Episode 31: Weatherman

"Sunshine.

No signs of rain.

Blue skies.

It's your weatherman."

— Robert Kelly, 2004

Snowy Winters. Rainy Springs. Humid Summers. Short Falls. And always down right unpredictable. This is one way to describe a typical seasonal weather pattern in my Washington, D.C. hometown. And ironically, due to its near horizontal location within the northern hemisphere, D.C. has quite a comparable climate to Bulgaria — making it one of the rare similarities between the two regions.

However, some might insist that, after adding on shorter Winters with far less snowfall, and breezy Summers with low humidity, the weather pattern in Bulgaria can be altogether different than D.C. In fact, after hanging out in the Bulgarski for nearly three years now, and with close consideration to my four-season-loving-east-coast-heart, on most occasions I find the climate to be quite predictable and dreamy — easily trumping my hometown by a long shot.

Speaking of home, this past December, after Sarah finally convinced me to take a quick time-out from from my vivacious European lifestyle, I returned to the United States for a short spell and had the most magical reunion with family, close friends, Takoma Park, my Bad Boy and even The Capital Of The World.

But after winning a role to play the part of a meteorologist in an upcoming Syfy thriller — which nearly halted my homecoming — I learned rather quickly that, no matter how successful I was with transforming myself into a television weatherman, not a tiny speck of meteorological knowledge rubbed off on me. In fact, I came no where near predicting what would be waiting for me when I returned to Sofia. Check this out . . .

IT WAS EARLY DECEMBER OF 2011 when I realized I could be in for the busiest month of the year. Like last school season, the students and staff were promptly gearing up for the big annual Christmas program at the American English Academy. The K-12 school, located in the Druzhba section of Sofia, is one of three U.S. based educational establishments in Bulgaria, where, for the past few months, I've been strenuously teaching and tutoring a full-time schedule of old and new courses, including advanced art, journalism, vocabulary, spelling, world history & cultures and the serendipitous hip-hop dancing — the one that got me the gig.

Unlike last year's Christmas concert, where the students performed individual numbers to various seasonal pop songs, this year the school chose to put on a Christmas-based musical which was near and dear to my heart — the Dr. Suess masterpiece How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Omitting an original re-written script based on the former, and opting for the Ron Howard 2000 film remake, the musical, which featured elaborate costumes, stage decor, and (clears throat) a jaw-dropping choreographed opening number performed by my dance students, was a huge success.

But my busy days in December didn't stop there. After winning two first time simi-comedic film roles, my free-time had become fewer and far between. The first score had me reading for the part of the air-headed fighter pilot March Hare in the ill-fated Marc Windon directed black comedy As Wonderland Goes By. The second was for the role of the uptight weatherman Bob in Jet Stream, an upcoming Syfy produced movie starring David Chokachi (Baywatch, Witchblade) and veteran English actor Steven Hartley (Married With Children, The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles).

Having grown up ad- miring tele- vision anchors, such as the highly ac- claimed Bryant Gumbel and Matt Lauer, gorgeous D.C. locals like Barbara Harrison and Alison Starling, and the world's most lovable meteorologist Mr. Al Roker, I was more than anxious to play the part of Bob, the newly-hired replacement for the film's ousted main character. However, my eager anticipation would be prologue for nearly a month.

In fact, after several false starts, it wasn't until a week before Christmas Eve and two days before my planned flight home, that I got the call to shoot Bob's scenes. And though it only took a day to shoot — due to numerous costume changes and sudden rewrites and alternate takes in the script, it felt like the longest one day shoot I'd ever worked in my newly acquired film career.

Learning beforehand I'd be working with director Jeffrey Scott Lando, whom I'd previously worked with on Super Tanker — any previous nervous feelings I had about performing my first semi-comedic role were put to rest. However, just as I walked through the SyFy studio doors, I was quickly informed that I'd be working with actor-turned-director Don Michael Paul (The Island, Who's Your Caddy?) for the news room scenes. I was disappointed not working with Jeff, but quite anxious to work with Don for the first time — especially being a fan of his previous film work.

"Sunny days —

everybody loves them.

Tell me, baby,

can you stand the rain?

Storms will come,

this we know for sure.

Can you stand the rain?"

— James Harris III

& Terry Lewis, 1988

Don and I hit it off right away. And I can honestly say that this dude was one of the best directors I'd worked with. Being a fellow actor, he could visually demonstrate what he wanted out of me. However, there was one extremely small problem he presented that weighed heavy on my mind. After so many years observing great television and film actors perform scenes wearing nothing but a skimpy swimsuit or bikini, or even a pair of underwear or lingerie, I'd often wondered if it was challenging or difficult for them to do it in front of an entire cast and crew. Well, my time had unfortunately come around.

Bob the weatherman was required to wear nothing but a Speedo.

And even though I knew the dreaded little piece of red spandex would enhance the overall humor of the scene — which involved the newly-hired Bob trying his best to impress viewers on his first day — when it came down to actually walking onto a busy film studio wearing one, I'd become quite reluctant of the whole idea. And I'll give you three good reasons why. . .

