A Goodbye That Really Counts

I have left a lot of places. I left Bulgaria for the U.S., I left the U.S. for Russia, and now I have to leave Russia for Bulgaria and the U.S. This is my hardest goodbye.



It is the night before my flight tomorrow afternoon—I am packing my luggage, listening to my “no title” music folder on iTunes and suppressing the lump in my throat. I get distracted and start going through my “Russia” pictures. Green picnics and careless walks in welcoming parks, orange, red and yellow seas of falling leafs, frozen lakes with sleeping ducks, unafraid of the snowflakes’ play. I go back to those same sceneries colored by the birds’ songs, the smell of freshly baked peanuts and the invigorating touch of the wind. And I cannot make myself leave this place.

All my other goodbyes were more or less easier. I used to prepare myself mentally for the next adventure and start making plans for my first food choices. But when my father called me 3 hours ago and asked me about my dinner preferences on Sunday, I just shrugged my shoulders and responded, “I don’t really care. Really.”

This goodbye is different because it might be my last goodbye to Pushkin’s motherland. Even if it isn’t, I will never again relive these same moments, that my 21-year-old naïve self experiences now. Naturally, this moment of realization holds true for every single place I visit. Although I leave a piece of my soul everywhere I go, I am now leaving most of it here, in the Soviet-time apartment buildings, in the shapeless Christmas light decorations, in the Neva river and in the hot borsht soup.

Good night, sunshine!

Since the age of eighteen, I have changed several housing situations. In Bulgaria, I lived with my family in a big apartment in Varna and often visited my grandparents in the countryside. In the U.S., I have lived in a dormitory in Massachusetts, shared a house with strangers in New York and had the fortune to stay in the fine apartment of a wonderful alumna. I have never, however, experienced such a complex living situation as the one I am enjoying now in St. Petersburg.

The study abroad program arranges it for all its students to live with host families during their stays in Russia. Home stay, you would think, is as old as the world and shouldn’t have surprised me at all. Well, probably that holds true for home stays in Paris, London or Vienna, but is definitely a new and all-engrossing experience here, in Russia.



My host mother, or so-called hazyaika, is in her 50s. She loves cooking, solving crossroads while sipping her favorite black tea and watching musical TV shows. She also loves putting on make-up, reading educational books and feeding the ducks with her 3-year-old grandson, Ilyosha. In short, she combines so many different nuances of Russian culture that simply knowing her is enough to become fully acquainted with Russia.

Nina Anatolievna prepares my breakfast and dinner, does my laundry, gives me advice about life and blesses me before I set off on a trip. She shows me the gifts she bought for Ilyosha, offers me a warmer scarf or rainproof shoes and tells me stories from her youth. She is a good cook, half-insomniac, very well educated and my personal bridge to smoothly cross from one culture to another or, better yet, from the outside world to my understanding of it.

I will be leaving Russia in a month and know exactly what I will miss most about it. I will miss going to the kitchen, telling my hazyaika, “Good Night,” and her responding softly, “Спокойной ночи, солнышко!”

Alice in the Wonderland needs space

After having lived in St. Petersburg for three months, I thought it just natural to turn around in a city and see tall apartment buildings and streets crawling with seemingly busy passers by. Certainly, I thought it natural to hear the sad engine roaring of past-their-time vehicles. My new comfort zone in Russia, however, had to be disturbed by the efficient organization I found in Helsinki.

I arrived in Helsinki last Tuesday at around 1 p.m. and it was already getting dark outside. It seemed to me that this gloomy weather and lazy drizzling never left my week vacation. Already sitting in the orange Finnish metro with my friend Nikolay, I was slowly getting disillusioned by the empty spaces and rural areas I saw through the window.


“I read in the newspaper that a week ago someone threatened the metro passengers with a bow and arrows,” Nikolay warned me. I thought about the guy who pulled out a gun from his plastic bag in the Russian metro in September.
“Yeah, that sounds crazy,” I said and kept staring at the hypnotizing orange of the metro doors and seats.

