way things used to be. Time marches on,
come go with me."
— General Johnson, 1972
Ever have a near death experience? Or a moment, as they say, when your life has flashed in front of you? Well, I had a couple. The most scariest occurred in March of '93 while renting a U-Haul van in my hometown Takoma Park, Maryland. I was helping my cousin Tony relocate, when four masked assailants decked in black, barged through the door shouting and brandishing pistols.
"Er'body get the (expletive) down and kiss the flo'!" They demanded.
Prior to this moment, I'd never been a victim of an armed robbery. And when I turned to see what all the commotion was, I paid no attention to their orders and nearly laughed. After seeing dozens of hold-ups on film and television, I'd become a victim of desensitization. The shouting seemed exaggerated and their weapons looked fake — like a familiar scene from the '74 Sir Sidney Poitier classic Uptown Saturday Night.
"I said get the (expletive) down!" They repeated.
"Do it, cuz." Tony warned with a shove. "This is the real thing."
Then without further ado, we hit the floor — facedown. And believe it or not, though I could hear the assailants violently prowling about and rummaging through registers, I was still relaxed. As idiotic as it sounds, I was thrilled to be in my first armed robbery.
Then it happened.
"(expletive) won't come off!" He flustered.
You see, back in the day I sported a shinny gold ring, or what this generation would call a little bit of bling, which I wore on my middle finger. It was a graduation gift from my brother Steve that fit so snug it needed a slippery substance for removal.
"Take it off!!" He demanded.
Of course I had no such substance handy, so the ring wasn't coming off — but I sure as hell wasn't telling him that. So, with my face still planted to the floor and both hands behind my back, I tugged harder than I'd ever tugged. But like always, it wouldn't budge.
"Take it off! Take it off!!" He repeated while nudging the barrel harder on my head.
There was no doubt in my mind he was going to blow my head clean off. I felt frighteningly numb, as if I were descending to the bottom of a deep frigid sea. But before my life, as they say, could flash in front of me, I faintly heard another assailant shouting in the distance, "come on, man — leave it! We gotta go!"
I was saved by the bell.
In recent times near the Ides of March, in an east European city known as Sofia, the death dealer would ring my bell once more. This time the close brush came at the unlikely hands of nature. Fortunately, the fright was short-lived, as a few days later I was resurrected after witnessing a sudden metamorphosis explode onto the Sunflower Capitol of the World. Check this out . . .
"Still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets and
Everytime I thought I got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet"
— David Bowie, 1971
ONE OF THE MOST FASCINATING THINGS about living in a developing country is seeing change happen right before your eyes. And at the start of 2012, during what would become my third year living in Bulgaria, I would witness plenty of permutation abound. But before any new developments took shape, not far from my doorstep stood a small sign of things to come.
You see, I love Bulgaria and regard it as my home away from home, but from day one, there hasn't been a moment when I wasn't complaining about the absence of street signs. This crucial missing puzzle piece has made it difficult to locate destinations on many occasions. But the most terrifying one happened on my first day alone in Sofia. After a wrong turn, I got hopelessly lost in the city. Though I eventually found help, street signs could have easily avoided this little mishap. Okay, okay . . . I know what you're thinking and perhaps you're right. I probably would have gotten lost regardless — but I'm sure you'll agree street signs are essential no matter where you are.
Well, as of today, I'm happy to report signless streets in Sofia are now a thing of the past. This year, the country was blissfully bestowed with beautiful beige and red signs written not only in the country's original native cyrillic script, but a convenient Owen frie . . . uh . . . I mean, tourist friendly English translation to go with it.
Keeping with the issue of effortless travel, in addition to new signs, Sofia also gained another metro line that extends further from the center. The new line, which is exquisitely designed, is a crucial plan to help eliminate the city's increasing traumatic traffic congestion; some of the worst I've encountered. Most Bulgarians will agree to not only being happy with the new line, but far more ecstatic over getting rid of the unsightly construction, which lasted over three years.
Since the new line's completion, the posh Vitosha Boulevard, Sofia's main commercial street where the ugliest construction occurred, has received a fresh new look, which includes an attractive repaved sidewalk with retro-styled benches and streetlights. Upon first visiting, I could barely recognize the once banal boulevard. My friend Nevena, a native Bulgarian, consented that the makeover gives a certain legitimacy to Sofia and a resemblance to a "real" European city.