1. It was a Speedo.

2. After my birthday knee injury last August, which put a sudden halt to my running game, I'd become shamefully out of shape.

And 3. It was a Speedo for crying out loud!! What more do I need to say!?!

Nevertheless, after a merciful sympathizing AD tossed me a robe to cover myself up in between takes, I sucked in my gut and and took the plunge. To cut a long story short, in the end Don loved my performance and the Speedo was a big hit. But, if you happen upon this scene in Jet Stream — go easy on the love handles.

TWO DAYS AFTER THE SHOOT, a light fluffy picturesque snow fell upon Sofia. And the very next morning, after moderately packing my largest piece of luggage, I found myself carefully tiptoeing across an icy doggy dunged sidewalk to a cab heading in the direction of Sofia National Airport. After being away for nearly a year, my homecoming day had finally rolled around.

While trying to relax on the ten plus hour trip, which included several transfers, listening to Little Silver — my trusty iPod, and flipping through the latest issue of MOJO Magazine — that I blissfully scooped up from a Heathrow vendor, I couldn't help but think how wonderful it was to reside in the Balkans where it doesn't get heavily blasted with humongous amounts of the white stuff.

Besides the usual annoying factor of getting stranded inside for days and the fear of dangerous drivers sliding through the slush causing accidents, due to a serious lack of or push for shoveling streets and sidewalks, a big bad blizzard would be the last thing the Bulgarski needs. It would simply take forever and day before seeing the pavement, again.

Nevertheless, after my snowy daydreams drifted, my mind rapidly moved on to the fears of coming home after being away for so long. No matter how many times I return, I still worry excessively about the unavoidable disorientation of culture shock. The second I'm off the plane, my mind starts to boggle from instant changes that most would consider imprudent, like the sudden disappearance of my ever-so-present celebrity status and the overwhelming vision of cultural and racial diversity — just to name a few. In short, I pretty much feel like a foreigner in my own country.

Most ex-pats will agree that, after a day or two adjusting to the changes, the reversal process slowly starts to take place. Then before you know it, your back to feeling like a native, again. And a few of my favorite remedies that usually help speed up the process are visiting family, close friends, familiar places, and riding the baddest Boy on the planet.

Speaking of riding, due to D.C.'s unpredictable weather, December was simply Spring-like — making it all the more vital to get my Boy out of storage and start our long awaited reunion. But before our vital make-up session was underway, I remembered another important mission that needed tending to.

Upon originally arriving in Sofia for the long haul, I neglected to take various desert island discs, such as Coffy, Straw Dogs, Let's Do It Again, Jean Rollin's Les Deux Orphelines Vampires and The Monkees — the band's late 60s television series that recently came in handy after learning of the untimely passing of my main man Davy Jones. So, after a couple of hours carefully unhinging and inserting the discs into the pockets of an empty leather case, I had just one more vital item to go before I started my ride off into the sunset.

Unfortunately, that item, a Native American styled buckskin jacket, proved to be a difficult find. Eventually, after a desperate search, rummaging through various t-shirts, sweaters, and shoes — I anxiously pulled the elusive buckskin from what appeared to be the very bottom of the box when it revealed a shiny pair of Timberland combat boots. Impermeable to water, I'd fondly remembered how I would wear them during drenchers and a torrential snowstorms — keeping my feet dryer than an Arizona desert.

"It would be great to take them along." So I thought. "A good pair of combats would be quite expensive in Sofia."

But after reasoning that once I stuffed a jacket, case of discs, and other future shopping goodies inside my large moderately packed luggage, there would be little to no room left for a pair of sized-ten boots. Besides, with the meagerly snowfall in Bulgaria as of late, they'd just sit in the closet collecting dust. Alas, after packing up the vital items, I slung Bad Boy over my shoulder, locked the storage room tight, and left the useless pair of footwear back inside at the very bottom of the box.

"Come on Joe,

you've got 32 to go.

Don't you know

it's not just the Eskimo?

Let me hear your

50 words for snow."

— Kate Bush, 2011

After my magical homecoming and another ten-plus flight back across the Atlantic, I returned safely to Sofia. Unfortunately, my now extremely packed luggage didn't pass the weight test and cost me a pretty penny to get it on board. Due to that busy December and a joint decision to celebrate the holidays separately with our families, and the hopeful prospects of finding greater gifts in the States, Sarah and I celebrated our Christmas and New Years' holiday together in early January.

So, with the condo and tree still decorated with ornaments, we got up bright and early and opened our gifts. During the late evening, as we continued our celebration with dinner and drinks, another light fluffy picturesque snow fell upon Sofia, enhancing that ol' Christmas spirit perfectly. Unfortunately, since we were due back at work early the next morning, the celebration was cut short in efforts to get a good nights' sleep.

Sometime during the middle of night, after drowsily draining an entertainer, I groggily glanced out the tiny window sitting slightly above the bathroom sink and curiously observed how the light fluffy picturesque snow that fell upon Sofia had dramatically transformed into a heavy and unsightly storm.