On the next morning I was ready for a more eventful day. I took the same orange metro line and decided to get off at a random stop nearby the city center. I had never felt more like Alice in the Wonderland before. I had entered some mini land where the streets were mini, and the buses were mini, and the buildings were mini, and the dogs were mini. This is when I decided I wouldn’t go to a restaurant in Helsinki to avoid being served a mini portion. Suddenly, I, who have always yearned to live in the open and see the sky, was getting suffocated by all this space. Against my will, this suffocating feeling prevented me from fully enjoying Helsinki’s modern trade centers, park monuments or cobblestone pavements. I couldn’t wait to return to St. Petersburg.

Today, the Petersburg metro was again packed with seemingly hurried strangers, wet from the snow outside. Nn the street I heard again this familiar and sad engine roar from a dark blue Skoda driving by.

Sob at the Movies

Movie theaters give me a great deal of privacy. Having been seated among friends only 10 minutes into the new Russian movie, “The Admiral,” I realized I could sob away during the dramatic scenes. The comfortable embrace of the darkness and the loudness of the special effects worked together to hide all visible and audible traces of tears.

The friend on my right in seat 25 told us that “The Admiral” was like the Russian “Titanic.” His words took me back in time to the premiere of “Titanic” in Varna. I distinctly remembered my strong concentration and persistent efforts not to cry. Drowning passengers, sinking hopes and the eternity of true love—none of that moved me. Clenching my jaws tightly and biting my lips, I looked at my mom sitting next to me. She was already wiping her tears and verbally attacking the villain, wishing for nothing else but Leonardo to kill him. My task had become harder but more challenging. How proud I would be if I could say that my mom wept at “Titanic” but I didn’t shed a tear! So, I held the tears in my eyelashes and reached for some popcorn to distract me.

I continued proving to myself the emotional stability that I lacked during various dramas, thrillers and even happy-ending romantic comedies. My movie partner would cry and I would just laugh, suppressing the flow of tears and the hurricane of emotions in my stomach.

It wasn’t too long ago when I realized I couldn’t help it anymore. When the saddest moment in the movie came and the music grew more dramatic and tenser with every second, the same well-known feeling started suffocating me and I gave in. Still hoping I could control it, I looked at my crying friend sitting on the beige leather sofa in our living room. Our eyes met, overflowing with tears, and we smiled. We smiled at our stupidity, our excessive sensitivity and at the realization that we had just shared and lived this moment to the fullest.

Why Russia?

As my study abroad trip to St. Petersburg approached, I started having doubts. Why Russia? I could have chosen the lazy sunshine of southern Italy or the exquisite fashion of modern France. Instead, I chose the temperamental nature of Russian people. A single walk in a Russian park gave me all the necessary reasons to justify my choice.

If I don’t get on a mini-bus (marshrutka) but decide to walk from the metro station to class at Smolny Institute, I have to pass through a green park called Tavricheskiy Sad. Despite the strong wind, my freezing fingers and running nose, this is the happiest moment in my day.

First, I see small blond babies and their young siblings play on the grass, hiding behind the wooden benches and running around the purple flowers. They are all bundled up in pink or light blue outfits like little stars with funny hats and big gloves. Their smiling blue eyes follow each movement of the pigeons and, at any given point, they are ready to reach out and touch the birds.

Then, come their babushki to fix their tilted scarves and explain again why little kids shouldn’t chase pigeons. The babushki talk a lot and use every possible diminutive form of the child’s name they can think of. Ilya becomes Ilyoshka, Alexander—Sashinka and Ivan—Vanyusha.

I continue further on into the park to see a gorgeous bride posing in her wedding gown for a professional photographer. On the other side of the unpaved path, the groom is holding hands with about 20 other wedding guests. They sing loudly, sipping champagne and getting ready for another picture together. The babushki, the children, the young and the old—they are all holding hands and singing. This is why I chose Russia.

Mhmmm to Pirojki

One of my favorite smells is that of salty sea water and hot sun on my skin. It is what completes the fun-loving beach time along with friends, volleyball and, of course, good food. Although my mother taught me that good beach food consists of fruit, crackers and water, I found myself leaning towards beach food that definitely consists of more calories.