With the exception of my favorite Zara and Adidas outlet, the shopping scene on Vitosha could also use a vast improvement. The chic-overpriced-nobody-ever-heard-of shops still, unfortunately, run the majority. However, dining-out on the famous Bulgarian boulevard is still A+. Next to yummy restaurants like Ugo, Pri Yafata, and my all-time favorite Happy, a proper American-style burger joint apply named Boom Burger was recently added to the line-up. My boy Richard, the American Embassy's cultural attache, described the burgers as "the best outside the U.S." A precise statement; the burgers are so nice, they'll make you smack the hell out of somebody's mama twice!
You're probably thinking, what's all the fuss over a burger, O? Trust me, three years living abroad will get you craving all kinds of junk food that you were once used to having at the snap of a finger. Besides, before Boom Burger made its debut, locating a proper American-styled burger joint in the Sunflower Capital was tougher than finding a free hooker at a police station. Unfortunately, since Boom Burger's arrival, I have to constantly practice restraint — I could eat there every day!
The last new shopping outlet added to Bulgaria is a needed one. And little did I know, last year's grand opening of IKEA, which I reported in Episode 28, was another sign of more Swedish goodies to come, as this year the country known for the best meatballs delivered Sofia another famous staple — H/M, an affordable multinational retail-clothing store known for its trendy fashion for men, women, teenagers and children.
On H/M's opening day, it was reported that the line from the store's entrance was so long, that it extended outside the shopping mall's entrance. Having said that, me and Sarah waited a few weeks until the craving crowds died down to shop in comfort — a lesson learned after plowing through last year's throng that gathered during IKEA's opening.
"Some dreams, are in the night time
And some seem like yesterday
But leaves turn brown and fade
Ships sail away
You long to say a thousand words
But seasons change."
— Lewis Martinee, 1987
WITH ALL THE NEW SURPRISES POPPING UP in Bulgaria, the next one, unfortunately, didn't come with a warning sign waiting outside my doorstep. And believe me, I could have used one this time. You see, it all happened on a rainy night while Sarah was away for a week on business.
After a late night dinner alone with spaghetti — a shockingly easy dish I recently learned how to cook next to oatmeal — Pepsi Twist, Gummi Bears and Kojak reruns, I hit the sack around 11 p.m. Either that Pepsi needed urgent release, or I was receiving another small sign. After four hours of uninterrupted sleep, I woke up at 3 a.m. to drain an entertainer and take a quick sip of water. A couple minutes later, I crawled back in the sack and shut my eyes. 60 seconds after that, what sounded like an explosion outside my window chilled my spine.
"Vaaaarrrrrooooooooooooooooommm!!!"
I rapidly arose from my pillow, and like a typical overly-paranoid American ex-pat, my first thought was terrorism — an embarrassing notion that, due to Bulgaria's zero terrorism statistic, I quickly dispelled. (On a sad side note, a few months later a terrorist bomb attack killing dozens in Burgas would change that statistic.)
Nevertheless, when the noisy clatter seemingly morphed into a rumble, I oddly switched my terrorism theory to a possible group of burglars breaking in via the balcony.
In my mind, it was time to get the hell out — and fast. But before I could leap from the bed and head for the door, I was stopped cold by a violent, massive shake, which vibrated everything — including me and the 300 pound mattress. My head wasn't spinning, but the situation did remind me of that memorable scene from The Exorcist.
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmbbbbbbbb!!!"
As the shaking persisted, I still couldn't figure out what was happening. I asked myself, is this an act of a diabolic spirit coming to possess me for gorging on Gummi Bears and staying up late watching Kojak when I should have been preparing for class? Perhaps. But before I could toss my agnostic beliefs out the window and try to recite the Lord's prayer, a sudden notion came to mind. I put two and two together and arrived at the conclusion that I wasn't being attacked by terrorist, burglars, or an evil spirit. Nope. I was in fact experiencing a sudden release of energy from the earth's crust — better known as a good old-fashioned earthquake.
And no, this wasn't my first experience with a quake, but certainly the biggest and scariest. The first time, which was last year in Bulgaria, was immediate, minor, and muted. My only existing proof of being in that quake, was witnessing a picture frame, which was too close to a shelf's edge, fall to the floor. Before that, my only other real quake experience was on the good old tele. Hollywood often made quakes seem like the victims were having fun on an amusement park ride.
But most who have experienced an earthquake of a sizable magnitude will attest that there is nothing humorous about the real deal. The Big Bulgarian Quake, as I lovingly christened it, was powerful, destructive, and seemingly never-ending. And I'm sure being alone didn't help matters. I felt frightened and helpless as the condo swayed like a branch in a windstorm ready to snap at any given moment. I imagined the ceiling crumbling to pieces, trapping me inside — or a fate far worse.
