Saturday night

Fire, home, mulled wine and jazz. No, thanks, I won't be coming out tonight, you can have your loud clubs. I am staying right here. 

                                     

Mulled Wine

My own festive season starts on December 1st but occasionally I find myself feeling the tingle of joy, my inner bells start jingling and before I know it, I hear myself humming words about reindeer, noses, sleighs.... One year a few winters ago, festivities came as early as mid October. This year? I put my Christmas CD in the car and hit play 2 nights ago, if ever so shyly.
As time passes, my confidence has grown- last night I made my first mulled wine for the season. It was fantastic, and I have the friend who can vouch for it!

Unfortunately I forgot to photograph my own mulled wine last night, courtesy of the Internet

Here is my recipe:

Red wine - 1 bottle [quantity varies depending on how many friends you have and how much of a drunk you are!]
Orange - 1 [peel it, and put the peels in the potion. Eat 2 slices of orange and put the rest in, too]
Apple -1 [ cut it in bite-size chunks and put it in]
Cinnamon sticks - a few [mostly for decoration, put one in each glass when you serve it]
Ground cinnamon - half a teaspoon or so [ I really like cinnamon]
Clovers - 2 teaspoons
Black pepper - a pinch or so, don't go overboard
Cocoa powder - half a teaspoon
Honey / brown sugar - depending on taste. Resist the temptation to make it too sweet, you'll regret it

Heat up the wine, add the ingredients, stir with a wooden spoon.

Serve with gingerbreads or cheese, or anything else you'd like. Or simply enjoy the thick spicy wine by itself. Ideally, in front of the fireplace.

Acts of Random Kindness 3

This is the only topic for which I have needed to write three parts. The world is far less mean than you think.

The Kind Stranger seems to be Santa Clause's little brother- many talk about him, they tell magical stories about him/her but these always are stories about someone else, who knows someone else, who knows the Stranger in question.

I don't believe in Jesus and I don't believe in the mythological Stranger. Because believing would imply blind faith without proof. No. I have seen the mythological Kind Stranger. The cousin-of-my-friend's-dog's-uncle cycle ends here.  

I have met the Kind Stranger.

Many people get a kick out of being destructive, negative, pessimistic, mean, offensive which means there is a large number of people who get a kick out of being cool, adventurous, polite, spontaneous.

The creature is very much like you'd think- changing faces and locations. But if you're lucky enough, you will meet him. It's really not that hard. I was once so lucky I met him twice in one day.

LONDON. Upon boarding my bus, I realised that my reservation was for the wrong journey. Rather than LON-OX-LON, I had booked OX-LON-OX. I easily admitted to the driver it was 100% my own fault and that I was leaving it completely to his discretion to decide what to do with me. He smiled, said he shouldn't... and then changed my reservation, saving me 14 quid. Big thanks.
Why he helped? I think, to a huge extent, he did because I was humble, admitted my fault in the matter and was polite to him. Be polite, kind, helpful and patient with others and they are much more likely to do the same back to you.

OXFORD. Just a few hours later, I am sitting in "Three goats' heads"  in Ox with an Ex and we're having a drink- he's sipping some horrible weissbier and I am sipping some stupidly expensive wine. The bartender comes up to us, carrying a chair and puts it next to our table. We look at him, half tipsy, fully puzzled. He says, giggly:
-It's for your friend.
-What friend?, we ask, even more confused.
-Your invisible friend. For whomever you want.
-That's why I love coming to this pub!, the ex exclaims.

Simple, jolly moments. Strangers are fantastic company.

P.S. If you ask Google, though, some bad images come up for "strangers", even "strangers in a pub". We need to change that perception- one pub, one image, one story at a time.

Above the rooftops, above the summer city

Some friends and I were shooting a music video for my mate's band. The location was an abandoned rooftop in the very heart of the city. Feeling the pulse of Sophia, hundreds of years old streets were buzzing with the whispers, songs, conversations, yells, running feet of the people beneath us. Their shoes made click-clacks, yet the only thing we saw from them was the tops of their hats.