Potato filled pirojki are something I discovered this weekend on Brighton Beach, New York City. They are freshly baked pies that can be filled with meat, jam, potatoes or cabbage. The pirojki would be perfect for any big meal of the day as well as any quick snack in between. When flavored according to my personal preferences, the potato filling would include pepper to bring a spicy taste and trigger your appetite even more.
In short, mhmmm to pirojki!

Go Vintage -- With Posters

Diving into the past is like no other sensation. Watching black and white movies, listening to vinyl records and wearing antique jewelry put a charming spell of curiosity on us. And we try to envelope ourselves in this sensation by collecting authentic porcelain vases, retro comic books or even vintage posters. If you are also enchanted by the idea of decorating your home with vintage posters, make sure to visit the Chisholm Larsson Gallery.


Located in Chelsea, the 30-year-old Gallery is the ultimate resource for original international vintage posters. It offers over 35,000 authentic advertising posters published since the 1890s. Hang on your walls artistically designed posters that reflect social realities, historical moments and entertainment legends like Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando. The poster selection includes over 15,000 classic movie posters from Italy, France, Swiss and Poland designed by artists such as Lenica, Ballester, Martinati and Bass. Inside, you can also find original liquor, travel, fashion and political posters written in different languages with long-forgotten slogans complemented by popular images. The Gallery is open Tuesday through Friday, 11 - 7 and Saturday 11 - 5. Chisholm Larsson Gallery is located at 148 8th Avenue and can be reached at (212) 741-1703.

The Sound of Words

I am an avid listener. Although I often don't exactly know what my conversation partner is saying and how she/he got there, I will be leaning forward with eyes fixed on the person talking. I will be following every tone change and word sound, and sigh.




The sound of words fascinates me. I realized that I had favorite terms because of the way they sound and not necessarily the message they convey. Yet, sometimes their melody and meaning seem to overlap. Two of my favorite words in English are soft and pure. But I am curious to learn what other people's favorite words are and why. Here is the beginning of this fun survey:

Rachel:
Favorite word in English: Bumblebee
Reason: It is fun to say.

Daniela:
Favorite words in English: voluptuous, expurgate
Reason: They sound sophisticated and are rarely used.

Karlene:
Favorite word in English: Onomatopoeia
Reason: I just like the sound of it.

Alex Trahan:
Favorite word in English: mop

Josh
Favorite word in English: Love

I was always dancing

Recently I found a poetry book, The World Split Open -- Theatre and Writings by Women in Prison, written by women in a Massachusetts jail. Below is the beginning of one of the featured poems, I was always dancing by Margaret Robinson:

She gave me a computer printout
of her life, typos
and misspellings marked in ink.
"I'll do anything for a man,"
she wrote. "Dad, Hell's Angels"
tattoos on her arms.
Thirty, looking thirteen in the face,
she tossed her long dark hair
and lit a cigarette.
"I'm always looking for love."

The Movie Night

Choosing a movie is never an easy task. One needs to consider so many factors: mood, weather condition, company preferences, food supplies and, of course, the activities before and after the film watching. It is almost impossible to choose the right movie at the right moment--especially with me.

Me and my friend, Crystal, like to watch movies in her pink, tidy and smelling-of-clean-linen room. We have a movie date at least once a month and we both anticipate the evening when we will sit on the soft round carpet on the floor in front of the TV and relax. The anticipation, however, is often sweeter than the film watching itself.



"Why? What happened now," Crystal would ask ten minutes into the movie.
"Sh-sh. Watch," I would respond with eyes focused on the screen.
Then, I really get into the movie and try to resolve the strange plot. Although not fully convinced, Crystal usually agrees with me in my resolution suggestions.
"Louis will now find the lighter in her handbag and realize what had happened," I exulted last night when we watched the French movie, "Apres Vous."
"Ohhh," responded Crystal in a contemplative manner. She was still having doubts about the plot development and considering other possible options.

But when I really, really get into the movie and become extremely amazed at the unexpected turn in the story line, I spontaneously reach for Crystal. And see that she has already fallen asleep.