The next morning, to everyones dismay, the miraculous news of Bulgaria and all of Eastern Europe —including Italy, had been pummeled by a record-breaking cold snap and the heaviest snowfall in recent memory. Some territories, such as Kosovo, Romania, Albania, Macedonia and even the dreamy predictable weathered Bulgaria, reported snow as deep as 15 feet. It was all too reminiscent of D.C.'s mega snow storms of '79 and '82, and the more recent one in 2007.

Sadly, in the coming days, hundreds of people, many of them without homes, died in the frigid temperatures and tens of thousands had been snowed in. It would take weeks before the torrential weather would come to a halt.

Fortunately, with the minimal exception of struggling to get Xena back and forth to school and some difficulty trotting through knee deep slush and ice, me and Sarah and our good friends and acquaintances didn't experience any real casualties.

But you can bet your best pair of diamond earrings, I was missing them combat boots.

Be seeing you.

O

Episode 30: Boy From New York City

"Ooo whee, say you

ought to come and see.

His dueling scar.

And brand new car."

— George Davis

& John Taylor, 1964

Next to family, close friends, Takoma Park, and riding my Bad Boy, the last thing I wanted to see before leaving the United States for Bulgaria was New York City. I knew that paying a visit to The Capital Of The World would leave me with warm and everlasting memories of home. So, with just a couple of days left before my flight to the Sunflower Capital Of The World, Sarah and I spent some quality time in Manhattan — dining, shopping, people watching, and soaking up that one of a kind city vibe.

It's pretty tough to describe in words exactly why I adore New York. But during those last unforgettable days strolling the great blocks of Manhattan, I reminisced over some of my favorite moments in the Big Apple. And one of them could possibly rank as one of the most important reasons why I love it. You see, next to simply hanging out in the five boroughs, shopping for music and movies at Kim's and J&R or dining out at Dojo — it may come as a surprise to most that New York City just so happens to be the birth place of my travel bug.

Well. . . sort of.

It was nearly 20 years ago today when I blindly absorbed the greatest advice of my life after becoming well acquainted with the aunt and uncle of a close friend from New York. The Bronx natives, who were then residing in Queens, shared a tremendous love for traveling abroad and frequently shared countless numbers of stories and photographs from their journeys. And like Jedi masters who'd just spotted a young apprentice, it didn't take long before they sensed that ol' travel bug, buzzing its way into my soul. After each visit, they'd leave me with lasting words of encouragement; “Owen, never compromise a moment in life to step out of your comfort zone and see the world. The memories will keep you content for rest of your life."

Many years have passed, but I never forgot. And on the eve of making the biggest journey of my life, they gave me the strength I needed to take the leap. In recent times, in addition to discovering truth in their words, I also learned that a small detail was left out of the equation. They never told me that no matter how many cities I'd come across during my travels — and believe me, I've seen quite a few amazing ones — none will ever compare to The Empire City.

On that note, besides having New York's biggest admirer as a current resident, during the months of October and November, Sofia got a little taste of the Big Apple after it played host to the production of a new Israeli television series based on the city that never sleeps and a spectacular performance from the world's greatest jazz-vocal band — apply named after one of the city's five boroughs. Read on . . .

DURING THE SUMMER OF 1981 it was common place to find a low-volumed, static-heavy radio sitting atop of my grandmother's breakfront in constant rotation. Due to her strict no dillydally law, me and my brother Carlos — who was sentenced with me for an entire Summer on her 60 acre farm — were not aloud to watch television. So, next to riding our bicycles, playing stickball or taking a trip to the local general store, listening to the latest hit songs being broadcasted from a local Stafford County, Virginia radio station was one of our favorite pastimes.

To this date, me and Carlos still chuckle over this fact — but believe it or not, there was no more than twelve tunes rotating on their daily playlist, which included '81 hits like Bob Seger's "We've Got Tonite", Dottie West's "What Are We doin' In Love", Dr. Hook & the Medicine Show's "Sharing The Nights Together", Stanley Clarke & George Duke's "Sweet Baby," and Ray Parker Jr.'s "A Woman Needs Love (Just Like You Do)". Because there was such a short list, it was easy to learn the songs' lyrics. So, during the late evening hours, after my grandmother was fast asleep, me and my brother — and sometimes our uncle Timmy — would turn the volume up a notch, convert broomsticks to microphones, and sing along.

Each aforementioned tune, with their catchy sing-song hooks and melodies, were just fantastic. But, since I'd recently developed a knack for dancing — I couldn't quite get my groove on to any of their slow to mid-tempo speeds. However, there was one particular song on the shortlist that did the trick. It was called "Boy From New York City", a remake of the 1965 Ad Libs doo-wop classic recorded by a then virtually unknown jazz-vocal group called The Manhattan Transfer. Though danceable, to my 10 year old ears, the song was rather out-dated and peculiar sounding. But I still loved it.

I couldn't get enough of it!

As a matter of fact, out of the twelve or so songs in rotation, "Boy From New York City" was the one I'd anticipated hearing most throughout the day. The lyrics simply captivated me. And even though I'd never spent a single day of my life in the city so nice, they named it twice, my childhood television addiction, which included a steady diet of gritty pioneering New York-based detective shows like Kojak and Starsky & Hutch, helped validate the song's tale of a cool bad boy with hot chicks, scars and expensive cars. I wanted to live the life of the boy they were singing about.