My life, as they say, began to flash in front of me.
But just before I could get my flash on, I remembered to call Sarah and bid a final farewell. She was also alone and afraid. So, besides the usual lovey-dovey stuff you say right before dying, she gave needed advice to stay under a strong table while waiting for the quake to end.
I took her advice, grabbed a pillow and a couple of MOJO magazines, and camped under a desk for the rest of the night. Thankfully, after six more massive quakes — each within an hour span, the Sunflower Capital survived without any major casualties or destruction.
"This old house is gonna change
Distant rooftops endless aims
Tell me what it is you want from me
Tell me what you want for me to see"
— Bruce Foxton, 2011
Well, as of today, I'm happy to report signless streets in Sofia are now a thing of the past. This year, the country was blissfully bestowed with beautiful beige and red signs written not only in the country's original native cyrillic script, but a convenient Owen frie . . . uh . . . I mean, tourist friendly English translation to go with it.
With the exception of my favorite Zara and Adidas outlet, the shopping scene on Vitosha could also use a vast improvement. The chic-overpriced-nobody-ever-heard-of shops still, unfortunately, run the majority. However, dining-out on the famous Bulgarian boulevard is still A+. Next to yummy restaurants like Ugo, Pri Yafata, and my all-time favorite Happy, a proper American-style burger joint apply named Boom Burger was recently added to the line-up. My boy Richard, the American Embassy's cultural attache, described the burgers as "the best outside the U.S." A precise statement; the burgers are so nice, they'll make you smack the hell out of somebody's mama twice!
You're probably thinking, what's all the fuss over a burger, O? Trust me, three years living abroad will get you craving all kinds of junk food that you were once used to having at the snap of a finger. Besides, before Boom Burger made its debut, locating a proper American-styled burger joint in the Sunflower Capital was tougher than finding a free hooker at a police station. Unfortunately, since Boom Burger's arrival, I have to constantly practice restraint — I could eat there every day!
"Some dreams, are in the night time
And some seem like yesterday
But leaves turn brown and fade
Ships sail away
You long to say a thousand words
But seasons change."
— Lewis Martinee, 1987
WITH ALL THE NEW SURPRISES POPPING UP in Bulgaria, the next one, unfortunately, didn't come with a warning sign waiting outside my doorstep. And believe me, I could have used one this time. You see, it all happened on a rainy night while Sarah was away for a week on business.
After a late night dinner alone with spaghetti — a shockingly easy dish I recently learned how to cook next to oatmeal — Pepsi Twist, Gummi Bears and Kojak reruns, I hit the sack around 11 p.m. Either that Pepsi needed urgent release, or I was receiving another small sign. After four hours of uninterrupted sleep, I woke up at 3 a.m. to drain an entertainer and take a quick sip of water. A couple minutes later, I crawled back in the sack and shut my eyes. 60 seconds after that, what sounded like an explosion outside my window chilled my spine.
"Vaaaarrrrrooooooooooooooooommm!!!"
I rapidly arose from my pillow, and like a typical overly-paranoid American ex-pat, my first thought was terrorism — an embarrassing notion that, due to Bulgaria's zero terrorism statistic, I quickly dispelled. (On a sad side note, a few months later a terrorist bomb attack killing dozens in Burgas would change that statistic.)
Nevertheless, when the noisy clatter seemingly morphed into a rumble, I oddly switched my terrorism theory to a possible group of burglars breaking in via the balcony.
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmbbbbbbbb!!!"
As the shaking persisted, I still couldn't figure out what was happening. I asked myself, is this an act of a diabolic spirit coming to possess me for gorging on Gummi Bears and staying up late watching Kojak when I should have been preparing for class? Perhaps. But before I could toss my agnostic beliefs out the window and try to recite the Lord's prayer, a sudden notion came to mind. I put two and two together and arrived at the conclusion that I wasn't being attacked by terrorist, burglars, or an evil spirit. Nope. I was in fact experiencing a sudden release of energy from the earth's crust — better known as a good old-fashioned earthquake.
My life, as they say, began to flash in front of me.
But just before I could get my flash on, I remembered to call Sarah and bid a final farewell. She was also alone and afraid. So, besides the usual lovey-dovey stuff you say right before dying, she gave needed advice to stay under a strong table while waiting for the quake to end.
"This old house is gonna change
Distant rooftops endless aims
Tell me what it is you want from me
Tell me what you want for me to see"
— Bruce Foxton, 2011
IN THE WAKE OF THE BIG BULGARIAN QUAKE, I thought nothing else this year could rock me harder. But within a few days after the arrival of Spring, the sheer shock from the final triumphant transition in Bulgaria proved me wrong. Strap on your seat belts, folks — you won't believe this one.