Across the street from us, on a terrace, a couple were having romantic dinner. There were candles, a few plates, all else was dimmed and quiet. It wouldn't occur to me to make this up, it would be too corny for my taste, had it not been true. Now... it's a small confirmation that romance doesn't have to be big. In fact, the smaller the gesture, the more genuine it is.
Well, except from the big lights coming from our video production, big speakers booming.I wonder if we embarrassed them, when we looked. Whether we annoyed them, or whether they liked us. The quiet romantic dinner and the loud music video couldn't have been more than 25 meters away yet they seemed worlds apart. To me, though, they went together well.

We had a few beers, we danced for hours, laughed and found common friends with new acquaintances. Really, what happened was, we had a party and someone filmed it, there may even be shots of me in the video, doing cartwheels.
The scent that night was so Sophia. A slight tinge of summer dust, honking cars mixing with song beats. The gold on Alexander Nevski's domes almost reflecting the light from our roof, the city bubbly with summer sounds and smells, yet the approaching fall causing the temeratures to drop, just making us dance harder....

London town

For all the times I've been in London,  it was at 2 am that I saw it be its warmest and kindest.  That particular night, I had been travelling on a bus from Oxford, it was only me and the driver. It felt like it was just me and the driver in the whole of England. The motorway was quiet, long, with the occasional lights flickering with the frequency of a slow heartbeat. Monotony was exciting,  it kept me alert before the lack of sleep and the nurturing rocking of the bus took the best of me.
I woke up and I immediately felt light, curious, tranquil, the street light around me evoking a feeling of magic.  I wondered which city this was, it never occurred to me that it could be London until I recognised some familiar landmarks. It was a sleepy masculine London rather than the annoying fashionable hipster London full of slow crowds of pretentious people. It was calm, its voice-soothing, the timbre- metallic yet warm, its skin made of stone. It was dressed to impress and an attitude to remember: regal, altogether composed, intelligent and...cheeky, somewhat. One you could fall in love with, because it was ultimately honest. Bitch had style.
Vacated by its usual inhabitants, who were resting after a day of shopping, working, rushing, changing tube lines, calling each other to arrange dinner plans, the city behaved like a person. When left alone in its own company,  it was stripped of expectations and conversations. I loved it for that, it was a thousand times more alive to me than during the day. It claimed the respect it felt it deserved, for its history and looks, much like a well-groomed man, respect I gladly showed. Respect I would never have shown during the day, when London usually behaved like a spoiled slutty teenager.

I exited the bus, said goodbye to the driver. It felt special to me that we had shared this bus ride only with each other, in the middle of the night.  Walking towards my train, once again I felt protected by the city which used its tall, dark buildings to snuggle me with their metallic and stone arms. I couldn't sense neither the cold nor the tiredness anymore.  

Better than chocolate

They are light, they are smooth and the are incandescently, voluptuously dainty. So I got 4.

These are my four little fairies of indulgence:

Blueberries and honey,raspberries with chocolate, cherries with coconut and carrot  cup cake. 

Mmmmmm...

Two of them are still left. I will have them with peaches. When grandma called earlier today, she asked "Are you eating well?" 

Yes, grandma, I am eating peaches!