I wanted to be him.

Three years later, after finally visited New York in the flesh, I became so enthralled with the city that the tune's lyrics and charm stuck like a theme song. I began to act and dress like a New Yorker. I even started bending the truth of my original birthplace; like telling friends and school mates that I was a native New Yorker — especially the girls!

I also got better ac- quainted with the group respons- ible for recording my theme. And that wasn't too difficult. In the same three years' time, The Manhattan Transfer had become one of the biggest jazz-vocal groups of the 80s, receiving twelve Grammy nominations for their classic Vocalese album — making it second only to my main man Michael Jackson's Thriller as the most nominated album ever.

FAST FORWARD BACK TO SOFIA IN THE YEAR 2011 — somewhere in the middle of another spectacular Halloween celebration and a Thanksgiving gathering generously hosted and prepared by my friend Joe — and I'm in eager anticipation to finally get to hear my theme song live after The Manhattan Transfer made their debut in Bulgaria. Unfortunately, on the eve of the concert, I had to roll solo. Sarah and Joe, two thirds of the original-Bulgarian-concert-going-trio, couldn't make the show due to work related events.

So, arriving prompt, energetic and elegantly dressed to impress, the classic four, which included Tim Hauser, Alan Paul, Cheryl Bentyne and lead vocalist Janis Siegel, took the stage at the sold-out National Palace Of Culture and put on the performance of a lifetime.

And despite the terrible disappointment of no live performance of my theme song, The four Manhattan natives, known for a fist full of flawless jazz-vocal albums, including the aforementioned record breaker, Mecca For Moderns and the Rod Temperton produced Bodies & Souls, made up for the loss by seamlessly sailing through stunning live renditions of hits like "Java Jive," "Route 66" "Chanson D'Amour", "Soul Food To Go," and the brilliant lyrical remake of Weather Report's "Birdland" — the soaring encore performance that kept me sky high for days to come.

Speaking of native New Yorkers and encore performances, a week or so after the concert, Jodi and Brian — two close friends of Sarah from her Peace Corps days — stopped by Sofia for a week long business trip to tend to matters on the Bulgarian Roma Camps, a sort of educational Summer billet set up for Roma (Gypsy) youths, founded by the three friends in 2006.

To cut costs and spend more quality time with Sarah — Jodi and Brian shacked up at our place. Me and Jodi, who currently resides in DC with her Bulgarian husband, had become well acquainted after meeting up on several occasions. But me and Brian, a native New Yorker and father of two, who still resides in the former, had only met briefly during that last New York trip I mentioned earlier. But despite the short comings, he and I got along just great and shared one of my favorite pastimes in common; outdoor running. So, with my injured knee completely healed, during four of the five days, we got up bright and early to hit the pavement.

Originally assuming he'd be a scrub, Brian gave me quite a workout. He kept an even pace while easily engaging in conversation. And being that he survived living in the Bulgarski for over six years, I needn't warn him of the stray dog issue currently plaguing Sofia. In fact, after a seemingly vicious one gave chase during one of our morning runs, he showed me a possible way out.

Well. . . sort of.

As the snarling hound got uncomfortably closer, Brian stopped running and played the calm and friendly approach. To my surprise, it completely worked! The dog's ears dropped, the barking ceased and it stopped chase. And even though Brian later confessed that he was more frightened than me — I was still amazed at his quick tact and remarkable bravery in what seemed to be a most scary situation.

After our ensuing mutt took a chill pill and we resumed running, there was just one small problem; it followed us for the duration of our run as if we were a part of his pack.

In the meantime, while me and Sarah were playing host to Jodi and Brian, Bulgaria's largest film studio was playing host to a brand new Israeli television series being shot in Sofia called New York. The series, which was directed by Ariel Benbaji and filmed on the studio lot's humongous artificial Manhattan, is the first of two shows being produced in 2012 that deal with Israelis living in the United States. The second show, called Postcards From Miami, is currently being filmed on location.

After getting the call to audition for New York, I was eventually chosen to play the part of Crazy B, the series' notorious gangster. And besides getting the part of a blood thirsty vampire, getting the part of a blood thirsty thug was the role I'd been hoping for ever since I stumbled into this acting game. But at the same time, it was the only role, so far, that I had reservations about. Mainly, due to Hollywood's shameful past history of the constant portrayal of African Americans as negative stereotypes, during a time when there was very few positive images of Blacks in film or television.

And to make matters more complicated, being that New York will be one of the first American themed television series broadcasted in Israel, I couldn't help but think of how Crazy B might shine that same negative light of African-Americans on the world's only Jewish majority state. But after a day or so deliberating, it only took one person to convince me to play the part. Barack Obama. And if the first African-American President ain't the most positive image of a Black dude being broadcasted throughout the world — then I really don't know who is.

Anyway, before I share my days on New York's set, I think you should know that it was a hard and humbling road getting there. You see, a few weeks prior to winning the part of Crazy B, I was nixed for a couple of major film roles. And in more ways than one — the rejection was good. It was like a wake up call. It humbled me. Yeah, I guess after winning seven consecutive auditions in a little over two years' time, I'd become over confident. Okay, okay... my head swelled to the size of a hot air balloon! I got to the point where I'd just assume I'd get the part before I even read for it.