More often than not, we will finish watching the movie with the same conclusion:
"This movie was weird."
"Yeah, right."

When Classes End

Last night after work, I went to the Campus Center to have dinner with a friend. The weather was slightly chilly and very refreshing. We grabbed food, sat on a table outside and enjoyed the sight.


It was the last day of classes and students, mostly seniors, were dancing to the upbeat tunes coming out of the stereo system operated by two DJs. Everyone was singing loudly, congratulating one another and filling the night with laughter. You were welcome to approach anyone and hug her as a spontaneous expression of happiness. You could even buy a medium-sized transparent cup of beer, if you had 21.

It felt so much like home—the open-air dancing to "Around the World" by Daft Punk, the beer drinking and the sudden inexplicable excitement that seized us. This was just a quick demo for the endless summer nights ahead of us.

One Place - Everything But The Girl

A summer evening; I walk past the window,
Baby's crying; Someone's cooking dinner;
There's laughter on the TV
Someone's learning the violin.
How at home, it heals
At times like this, I feel that...



I would like to live like anybody else
In one place
And I could be happy and fulfilled
In one place

So I get the map out
And draw a line of where we've been
It goes thru sea and sky
Twenty-five planes this year
And it's only July...
This is not some Bible, like on the road
It's just a song about coming home
And whether...

I would like to live like anybody else
In one place
And I could be happy and fulfilled
In one place

And you know that I have found
That I'm happiest weaving from town to town
And you know Bruce said
we should keep moving 'round
Maybe we all get too tied down, I don't know
Hell, I don't know
I'm happy to be home (Still alive)
Happy to be home...

In the end, if you take care
You can be happy or unhappy anywhere

And I think we maybe all rely too much
On one place
I know I never would deny the need
For one place

So I get the map out (get the map out)
Yeah I get the map out (get the map out)
C'mon, get the map out (get the map out)
Get the map out (get the map out)


source: http://www.lyricsdownload.com

Drifting Away

Spring break was over like a breathe of fresh air after entering the white elevator of an old library building. But my rambling thoughts are still bringing me back to the dear moments I spent with close friends from back home.
I left the college on Thursday evening after work and headed to New York with friends from school. Napping in the car and holding the hand of my best Brazilian friend, Amanda, I realized how much I have missed traveling. It was like something that I had subconsciously sought but hadn't pursued after Christmas break. Since I had embarked on most of my trips alone, I had completely forgotten how it felt to have a caring company sitting next to me and drinking from my apple juice box.

After we were dropped off at Grand Central, Amanda and I headed towards the closest Starbucks. Having faced a couple of unsuccessful attempts to find seats in a decent cafe, we decided to rest in front of the Museum at Bryant Park. At 9 p.m. with suitcases and backpacks on the ground and wind messing with our hair, we couldn't have felt any calmer. We just stayed there, not thinking about anything in particular and absorbing every sound and smell. The kind of feeling that you get from knowing that the world is breathing with you and it is okay to pause and enjoy its breathing.
Actually, we knew that what awaited us after this moment was going to be wonderful. Amanda was meeting her boyfriend from another state and I was meeting with friends from high school and my hometown, Varna. We looked at each other with smiling eyes, slowly picked up the bags and left the park.

Take a deep breath

I walked into the library hurriedly, took the stairs on the left and looked at the big clock in the reading room. It was 3:10 and I was late for work again. I continued skipping with a faster tempo and then it hit me. I felt the sweet fragrance of a familiar perfume.

I forgot that I was in a rush, late for work, or that I had to finish a comparative
essay by 5pm. I was frantically spinning in a circle to spot the source of this heavenly scent. Or rather - spinning in a circle in my mind to remember what this smell reminded me of. Was it the perfume glass bottle in light blue labels that I used the summer of 2005? No, I am sure it had a different fragrance. I used to be obsessed with it and applied it every time I went out at night.


My heart began racing in a whirlwind of emotions and memories. Was it the gentle odor of the fabric softener a friend from high school used? But I remember it so distinctly and I would have recognized it immediately! After all, we spent 5 years of high school together.