The good, the bad and the Pork Pie

I'm experiencing a quarter-life crisis, which turned out to be an actual thing. This had brought up some moments of self-reflection.
Recently, I was at the seaside with my family where I found some temporary friends to hang out with. One particular night ended up with me coming back home in a slightly jollier and tipsier state than was advisable, only to be caught by my mum who gave me a stone-cold look and said "I never want to see you like this again". Fair enough. What I didn't think was fair was the conversation followed next day, where I was explained that now was the time to think about the person I want to be, these are the best years of my life and I am wasting them, getting wasted. Untrue, as it isn't my habit to do so but I do agree that seeing your kid coming back home very tipsy is somewhat ugly, even if they are 23. Lesson is sinking in, I don't want to become a drunk, it's not the person I am.
There's something to be said about the moment where you're in the car, at 3.30 am, having just driven all three of your friends to their houses after an awesome night out, some drank, some drank tonics and all danced. You're in the car, feeling good and protective and responsible, the road is empty and your only company is the voice of the GPS lady, who tells you where to go, because, frankly, you don't know which way gets you out of these tricky small streets in a neighborhood you've never been to. Then a favourite song comes up, I turn it up, and there it is- a black Ford Focus, buzzing through the streets of Sophia at night, in its own bubble of Euphoria, feeling good, like there's nobody else in the world. Which there wasn't, they were all asleep. It felt like a small prize for what had just happened, like I had earned hearing two songs I enjoyed, consecutively. When I offered to drive the 3 boys to their respective homes, it was a natural response, I wouldn't want my bros to be walking the streets at night or have to pay lots of money for a taxi, and it was hardly an inconvenience regardless of the distance because I enjoy driving and I hadn't had anything to drink. However, by the third address, their praises and appreciation had gone to my head a little, I was happy they were safe but the bit of me going through the quarter-life crisis was also pleased to find yet another answer to its concerns- this is the sort of person I would like to be. Responsible, choosing not to drink so I can drive, enjoying myself and taking care of my bros, taking them home.

Pork pie is an excellent place, as many of you Sophianites will know. It's an open-air bar. I was there last night, with the fore-mentioned three boys and this night will stick like a post-it because it was some of the most honest fun I've had recently. Dancing in a company that was not my usual one, the conversations were honest, the music was not mine but was not foreign either, in it was found more honesty that I have been finding in familiar, close environments. Yet again, I feel a revised list of who to keep in my life and who to expel is forming in my head. Here I am, a step closer to the person I want to be, its best and happiest version. Writing this memo to myself will serve me as a marker in 6 months time, 2 years or whenever I need to remember what makes me better and what I don't need anymore.

The ultimate Dutch experience

You remember a few posts ago, when I was promoting the idea that we should all try new things, even things that we've set our minds to never do? I ran, that time. I ran a few times. Well, I jogged, in the city.
Here was my new adventure:

Some random people I found on the internet, riding effortlessly. In other words, nothing like what happened to me.

I found a picture that illustrates both everything and nothing about my experience. Yes, I rode on the back of a bike, sideways, like a girl. Indeed, I was in the Netherlands. However, this girl is more photogenic, she is effortless and the black and white picture captures her ease. In my case, I was digging into my friend, and all the colours in the world wouldn't depict the terror in the first five minutes.
I dug into my friend with one hand, and with the other held on the back of the grill I was sitting on. I got used to it, got a bit cheeky, enjoyed it as much as I could. But being on the back of a bike for nearly an hour meant that my muscles had to do what they hadn't do in a while: tense! My abs tensed to keep my legs high, my legs tensed so they wouldn't get caught, my bum was on the grill so it was constantly in pain as each individual piece of metal dug deep into my big ass....for the past two days I have had muscle pain where other people, surely, don't have muscles at all! I am positive nobody has that many muscles in their body that could hurt at the same time!
It was the ultimate Dutch experience, though. We were going to a football game Netherlands-Slovakia (2:0), I was wearing my Dutch Pride orange t-shirt, and rode on the back of a bike. Suave :)

A terrace somewhere in the city of Rotterdam

How good it is to have a terrace in the city center, the birds sing to you, the cars honk, the people talk, you're here when life is happening!

So, today, I had a good day. I went to see my supervisor and talking to him, counterintuitively, helped my stress levels, I felt better and reassured about what I was doing.

Wait, sun is back from behind the clouds, I will come back to finish writing this overly inspirational piece in 5 mins. 

OK, so I'm back but I had to go out, because as I was typing the previous sentence, I was listening to a happy song called "Walking on the Sun" and suddenly the sun reappeared. So, you see, I had to enjoy it. 

After seeing my supervisor, I was on the tram, where I played pick-a-boo with a 1-year-old-or-so toddler, a really cute one. I hid behind the seat, and he laughed heartily, like nothing else mattered in the world. Sometimes, rarely but it happens, children are awesome, they make you smile.