So, in preparation for my Crazy B audition, I put my head back on straight and got down to business. I learned my lines so well, I could recite them backwards. And for inspiration, I studied Juice, Ernest R. Dickerson's critically acclaimed New York crime drama masterpiece from '92. But, mainly for the stunning Oscar-worthy performance from my main man Tupac Shakur, who played the role of Bishop, the films' sinister thug.

After studying Shakur's Bishop, I began to embody the typical street thug. No, I didn't join a Bulgarian gang or start selling drugs and robbing people. I simply turned into what I call a genuine house thug. During the long week leading up to my audition, I swaggered, shouted, and used plenty of slang and unnecessary profanity excessively around the house. Even, unfortunately, in the company of Sarah, and her friends Brian and Jodi — which, I'm sure, annoyed the fu. . . er. . . uh. . . I mean, the heck out of her.

But, eventually it all paid off. By the end of the week, I was awarded that blood-thirsty dream role of a lifetime.

"Ooh wah, ooh wah

cool, cool kitty —

Tell us about the

boy from New York City

Ooh wah, ooh wah,

c'mon kitty —

Tell us about the

boy from New York City."

— George Davis & John Taylor, 1964

ON THE FIRST DAY OF SHOOTING NEW YORK, it was the coldest November night I can remember in Sofia. But this time, the frigid temperatures wasn't the cause for my shivers. When I walked onto the set, I was, surprisingly, more nervous than a expectant father. One would think that after seven films under my belt, I'd have the hang of this acting thing by now. But in my defense, the role of Crazy B doesn't really go into the same category with the previous seven.

It was my first role on a television series. And besides not really knowing what to expect, since I'd been a TV addict during my early childhood and teenaged years, I really wanted to nail this one good. So, even though I could recite my lines backwards, I was still worried about fumbling or forgetting them on set. And there was quite a lot to remember. Up until that point, it was the most I'd delivered since having a pretty sizable part in the upcoming horror-thriller Spiders 3D.

Nevertheless, after meeting Ariel and the rest of New York's majority Israeli cast and crew, my nervous jitters were put to rest. And Ariel's abiding faith in my thug knowledge was a key factor. Before shooting a single scene, while the wardrobe and make-up crew were getting me all thugged out, he bestowed the power in me to freely develop the Crazy B character and coordinate most of the street dialogue — an honor that enabled me to completely nix the original script's unnecessary use of the N-word from my scenes.

But after all of that, I was still trembling like an earthquake.

So much so, that with only a few seconds left before the lights went up and the cameras were set to roll at the shout of Ariel's voice, I couldn't manage to relax. And to make matters worst, as I timorously took stock of the set, it was clear to me that nearly every single body from the cast and crew — including the series' producer — had stopped what they were doing to come check out my first scene. It was as though they were in eager anticipation of a most worthy performance from New York's notorious villain Crazy B.

And though I'd spent hours practicing, studying and maintaining my thug character for weeks, I just felt like I was going to blow this one. My nervousness could only ensure a stiff performance. But just before I could take the plunge, the make-up girl shouted for a quick time-out to add a bit more foundation to my face.

After punctiliously powdering the patchy spots, she inspected my wardrobe and professed, "you're ready for action now, bad boy from New York City!" These were just the familiar words I needed. And in a flash, I could hear my theme song playing in my head as if it were blasting from a nearby speaker. It took me back to my grandmother's farm. Back to where I first heard the song that changed my life. I thought about the times when I used to fantasize and tell little white lies of a life in New York City. It was time to relive it. It was time to be the boy, again.

I was ready.

After that faithful scene, which involved a brutal confrontation between Crazy B and the series' main character — to cut a long story short — you can pretty much say I nailed it good. And from that point on, I found my groove. The director, cast, and crew responded favorably and christened me 'Crazy B' for the rest of the shoot.

I welcomed my new nickname with affection and it helped me to stay in character on and off set. I swaggered, shouted, and used plenty of slang and unnecessary profanity excessively. I gradually transformed into that cool bad boy with hot chicks, scars, and expensive cars. I was living the life, again.

I was him.

Be seeing you.

O

Episode 29: Never As Good As The First Time

"So we rely on the past. Special moments that last. Were they as tender as we dare to remember? Such a fine time as this. What could equal the bliss?"

— Sade Adu &

Stuart Matthewman, 1985

There are many firsts in our lives. Simple moments like riding a bicycle for the first time, the first day of school, or that first kiss —whether good or bad — can hold a special place in our hearts. Yeah, there's always a chance that seconds, thirds, and maybe even fourths can better slightly, but usually they never live up to the first. For example, no matter what I see or do in Bulgaria, an east European country I've resided in for almost three years now, nothing will ever come close to the thrill of my first visit.

I remember it like yesterday. I didn't know what to expect after leaving the airport. I was nervous and excited all at once. And even though Sarah, my girl from the north country, provided me with more information about Bulgaria than Wikipedia, experiencing it in the flesh was quite an indescribable feeling. One that I could never revisit.

