Having spent the morning packing my stuff, it's starting to hit home that I might not want to leave the delights of Bulgaria for the comfort of home just yet. Sure, I haven't sat on a sofa for 9 months, I've nearly forgotten how to read and write with the latin alphabet, my wardrobe is becoming dominated by hand-me-down maroon woolen jumpers and I've become someone who eats salad and then claims to have enjoyed it, but, when it comes down to it, it actually feels normal... like it's never been any different.
This year has definitely been vastly different to last, not least due to the length of time we have spent here this time, but also because we now have much more of a life here than before. My most frequent conversations are still with 8o year old men and women, usually about those 'damn gypsy bastards' who dare to sit and enjoy a beer down the local bar or how best to pickle a carrot, but I also have a few mates kicking around in town who don't just sit around the village in their pants swearing at people, wearing their dirty t-shirts rolled up at nipple height; I mean young people, well, young in an under 40 kind of way, young enough to know that night clubs and tequila aren't necessarily products of the devil and that wine actually comes in bottles, not just boxes, or old coke bottles. They still think a mobile phone holster and novelty ring tones are acceptable, but we'll work on the little things later. Yep, it's safe to say that Sam and I are becoming more and more akin to the bulgarian way of life. It certainly beats sitting around in an office all day trying to ignore the serial bores surrounding you on all sides before going home, to barricade yourself indoors, just in case someone from the 'outside' tries to contact you right in the middle of I'm a celebrity and I'm starved of attention. Sam is a regular at the local market, where she is quizzed daily on the goings on in with the house building in Burya; I've been given chocolates from building suppliers on their birthday when I pop in to get a new pipe for our leaky plumbing; a waitress who served you 3 weeks ago says hi when she sees you in the street... its weird... it's like people actually want to speak to you, to get to know you! Of course I keep the british end up - tell them to fuck awf and provide two of the finest, vertically. The freaks. Cant wait for a trip to a good old Welcome Break or Tesco Extra, thats real service.
The other big positive from this years' skive has been the progress at the house. Not that we have gotten anywhere near the finish line, but I would certainly say that we're on the home straight. Piss poor photos and tedious descriptions to follow when I have time, but suffice to say I can now take a dump, at night, then wash, then lock myself out. Pretty cool I'm sure you'll agree?
Right, I'm off to eat another 2.4kg pizza to celebrate my return to frozen Britain next weekend... might also have a few rakias and wear my phone on the belt... smooooth.
as they say here: za ginite, konite e tecnika esdatchi - e leka nosht
oh, and by the way - any danger you could sign up (see the link to the right) - I currently have 0 followers and am feeling bit hurt quite frankly... twats.
Also, see my new photoblog (link also to the right) which is the beginnings of a pictorial history of my adventure into poverty.
This year has definitely been vastly different to last, not least due to the length of time we have spent here this time, but also because we now have much more of a life here than before. My most frequent conversations are still with 8o year old men and women, usually about those 'damn gypsy bastards' who dare to sit and enjoy a beer down the local bar or how best to pickle a carrot, but I also have a few mates kicking around in town who don't just sit around the village in their pants swearing at people, wearing their dirty t-shirts rolled up at nipple height; I mean young people, well, young in an under 40 kind of way, young enough to know that night clubs and tequila aren't necessarily products of the devil and that wine actually comes in bottles, not just boxes, or old coke bottles. They still think a mobile phone holster and novelty ring tones are acceptable, but we'll work on the little things later. Yep, it's safe to say that Sam and I are becoming more and more akin to the bulgarian way of life. It certainly beats sitting around in an office all day trying to ignore the serial bores surrounding you on all sides before going home, to barricade yourself indoors, just in case someone from the 'outside' tries to contact you right in the middle of I'm a celebrity and I'm starved of attention. Sam is a regular at the local market, where she is quizzed daily on the goings on in with the house building in Burya; I've been given chocolates from building suppliers on their birthday when I pop in to get a new pipe for our leaky plumbing; a waitress who served you 3 weeks ago says hi when she sees you in the street... its weird... it's like people actually want to speak to you, to get to know you! Of course I keep the british end up - tell them to fuck awf and provide two of the finest, vertically. The freaks. Cant wait for a trip to a good old Welcome Break or Tesco Extra, thats real service.
The other big positive from this years' skive has been the progress at the house. Not that we have gotten anywhere near the finish line, but I would certainly say that we're on the home straight. Piss poor photos and tedious descriptions to follow when I have time, but suffice to say I can now take a dump, at night, then wash, then lock myself out. Pretty cool I'm sure you'll agree?
Right, I'm off to eat another 2.4kg pizza to celebrate my return to frozen Britain next weekend... might also have a few rakias and wear my phone on the belt... smooooth.
as they say here: za ginite, konite e tecnika esdatchi - e leka nosht
oh, and by the way - any danger you could sign up (see the link to the right) - I currently have 0 followers and am feeling bit hurt quite frankly... twats.
Also, see my new photoblog (link also to the right) which is the beginnings of a pictorial history of my adventure into poverty.
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