I then got back home, opened up a beer, put on some songs, opened the balcony door and sat on the terrace, enjoying the sun, sippin' my beer and smoking  a cigarette. [yes, smoking is bad and I'm still a non-smoker, except for exam times and the two-three weeks before submitting my master thesis. Understandable, yes? Now get off my case]  I sang out loud, my voice merging with the thousands of other sounds- cars starting up, cars parking, a couple making out right there, a woman opening up the door to a boutique, someone paying for a pair of shoes worth hundreds of euros, laughter, the chocolaterie Specker downstairs where it smells of butter, cocoa and dreams, the wind going through the trees...

At that moment, there was nothing more sublime than the feeling of the great music of the '90s, the cigarette in my hand and the beer. 

The sun's back. So, I'm off... you know where to find me. Listening to the sounds of the city of Rotterdam.

Trumpet in the city

I was going to go for the more obvious and, surely, better selling "sax in the city" but here I am, demonstrating a surprising quality of judgement.

Where I seemingly lack a sense of judgement, however, is my preference in cities. Call me crazy but I don't like London, yet I am so fond of the smaller, dustier, poorer, described-by-many-more-pejorative-adjectives capital of my native Bulgaria, and my home town, Sophia. Recently, a rare opportunity presented itself for me to show that it isn't only for silly subjective reasons that I like Sophia so much. For all its shortcomings, it is a city with soul and life to it. There is particular vibrancy in the spring and summer, when the streets, much like the trees and nature, blossom with colour. Countless small festivals, events and other cultural curiosities sprout in the city.

This time, Sophianites awoke to the sound of 11 old pianos, each uniquely decorated, spread around various locations.

Photograph: Dnevnik.bg

Photograph: Dnevnik.bg

Photograph: Dnevnik.bg

Photograph: Dnevnik.bg

Photograph: Dnevnik.bg

Photograph: Dnevnik.bg

 I was proudly showing a friend of mine around Sophia. We'd been walking around in the sun for a while when we decided to sit down and seek sanity under the shadow of a tree. As we sat and rested our legs, we found ourselves next to a piano which was "dressed" particularly remarkably. Take a look.

A young boy played beautifully, while his friends patiently waited. He finished and I don't think he had even realised we were listening, because he was surprised when he heard our applause. It must have been clear by the enthusiastic, albeit shy, clapping that it was more than just a polite gesture on our part because he continued playing, dedicating the next song to us. We smiled, half coyly, half proud of ourselves.

As he finished his beautifully played song, and just as we wished him and his friends a good day, we saw what must have been the coolest moment, and what was the reason for me to say out loud to my friend: "This is so going in my blog!". First, our heads were pulled in the opposite direction towards a surprising sound. This was no piano. We then saw the source, a friend of theirs, smoothly biking with no hands because his hands were preoccupied playing a trumpet. Yes, take a minute and visualise. You stand up to leave, and out of nowhere, the sound of  a trumpet melts into the symphony of the piano in the summer heat. He was so cool, he could play the trumpet and cycle at the same time, no hands.

When you have a trumpet so breath-taking, the beauty of its reality blows away the semi-accurate, vulgar and easy pun of "sax and the city".

Family

I cannot stop thinking about what must be the most indescribably beautiful gesture. The clues to that are scattered across my desk- a letter, some chocolates, a card...can you guess what it is?

My partner, Dan, and I were together for a bit over a year and a half, but even if it wasn't the longest relationship I've had, it was the healthiest and happiest one. We recently split up, we're friends, moving on and figuring life out one step at a time. While we were together, he often made the joke (and it's no joke at all!) that I am with him because of his family. They are the kindest, warmest people, genuine and loving, they will always welcome you into their home, ask you if you'd like tea. Throughout my relationship with D, we had the time to become really close (going beyond the polite "Hello" and weather chit-chat), they were always very attentive to me and my family, presents flew across Europe from one family to the other.

The break up didn't change that. I still call them, regardless of the communication Dan and I keep. We spoke for Mother's day too, I sent them a few little gifts. I called on Easter, and his aunt Marian asked if I had received her letter yet. No, but I was looking forward to it, now that I knew it was in the mail. Today, I eagerly ran to the mailbox, hoping it would finally be here. My heart started racing when I saw the hand-written address on a brown envelope. As I type this, I re-live it, and my fingers type faster. I got upstairs, hastily yet carefully opening it, and my racing heart suddenly skipped a beat. My eyes began to fill, as I took out the contents: it was a hand-written letter, an Easter card, a beautiful book mark, two bags of chocolate eggs and a slightly crushed Easter bunny figure.