Speaking of revisits, in recent times I was able to kick back to some other famous firsts during the month of September, which included another trip to Greece, a live performance of the world's greatest British soul band, the second wave of a popular 80's dance craze, and my second year teaching at the American English Academy of Sofia. See how they measured up to numero uno . . .

"

The rose we remember.

The thorns we forget.

We'd love and leave.

We never spend a minute on regret."

— Sade Adu &

Stuart Matthewman, 1985

It was a late August morning, a couple of weeks after my Swedish Sojourn and a few days before the frigid Fall weather crept its way through the Balkan peninsula, when Sarah and I spontaneously packed our bags, revved up Xena, her trusty Nissan Micra, and headed for the Aegean Sea to soak up some sun and sand. The location was Mount Athos, better known as the third finger of Chalkidiki, a three fingered peninsula and popular beach resort located in Greece. It was also our second trip this past Summer to Bulgaria's world famous neighbor. If you recall a couple episodes back, the first time was spent in Sithonia, Chalkidiki's second finger.

To ease the 6 hour driving monotony, we spent a day in Melnik — another one of Bulgaria's many buried treasures. With a population of 385, Melnik is officially the smallest town in Bulgaria retaining its city status due to 96 historical and cultural monuments, including a well preserved ancient Roman bridge and fortress, the Kordopulov, a large Bulgarian National Revival house, which is possibly the largest of its kind and period, and the Church of St Nicholas, a partially preserved medieval Eastern Orthodox church dating back to the 12th century, standing on top of an ancient Thracian sanctuary with stunning frescoes of rarely depicted scenes. Sarah, an avid church and cathedral historian like her father, was quite pleased at the display.

Speaking of pleasing sites, although not really considered a cultural monument, Melnik is also famous for its picturesque sandy pyramid-shaped mountains that encapsulate the city. So, after an enchanting evening of exploring and shooting pictures, we dined out at a one of Melnik's many fine restaurants located on the main street of the city and turned in early to get a good night's rest for the ride down to the third finger.

In the early morning hours, after a gorgeous drive through the southern-most tip of Bulgaria to northern-most tip of Greece, we were merely a few kilometers away from the third finger when we spotted a small, seemingly mysterious island located about a mile from mainland.

"Owen?" Sarah said slyly.

"Yes?"

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'm way ahead of you."

Then, faster than a cheetah in hot pursuit of a wild gazelle, I u-turned Xena and sped into a nearby parking port with a sign that read hourly barge trips to Ammouliani. You see, the mysterious island, which is technically a part of the third finger, reminded us of Santorini, our first Greek island experience from Episode 4, where we spent some of the best times of our lives.

Due to our spontaneity and Ammouliani's popularity and small size, which has a reported 500 inhabitants, making it one of the most populous islands in Greece, it took us a good chunk of time to find adequate lodging. But after a desperate attempt that almost had us sleeping inside a travel-trailer parked in someone's backyard, we finally located the perfect spot — a cozy little hotel with family-like hospitality over looking the beautiful Aegean sea.

Speaking of the sea, throughout my European travels and beyond, I have yet to come across water more beautiful and enchanting as the Aegean Sea. And the fish is strangely 10 times tastier than any fish I'd ever eaten. I'll never forget the first. After taking a bite, I truly felt sorry for all Greek fish virgins in the world. So, no matter how many trips I take to Greece, the experience will never get old.

So, the first thing we did after settling into our hotel, was spend the entire day on the beach swimming and chillin' in the sun and sand, which included an awesome ride on a motorized water raft. And of course, at the end of the day we found a yummy restaurant where I scarfed down more of the world's best fish.

The next morning, we got up early and headed for our original destination. Though land-linked, Mount Athos, nicknamed the "Garden of the Virgin" by monks and houses 20 monasteries, is strictly accessible by boat. And only males are allowed entry, and, if they're planning on making it a permanent crib, they must be over 18 and members of the Eastern Orthodox Church. So on that note, since girls were not permitted and we'd already had our water fun on Ammouliani — Sarah and I explored the surrounding area near the borderline, where we stumbled upon a pretty cool medieval fortress along the shore, then headed back to Sofia with a smile. (Too see more pictures from our good times on the third leg and Melnik, please click here.)

"Sure as it's gonna play and play.

Like Michael back in the day.

I'm gonna peel you away."

— Sade Adu &

Stuart Matthewman, 2010

The next revisit, which originally occurred in the States, doesn't technically apply as a true Bulgarian revisit. But since I witnessed it live in Sofia, I think it'll be appropriate to discuss. It's the second wave of a pop culture dance phenomenon that exploded onto the 80's hip-hop scene known as breakdancing — which includes the sub-genres; popping, locking, b-boying and moonwalking — an art form developed by African and Latino Americans in New York during the late 70s.