You see, if you've been following Blog-O-Daria from the first episode, you might recall my second most grievance issue concerning Bulgaria. From day one, there hasn't been a moment when I wasn't complaining about a lack of one of my favorite pastimes — riding a bicycle.
On any given week, I may have spotted one or two, here or there. And for the majority of time, one out of those two riders was my good friend Vladi, a Bulgarian-born-German-raised, social conscious painter and fellow avid old school hip-hop junkie who rides an adoring Aist — better known to most as an old Russian-style bike.
But to be perfectly fare, with an unfortunate lack of bike lanes, shoulder-space, wild dogs in constant pursuit, and most vitally — dangerous drivers abound, I never blamed a single Bulgarian for not wanting to take the risk of riding Karl Drais' greatest invention.
Well, from now on, when referring to the world's best known trailblazers, consider adding my boy Vladi Vlad to that list. In a three year span, Bulgaria has gone from me spotting two bicycles per week to nearly two-hundred per day. Yeah, the scene here has been liken to my description of the biking in Germany from Episode 23.
Okay, okay — it's not nearly that close to Germany in numbers, but it's precisely there in diversity. And, if you don't mind me swiping a quote from that episode to give you a clear picture; Bulgarians young and old are riding for exercise and pleasure. Traveling solo or in packs. And yes, parents are even riding with their children attached to their backs!
It's utterly unfathomable, right!?! But believe me, it's wholly factual. And most extraordinarily, there was no gradual progression or warning sign! It was as if someone turned on the lights and declared: okay, Bulgarians — bike now or die!
For the most part, I couldn't be more thrilled about the new biking scene. It's downright refreshing! In fact, Sarah has been contemplating buying a bike to join the fun. And yes, I've been tempted to bring Bad Boy, my trusty black Cannondale hybrid, abroad, too. That would be pretty awesome. And like me, I'm sure he'd love Bulgaria.
However, with all this new bike riding abound, there has been one crucial concern weighing heavy on my mind. But before disclosing, allow me to leave you with one last near death experience that Bulgarian bikers should strongly heed. Check this one out. . .
However, with all this new bike riding abound, there has been one crucial concern weighing heavy on my mind. But before disclosing, allow me to leave you with one last near death experience that Bulgarian bikers should strongly heed. Check this one out. . .
It occurred in 2009 on a humid August afternoon, ironically two days shy of my big move to Bulgaria. After purchasing an art frame and speeding back home on my Bad Boy, I took an ugly fall down one of Takoma Park's many infamous hilltops. Unluckily, the front tire locked into an awaiting pothole, catapulting me 12 feet high.
It happened so fast, there was no time for my life, as they say, to flash in front of me. There was only time for one quick question to enter my head: will I end up dead or disabled? Well, thanks to Dawn, my favorite sister-in-law, neither happened.
I was saved by the bell, again.
It happened so fast, there was no time for my life, as they say, to flash in front of me. There was only time for one quick question to enter my head: will I end up dead or disabled? Well, thanks to Dawn, my favorite sister-in-law, neither happened.
I was saved by the bell, again.
You see, since acquiring Bad Boy, I'd been consistently resisting riding with a safety helmet. Yeah, not sure why, except for maybe I was uh . . . stupid? Nevertheless, a few weeks before the wreck and against my will, Dawn — who had previously been struck by a drunken cab driver, which caused a loss of several teeth, survived the accident do to wearing a helmet — thoughtfully provided me with a cool black retro-styled one that comfortably cushioned my head from the crash — ultimately saving my life.
Bad Boy, thankfully, survived too. On the other hand, my right hand wasn't so lucky. Not only did it endure a nasty close shave from the shattered glass frame, the impact of the fall fractured my karate-chopping bone, keeping me out of the art studio for six long months.
Well, you've probably guessed by now why I am sharing this last close brush with death story. Since witnessing the Bulgarian Biking Boom, as I lovingly christened it, I have sadly observed one out of those two-hundred bikers per day wearing a safety helmet. And I hate to come off preachy, but depending upon how badly a car, truck, or bus impacts — scars and bones can eventually heal, sometimes even replaced. But a brain can't be mended. It only takes a small blow to the head to result in either death or an irreversible coma.
So, before buying that new bike, first run out and purchase a safety helmet. Avoid having your life, as they say, flash in front of you.
Be seeing you.
O