This is one of the most intense emotions I have felt, yet it is so clean, simple and honest, it had me silent and tearing with appreciation. I know the family so well, I could literally imagine Marian (Dan's aunt with whom he lives) writing down her shopping list, driving to Morrison's, and picking up those extra packs of chocolate eggs; then sitting down in their living room and writing the letter; I see her hands neatly putting it all into the envelope and sending it off. She took time off her busy day and included me into their family, even when I am no longer part of it. The only reason why I am writing this instead of being on the phone and thanking her is because I am waiting for her to come home from work.

Seeing this close family who take care of each other, who gather every week on Sunday for dinner, who show their appreciation of each other all the time, this has taught me what my grandma has been trying to get me to do- to pay attention to the little details, to send cards, to honour small occasions. It is a privilege to be considered as one of them, when there is no obligation to. Don't get me wrong, I love my own family very much, but we don't do "gestures"- I consider it a gesture when my mom lets me have the car (we share a car, when we're both home at the same time). The family you are born with gives you many things, but then there is the family you choose, and I may not have married Dan, but his family is my second family, and they have shown me what I want one day, when I create my own family. I want to send cards, I want to have the family over at least once a week (even if that means a lot of dishes... no worries, I'll be rich and I'll have a dishwasher), I want a warm home.

OK, I think they may have come back home from work now, I am off to thank Marian for the most amazing letter I have ever received.

Jogging in the sun

I reckon it's important to challenge yourself. Don't get me wrong, so often I cannot be bothered to change my ways, it's difficult, time-consuming, and so often it feels like I've got it all figured out, so why would I change anything about a life I already love?

Well, there's days when I wake up and I already am in a bad mood, and these are usually the days that then turn out fun because the bad mood means I'll do anything to feel better. As I was jogging today in the sun, enjoying the people, the city and its buzz, the green grass next to the canal, the bars and cafes I whizzed by, leaving their customers befuddled with this odd jogging girl, it occurred to me that the reason I was having such a good day was that I had had a bad morning.

See what I did there? Those of you who know me will be confused how it is that I casually dropped into a sentence that I went jogging, when I've spent countless conversations with countless people explaining to them that jogging was the Devil incarnate.  Yet, earlier today, when the sun first peeked through my window and asked if I wanted to come out and play, then saw I enjoyed its company and cheerfully invited itself inside our apartment and certainly inside my body, I felt this overwhelming energy. Yes, Sun, I will come out and play with you!

I knew that thinking about it twice would mean I'd spend another afternoon in my room in front of my laptop, so instead I put on my shoes and closed the door behind me. It's not about the jogging, or even whether I liked it (I came back 20 minutes later, with my tongue out, panting like a dog!), it is about how much I've hated jogging for my whole life. All in good time, and I think today was the perfect day to try this particular thing. Had it been any other day, had I been in a different mood or in a different place, my whole experience would, of course, have been different too. You can't force yourself to like everything that you try, and that's OK, you don't have to like everything. You won't know until you've done it, anyway. But if you do things in your own time, and it happens to be the right time, there's nothing better than expanding your horizons a little bit. I think I may do this again tomorrow.

Though, probably, this was a one time thing and my enthusiasm will go away as quickly as it came.

Titanic [Handle with care. This side up.]

Celine Dion is still singing in the background as I type. I just watched Titanic for what is the 24th time. I have counted them.