After hearing about the world's most famous dance rebirth, which has since gone global —reaching countries from as far as London to Japan — I had my doubts whether the second breaking wave could hold a candle to the first wave, better known as the inventors (clears throat). But after getting an invitation to Jam On It — an annual Bulgarian Hip-Hop dance competition, featuring breakers within Europe — from my friend Ken of the U.S. Embassy, the proud sponsors of the event, you can say that seeing is believing. Because there's no doubt in my mind now that the second wave could have wiped us out! These new b-boys make 1990's, windmills and Thomas Flairs — which were considered the challenging moves back in the day — look like child's play.

Speaking of players, though generally considered male dominated, with the popularity and influence of films like B-Girl and Step Up, which feature women in prominent dance roles, the art form has since embraced a sizable number of female frontrunners and fanfare. So much so, that one of Jam On It's main attractions just so happened to be a Bulgarian female — who, pretty much owned the breaking portion of the contests — winning a deserving standing ovation each time she hit floor.

Another main attraction who also got a standing o.v. was a tried and true break dancing hero of mine who goes by the stage name Mr. Wiggles. But chances are, you might be more familiar with the iconic dance crew he was a part of — the legendary Rock Steady Crew of The Bronx. Okay, okay... if you're still in the dark, all you really need to know is that The Rock Steady Crew is to breaking what Chuck Berry is to rock. So yeah, it was mighty pleasing to see Wiggles in Bulgaria of all places.

It was also pleasing to know that someone at the American Embassy was savvy enough to call on Wiggles to judge the majority of the Jam On It contests. You see, not long after Sarah and I arrived at the sold out affair, Ken introduced us to Richard, the cultural attache responsible. We hit it off well, and after the contest, which featured a hosts of various breaking categories and a surprise victory by a crew from Bosnia, he lead me back stage to meet Wiggles in person — who was accompanied by Joe Conzo, a legendary Hip-Hop photographer. Conzo was in town displaying his amazing works from the first golden age of hip-hop culture during the 1980s, a time that no other hip-hop genre will ever surpass — even if they can dance better.

"Touching the very part of me.

It's making my soul sing.

Tearing the very heart of me.

I'm crying out for more."

— Sade Adu &

Stuart Matthewman, 1984

Keeping with the spirit of the 80s and more non-technical Bulgarian revisits, I recently got a fourth helping of a live performance from Sade, the world's greatest British soul band. They were in Sofia in support of their Once In A Lifetime World Tour. It had been over a decade since I'd seen them live on the Lover's Rock Tour — their initial comeback concert.

Formed in 1983 and named after Nigerian lead singer Sade Adu, the Grammy award winning self-contained band is best known for its signature jazzy-soul sound and a handful of classic albums and hit singles, including Stronger Than Pride, Lovers Rock, the flawless debut Diamond Life, which features the ever-so-popular "Smooth Operator" and "Your Love Is King," one of my Top 100 Greatest Songs Ever, and the superb sophomore release Promise, which features "Maureen," a lament to Adu's best friend.

The concert was also the first time me, Sarah and Joe, the original Bulgarian-concert-going-trio, stepped foot inside the brand new Arena Musical Festival in Sofia — a place of which, I'm guessing, could be a possible reason why Adu, who apologized on several occasions during her performance, bypassed the sunflower capital for over 25 years — in hopes of a much needed new arena to replace the aging and inadequate National Palace of Culture.

Speaking of bypassing, like most great musicians who have the haphazardly habit of choosing to play radio hits over the usual better album cuts live, Sade, with all of its original members intact, sadly passed on a bucket full of classic album tracks that I was greatly anticipating to hear. Still, the Sofia performance, like the previous ones I've seen, is amongst their very best.

Throughout the entire sold-out event, which included stellar performances of old and new songs, such as the explosive opener "Soldier of Love," "The Sweetest Taboo" and my more recent favorite "By Your Side," the Bulgarian crowd showed their love, respect and appreciation to the band with thunderous applauds and standing ovations. Me, Sarah and Joe, both of who were not too familiar with the band's mastery, claimed it the best show of the year.

I mean really, I never expected anything less — I'm talking about a band who's grooves are so tight with vocals so smooth and sultry, they could have played "Mary Had A Little Lamb" and still tore the roof off the mother sucker. They're just that good.

"Good times they

come and they go.

Never going to know

what fate is going to

blow you're way."

— Sade Adu &

Stuart Matthewman, 1985

After my sea, sun, sand, soul and hip-hop fun, August rolled into September, and on that first day, classes began at the American English Academy, one of the three American schools in Sofia, where I had a successful first year teaching art and dance classes to high school and elementary level students.

My success must have been duly noted. Because, not only was I welcomed back a second year, I was also offered to teach three academic upper level courses — journalism, vocabulary, and world history and culture — after the school's principle caught a few episodes of my world famous Blog-O-Daria series and got wind of my love for world traveling and writing.

Still riding the wave of last year’s success, the chilling thought of teaching academic courses simply spelled failure in big bold letters. But after getting some much needed advice and encouragement from Sarah and a few fellow school teachers, namely Joe, my brother Brub and his wife Dawn, I somehow rose to the challenge and accepted the offer.

And challenging it was.

The first day of my second year teaching, surprisingly, was far scarier than the first day of my first year. You'd think I'd have it down pat by now, but like deja vu, it was as though I’d reverted back to square one.

