so very fine, and if you dig in with your feet, what “wonders” won’t you find! It’s scorching. We are cooking alive. I’m all burned out.
Day 10
Overdone kebabs, tasteless tomatoes straight from the fridge and pesky flies. Coffee as much as you can drink, blinding sun, temporary clothes lines littered with scraps of broken lives and fitful dreams. The pool water has just begun warming up, and it’s time to go. I can’t stand still. My mind won’t let me, eyes searching hungrily for a reason, a place, a time and a space. An opportunity. And how many swallows there are!
Language is, after all, a broken teapot on which we drum melodies for bears to dance to while we hope that we’d somehow move the stars to pity.
Day (like any another / last)
No two days seem alike, provided you are on good terms with the Muses. Let’s draw a line – water with a scent of coffee in Kranevo, a broken plastic fork in Silistra, a greenhouse honeydew melon in Tutrakan. All in half a day’s work. And the TV, it hasn’t stopped working all this time. “Politics”… For a more meaningful plot and a richer experience, one must leave oneself in the experienced hands of classical theatre. Mere hours ago, I was officially promoted from “older boy” to “uncle”. In English, it sounds more dignified. Sir. However, the context is crystal clear – I’m getting on in years. We’re running out of time!
I know, I know. Some of it makes little sense without context, without footnotes. But it was never intended for the English-reading audience. You have every right to consider the effort here half-arsed. I accept the criticism and learn from it but will continue to be lazy for decades to come. Look, I had a very good holiday. Basked in the sun like a lizard, floated in the Black Sea like a stranded whale, reconnected with someone I loved more than life itself after 15 years of not having seen each other, met old friends and classmates, shot hoops every other afternoon, and slept with the windows open, listening to the world outside. I loved every moment of it. Sincerely. And you know what? Despite various setbacks, the heartache of seeing so many broken lives of Ukrainian immigrants and their children cramming decrepit hotels and guest houses, and the loneliness hanging on my shoulders like a worn cape, I felt content for the first time in years. Someday, I’ll go there again, do it all over until the soles of my shoes turn translucent and my skin becomes tough leather. For now, there’s more work that needs doing here, in London.
Thanks for reading.
tsvetoslav shalev 
Leave a comment