It occurs to me that there are things which are of special importance in one's life. They are usually not rational, because anything but the air we breathe, the food we eat and the sleep that keeps us going, is an irrational attachment. These are the small things which alter our mood, which teach us a line or two, and which lines we then quote to our friends, perhaps even quote on a first date with the person we then end up sharing a lifetime of movie lines with. Or perhaps it's a silly line from a film that no-one ever cares about. Not all gestures are grand, not all stories are magical, not all romances end well. But it is important to stay grounded, remember where you came from, for better or for worse. Not to worry- go back to those things that made you happy, those things that have meant something to you- they are those true anchors which will help you if you're feeling a bit confused. Much like Rose and Jack's love, a true love lasts a lifetime. The things that made you smile before, the movies you keep watching over and over again, the places that you seem to always end up at, the people you keep ringing- these are your anchors, and since you've invested so much time and emotion in them, the investment will repay you. The little pieces of your heart that you've scattered around your world are  like a map of your life. Keep it safe and take care of it, and it will guide you towards where you want to go, should you need help.

Here, in my room, it is 4.48 am, 24th time is a charm, much like the 23 times before. Here I am, discovering still more layers in one of my favourite films. And in a time when future looks a bit shaky, Titanic reminds me of all the intensity it has brought to my life, and the little lessons I've learned from it. Every time I watch it, I have changed slightly from the time before, and to me, watching Titanic is becoming a big highway in that map of my life- it reminds me where I was last time I watched it, and how far I've come from there. So, future is a bit uncertain... just because a century ago 2200 people felt their future was safe on board of the biggest ship of its time, it didn't make it so. Certainty is an illusion, all you are left with is yourself. And that is wonderful.

Romance?

As I type these words, some of you are gorging on delicious chocolates, some are pondering over a name for a teddy bear they just got; some are getting naughty and some are disappointed; some just don't care. However, let me tell you my favourite romantic story.

It was not me who was the protagonist, it was not even St. Valentine's day. Instead, it happened on the 25 bus in Brighton.

One late night, I was headed home after what must have been a night of partying. It is about 3 in the morning. I am tired and tipsy, perhaps wondering what I have in the fridge at home that I could quickly make, to satisfy my alcoholic hunger. To be honest, I don't remember. What I remember is that, in the middle of that, I overhear, amongst the other University of Sussex students, a couple talking, a boy and a girl. They have clearly just met that evening. Unlike many others, they were not drunk, wearing Flintstones outfits or masks on their faces. They are not hooking up for one night. They are just talking but intensely so. They like each other, one can tell just from hearing them converse, it feels almost an intrusion to listen, but overhearing is almost inevitable and, franjly, at this point, I was intrigued. The boy's stop was coming up but talk is sweet. He then missed his stop, knowingly, just to get the phone number of the girl he'd had such a lovely night with. THey exchanged numbers and he got off. I saw him walking off, and despite the cold, he was chirpy. Never mind that he had to walk, never mind he wasn't going to get laid with this girl tonight (though I suspect that he would  have wanted to, much more so than those freshers on the upper deck sucking each other's faces off). He simply wanted to see the girl again.

I tell this story often, it makes me smile. It was stories like these that I had in mind when I first created this space.. This story also goes to those who celebrate St. Valentine's day. I don't. Though, this year I showed that I was willing to be proven wrong.  The story also goes to all the cynics who think that men are from Mars and women are from Venus... no, we're all human, we all want companionship. It also goes to those who believe in love but are struggling at this moment. Romance can catch you off-guard and it usually does not come in a red bow and a chocolate box, more often than not, real romance comes with a fart. Yes, you read it right. A fart.

Snow!

Finally, there is snow in Rotterdam! It took us a while to catch up with the rest of Europe, but now it seems the skies have decided that if it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing. It snowed yesterday for hours until every last inch of the city was covered under a white fluffy duvet, a very think duvet! We watched i snow from our windows, and onto the street, where people slipped, giggled and rushed in the cold to get home.

This is the Erasmus bridge in snowy Rotterdam. Photo, courtesy of the Internet.  (Reinier)

I took a walk in the snowy city, it was as cold as it was magical. Even more so than when we watched the snow from outside the comfort of our apartment.

It was already dark, people had vanished from the streets and into their cosy houses after a long week's work, and on my way home I saw a man pulling his kid in a sled, in the center of the city. Somehow, for all our civilisation and modernisation, it was the shiny window displays that stood out, not the father with the sled. It was beautiful to share the same space as them- they were happy and they didn't care about anything else. I wish I had taken a photo, but then again, I probably wouldn't have captured the atmosphere of the moment. Just imagine the happiest dad teaching his little girl one of the valuable lessons in life: you shouldn't be afraid to get a little wet because snow will instantly make you smile. Engage with life, and it will engage back with you.