Of course, my art and hip-hop dance classes went well. I breezed through those like a pro. And since I took a heavy dose of writing and journalism in college and had some first hand experience working in a news room observing the writers at the Washington Business Journal, teaching journalism and vocabulary proved to be successful, too. But what I was worried about was the world history and culture class.

I knew I had to be sharp. I knew I had to be ready to answer whatever questions they’d throw my way. So, about a week or two before classes started, I read through the material and brushed up a bit. But still, there was nothing I could do to ease the nervous feeling I had when I walked into the classroom on the first day of my second year teaching.

While delivering my opening speech and reviewing the class syllabus, my stomach fluttered and my mouth got dryer than box of Saltine crackers. I checked the clock more often than a gas station attendant. And with a few minutes left, I'd almost made it through the entire hour and half class period, when a curious student raised her hand to expressed some concerns.

“Mr. Owen, you’re a wonderful art teacher and nice person in general, so please don’t take this the wrong way — but what can an art teacher possibly teach us about world history and culture?”

Ouch.

The dreaded question I had been fearing came from Plyska, an English-Bulgarian student who frequently tops the school's honor list. After her query, the other students agreeably chimed in like angry protestors at a political rally.

Then, like a deer caught in headlights, I started to panic. My first thoughts were to act out the role of that know-it-all-teacher we all remember. But then I thought of the time when my brother Brub told me that "students can see through a phony teacher as easy as seeing through glass." He said, "honesty is always the best policy" in these situations. So, without a pause, I admitted that I’d never taught a single history course in my life and that I was just as concern as they were about being an efficient history teacher.

I also added that, because of history's extreme importance, and my tremendous love for all that is history and world travel, I'd plan to devote a good amount of time researching the topics to make the class fun and interesting each day. I further stated that I couldn’t possibly know all the answers to every question they'd ask me. And during those times, if I didn’t know, I’ll instruct the class, as well as myself, to look up the answer for homework and the next day have a discussion about it.

At that very moment, every student — myself included, seemed to have breathed an assuring sigh of relief. And from that day on, they have since expressed their deep appreciation and gratitude having me as their teacher.

I guess you can say, I've found my niche somewhere along the way.

The high school principle and administrative department also expressed their gratitude and presented me with yet another offer. You see, after there was a sudden vacant spot in the upper level literature department, I was asked to fill in for the year. Though feeling a bit cocky after my new found academic teaching success and the fact that the offer was indeed tempting, since I have a love for literature, I didn’t dare push my luck. No. Instead, I politely declined and suggested, "perhaps next year — when I'm a little more experienced."

Which probably turned out for the best. You see, I was unaware that I'd be taking on some extra teaching after school when I accepted the job tutoring a couple of students in history and science. With all of these new classes and tutoring jobs, you're probably wondering whatever happened to my junior hip-hop dance classes. Well, that story's somewhat bittersweet — so you might want to grab your hanky.

You see, due to the extra time I'd be putting into developing my teaching skills for the academic courses, I had to unfortunately give up junior hip-hop. This was a tough decision that I ultimately knew would leave some students sore and the school's administration department a bit disappointed. But nothing would prepare me for what I'd face at the annual Back To School Barbecue, a sort of meet and greet day for the students, teachers and parents, where the principle made the announcement of my departure and replacement.

Shy of these particular events, mainly due to the awkwardness of trying to strike up conversation with parents that you've just met, I arrived casually late as usual and beelined for the scrumptious food. But before I could get there, a group of girls, ranging from the second to fifth grade, ran toward me in attack formation.

"Mr. Owen! Mr. Owen!!" They shouted.

"Why are you not teaching hip-hop anymore!?!"

Wide-eyed and speechless, I couldn't think of a good answer or, shall I say, good lie to tell. Because by the looks on their chagrinned faces, one would have thought the world had just come to an end. And Brub's honest teacher advice sure as hell wasn't going to sooth the situation.

So, after I couldn't come up with anything to say, the girls began to punch and pull at my arms. This playful preteen frenzy must have appeared quite bizarre to the parents and staff observing. So, needless to say, I was more embarrassed than a person who'd just mistaken a fat lady for pregnant.

The assaulters were Daniella, Dominica, Sara, Geri and Maggie — five of my students from last year's hip-hop dance class. And though it was a seemingly tense moment for the girls — and me as well — the whole situation was pretty puzzling. You see, prior to this incident, I hadn't a clue just how much my teachings had affected the girls or whether they were even enjoying my class at times.

In fact, each day it took quite a bit of energy to get them motivated. And Geri, a native Bulgarian who often misbehaved, never seemed to adjust to the class rules, resulting in me having to eject her several times. Well, I understand that it's really not common for that age group to express their gratitude in words. But, during the Back To School Barbecue they managed to find another way.

After punching me until they couldn't punch anymore, the girls formed a circle and linked their arms around me. Then, without a single word uttered, they gave me a group hug and walked away as if nothing had ever happened. I guess it was their own little way of expressing just how much they'd appreciated my class.

Yeah, my first year teaching was a success, but it looks as though the second will be sweeter.

Be seeing you.

O