It is 3:15. Okay, okay - I think I got it. This reminds me of the air in the New York apartment I was staying at this January. Its mixed aroma of bath and beauty products, new furniture and coffee lingered quietly in all rooms. Nah, it wasn't that.

I looked at the clock again - 3:20.
"That's enough," I thought to myself and continued climbing a second staircase to get to my office. No, wait! Take a deep breath for the last time. The scent will be gone in a moment together with all those memories.

Roommate Affairs

I have been sharing my small college room with someone else for two years. We have been studying different subjects, believing in different religions and going to bed at different times. It has been wonderful.
Last year I was a confused freshman who had just arrived at "the US oldest higher education institution for women" for the international students' orientation. Overwhelmed by the amount of new information I had to absorb, I closed the door of my half-empty room, pulled down the white plastic window shades, and went to bed. A loud knock on the door woke me up on the next morning, and I met Danielle - a French-Canadian horseback-rider with bubbling interest in politics and mellow blue eyes. Danielle also turned out to be one of the most absent-minded, intelligent, funnest and messiest people I have ever met.

Danielle quickly filled every empty space of our room with decorative pillows, elephant necklaces, posters of Bob Marley, and books about urban legends and ghosts. My rooming experience with her exceeded my highest expectations. At the end of the year I had to collect from the room everything that Danielle forgot, decided to leave behind, or asked me to keep in summer storage including her gray fridge, full-size mirror, CDs, and jewelry. Danielle and I missed the deadline for forming a moving group to room together for the next academic year, so we left room 314 with nostalgia and headed towards a new dormitory.
Luckily, now we live in the same building but on different floors. Danielle has a sweet spacious apartment which she shares with a Republican rugby player. I got a small converted double on the third floor which I later ended up sharing with our mutual friend, May.
May doesn't only have a spring-like name. She carries a pretty spring-like spirit that makes her cuddle, act goofy and ask many questions. If you enter our room at any point you will probably adopt a look of confusion because of the mixed odors in this small space. The smell of powerful Tiger balm, green tea, natural hair products and all kinds of herbs are very common here because May loves Chinese medicine. It is yet to be seen what I will find in the room when the academic year is over. Somehow, I am not worried.

Musical Autobiography

I listen to a wide range of music genres including jazz, soul, folk, electronic and pop music. Different types of music carry a rainbow of emotions that I have learned to recognize. Jazz music evokes in me images of warm nights with its velvet saxophone sound. Sade introduced me to the gentle nature and spiritual world of soul music, and reinforced my love for the genre. Coming from Bulgaria to study abroad in the U.S., I developed a stronger connection to Bulgarian folk music not only because of its rich and beautiful songs, but also thanks to its cultural values. I use the term “electronic music” as an umbrella for techno, trance, ambient, and house music. Many eastern Europeans from my generation associate it with wild dance and total freedom. Along with all these genres, I have been raised listening to pop music due to world access to Western music channels like MTV and VH1. When I encounter a music style, to which I cannot relate, I know I lack the music background and criteria to help me appreciate it.

I have always wondered how I grew to love a band or a song that I initially found difficult to understand. My musical taste has been fundamentally changing over the years. I became open to more music genres and curious to explore unknown musical combinations. I think that the understanding of specific musics, just like literature or artwork, blossoms with one’s level of readiness to see the issues being discussed. When I was 12 years old I valued groups like Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys and N’Sync. Gradually, I opened my eyes for new favorite performers and developed a passion for exploring new music. Now I see that my musical preferences represent different periods of my life that can be characterized with peer influences, curiosity, melancholy, etc.

I know that my musical taste has been deeply influenced by my family’s musical preferences. My mother has always had love for Turkish music and belly dancing, and she was the person who introduced me to this music style. My grandparents insisted on my general education in Bulgarian folklore music, which they highly admire. Thanks to my father I became acquainted with contemporary Bulgarian pop songs. For most of my teenage years I was very resistant to all these musical influences because I wanted to be part of my school friend group that listened to popular Western tunes. Sharing the same family values and living space, however, subconsciously helped me to shape a rich musical taste.