Compliments

I am not one to take compliments too well. From what I see, most of us will politely grin, utter a "thank you" and be a bit awkward. I think it depends a lot on who the compliment comes from and whether we think we deserve it. Me, I am much better at it if the compliment addresses conscious efforts on my part- say something I've written, done; I am considerably less swave if my looks are complimented, because, ultiametely, I feel that I haven't done anything to deserve it.

A few nights ago, I was on my way home after a night out. Two corners away from my front door, a few gay bars entertain the neighbours. I peeked into one of them, felt a bit awkward to be going in there alone and not dressed for the gay occasion (my two personalities are clashing lately, the straight one has the upper hand at the moment) so I passed by. Steps away, two gentlemen, upon seeing me, stopped dead and one of them, before I can warn him that I speak no Dutch, said in English: "Oh, huney, I love your style!"
Needless to say, I was so flattered!

I figured, I am in no position to refuse the friendliness of people, so, when they asked me if i wanted to hang out with them in Strano, of course I said yes. It was a brief but nice time spent with a couple of strangers. As stereotyped as it may be, a compliment from someone who has no desire to get into your pants, feels lovely.

Maybe some of you will disagree, better to be complimented by those who we have a chance to be with?

Being read

And here's a sweeping generalisation: anyone who has ever written anything, feels a tingle when someone else reads their work. It's a mixture of fear, anticipation, hope, intimacy with the text, preparation for defending one's work, preparation to explain the context in which it was written, and altogether an elevated perception of the importance of the said work and an imaginary Pulitzer-receiving speech, for the boldest of us.

I was typing stinky palachinki to open the dashboard to the blog, when I realised I was not typing in the address bar but the Google search bar instead. Curious, I ENTER-ed. You cannot imagine my surprise when I saw a tweet with my blog article about the personal story of the man who sells tickets on the Selly Oak train station.. It was a story personal to me, it was very genuine and very brief, like, I am willing to bet, most genuine moments are. It was a sad story of loss, hope and moving on, and a story which I thought was worth telling. 

To see that someone has read and shared it with others was spectacular. To see that a second person, whom I don't even know, had retweeted it... speechless. Like any budding writer, I am flattered and grinning. I hope there are more stories worth spreading in the future. Even better, the story of this unique man will be told, maybe we can learn from the way he accepts and deals with life. 

The Big Bang Theory of BED!

I am pleaaaased. Pat on the back. WE SENT OFF BED!!

To those of you who know anything about me, since I've moved to Rotterdam, you know this magic word- BED. BED is  a bar near my house, I've gone there every week since I moved, and it is by far the best bar in the world, as far as I am concerned.
Tonight was the last night of the old BED, BED as we know it. Starting from next week, it'll be a new place, and from what I've heard, it'll be great.
But to me, this BED was THE BED. To me, it's the end of a small era. Since many of you don't know what I am talking about, imagine a bar where you feel like home. A bar where the bouncers high-five you every time they see you, cos they've seen you a hundred times. A bar where  you know for sure that these bouncers have your back, no matter what. A bar, where the staff greets you. Where you know their names, and when fights broke off, you screamed out their names and they fixed it and protected you. A bar where you've not only got many drinks "on the house" but you've had drinks for free cos you were simply hanging out with the staff. A bar where you danced on the top of the bars, probably more times than you can even count. And yes, a bar you've been hit on, every time you were there, and let's face it, you felt good about it. Yes, a bar where they play music you can dance to. A bar where, as soon as you walk in, it changes your mood. And a few more things, but that's between me and Bed. For my first... 4 months in Rotterdam, Bed was my home. I've been there at least once, every week.
And tonight was the last night, at this particular location. Of course I was there.
Nevermind the free drinks, never have I felt more like home! Free drinks is not what makes you special, pretty girls get them all the time. But being treated almost as equal, being shown some secrets that no-one sees, being told plans about the future, feeling like you belong to a select few who are so intrinsically connected........that is the sort of stuff that get you to sit down at 05.36am and write.
The last night, we sent off BED with a BANG! Lots of dancing, we set the bar on fire (pouring alcohol on the surface and burning it, don't worry!!), we danced on top of the bar (and let me brag, I set the tone for that one!), some Russian girl actually got almost naked, danced with the staff, got splashed with soda from the tap, got covered with napkins, were blasted with oxigen from a small pressurised tank, most of the staff danced topless if not almost naked, they poured drinks from the bottles in the mouths of thirsty customers, and the rest got small bottled shots. That is not all, but it's enough for you....my dear reader.
I am sober, but this experience is something that makes you question your reality.

And yes, I got an awesome memorabilia from the bar, I cannot share what it is but when I asked "would that be OK with the owners?" and getting a response. "No, but it's OK with me...", it made me smile. If I mean 1/10 to BED of what BED means to me, then I will smile.

BED is dead, long live BED!

All the small things

Humour, just like the Devil, is in the details, the small things. Nothing funnier than scaring your housemate, who is in the kitchen cooking, by going on the terrace and slowly creeping up next to the kitchen door (also exiting onto the terrace) and banging loudly on that door! A scary thud coming from the darkness, scream from your housemate and roaring laughter for you! Especially funny, as I did it a second time, after just enough time had passed for her to forget the first and not anticipate it. Réah-Andreea, 2:0.
As I was writing the second line of this blog, I kid you not- payback time- she banged loudly on my door and yelled! I screamed like a little girl, and then laughing out loud, saluted her for the excellent execution of her payback. High five, well played. Updated score, 2:1.

And that's how it is, here in the House of the Andre(e)as...all is well.

The laugh that comes after the "Dance between strangers"

For all my mysanthropy, there are just as many times when humans amaze me, fascinate me and make me smile.

The moment only lasted a few seconds, yet 10 minutes later it still makes me smile.

I was on my way home when an elderly gentleman was walking towards me. We got caught in the moment where we both tried to make room for the other person to pass. I went to my right, he went to his left. Inevitably, already with a smirk on our faces, and oh so predictably, we both then went to the other side. After this dance between strangers repeated twice, we both stopped, laughed out loud, wished each other a good day, and finally each continued walking.

In their predictabilty, or humanity, people can be lovely.

Bulgaria

It's just turned 2012, I've just come back home at god-knows-what o'clock in the morning, yet I feel compelled to share my night with you.

This is to those out there who believe that New Year's Eve is for getting drunk and you can't really have a nice time unless you do. I decided I was going to have the freedom of choice, as I had a few options for New Year's Eve parties lined up. I took the car and was the designated driver for the most part of the night. I had a lovely time with a groups of friends, and after two parties we ended up at 3.30 am at the Horoteka. This, to most of you, is an unfamiliar concept. Horó is a typical Bulgarian folklore dance, and there are, I learned, about 400 types of horó. The atmosphere was contagiously festive and upbeat, and despite only knowing one out of 400 dances, I had a lovely time. Never have I felt prouder to be Bulgarian, I think. Traditional Bulgarian music goes through your veins so quickly, you only have a second and then it's too late- you're captivated and you have to get up and dance. And dance, we did. I suddenly became so aware that Bulgaria has over a 1300 years of history, and that is the state of Bulgaria, nevermind the tribes which make up our nation, they go farther back than I know. Tradition, language, religion and music have survived through the 5 centuries of the Ottoman empire, and now someone has come up to come with the original idea of popularising our tradition, bringing us back to our roots. All of these small thoughts combined together and left me with a sense of pride of the history that our ancestors have given us.So, I danced. I danced as best as I could, what I would love to do, as soon as I get some sleep (I think I literally just made 24 hours of no sleep) is to check out some youtube videos of Bulgarian horó and learn more about it.

There you have it, modernity in the face of technology, and traditional horó meet, and they met tonight in a splendid splash of motion. I bet this is a better way to spend New Year's than having blurry vision in some stranger's flat.

Off to bed now. Have a lovely 2012!