Listening to a variety of music genres, I have noticed that the themes being addressed in them are very similar. One will always encounter songs devoted to the power of love, passion, loneliness, memories and beauty. Each performance is telling a story that allows me to be active in reinterpreting it. When I hear a song I can imagine the rhythm as approaching steps, the vocal as a tender whisper and the instruments as a background scenery. The issues discussed in the songs, however, can also differ depending on the audience. For example, an old Bulgarian folklore song can be about the sacredness of love during the Bulgarian slavery under the Ottoman Empire. In soul music I have often come across the idea of humble sorrow caused by poverty in the African-American community. Jazz music is mostly instrumental but its warm sounding and blues dancing can be again related to romance and love. Well-known pop music addresses issues like friendship, sex and happiness. Electronic music tends to challenge established authority and demonstrates independence and freedom. As a whole, I see many of the same themes repeat in various music genres because their purposes often overlap to offer people comfort, hope and thrills.

TriBeCa - the Place to Live in NY

I am probably one of the last people who should be allowed to express an opinion on best New York neighborhoods. I have spent two months of the summer and one month this winter in the city but I can proudly say that I am getting acquainted with it, and we are slowly becoming friends. Thanks to TriBeCa.
TriBeCa is located in lower Manhattan, close to Canal Street and Hudson River. Living there means easy and quick commute to any point of the city.The neighborhood offers plenty of supermarkets, clothing stores and fast food restaurants. All this is essential for living in NY but is not what attracted me to TriBeCa.








The Hudson River Park refreshing ambiance during the day and blissful sight at night impressed me the most. Walking around the park, you encounter green sceneries, old architecture and contemporary projects, and the bluest sky in New York. You look around and see people absorbed in all kinds of sport activities starting with aerobics and running to skateboarding and bicycling. A night there is as calm as the river's blurred darkness from the reflected lights of the skyscrapers in the distance. The apartment buildings are well-equipped with all necessary facilities, including doormen, fitness centers and laundry rooms. I can only encourage you to check out the neighborhood and see how it suits your needs.

Long Vs. Short Hair

Late Thursday evening I got out of the shower and started drying my warmed body with the pink towel I had brought from home. I stared at the mirror for a moment and then, with one quick movement, I cut my hair. It was time for a change.
Late Friday evening I took a trip to a Soho salon where a hairdresser was specializing in women's shortcuts. Although it was time for a change, it was time for a stylish change.

Leaving the "New York City's Salon For Womens Short Haircuts" Crops for Girls, I had never felt that liberated and open for the world. I couldn't stop smiling at the fancy billboards, populated streets and bright traffic lights. I couldn't stop touching my hair - it was really short in the back and a little bit longer in the front. And it is nothing like Victoria Beckham's style! My curls swiftly decided on different paths and the hairdo quickly resulted in a light-hearted chaos. How could I feel so free all of a sudden? Could simply getting your hair cut remove doubts and fear?
I have always loved my long, curly hair that gave me the look of a forest fairy. Now I loved the positive energy and playfulness this short messy hair stimulated in me. If each has its characteristics wouldn't then women with long hair have something in common, and those with short hair share something else? It felt like I had a new pair of eyes - clearer, observant and intoxicated with positiveness. Long Vs. Short - pick your style!

Mhmassage

There is one thing I can never refuse - a nice massage. I always feel the need for experienced strong fingers studying the nerve points of my body and satiating my thirst for relaxation. I believe I am good at giving massages and plan to eventually gain an official certificate in massage therapy. Until then, I will focus on my feet.

According to a website on natural healing we have 7, 200 nerve endings on each foot. They all correspond to different parts of the organism and by exercising pressure on them one influences these organs. That is why you should take care of your feet!

This is also what the foot market says. The foot health network, http://www.foot.com/, "provides information on foot pain, foot conditions, comfort and performance footwear, sports injuries and foot health for diabetes." Of course, this information would be useless without millions of foot products to bring you comfort and energy. In other words, you need to shop.

It is a very interactive website with a Foot Pain Identifier feature that shows feet graphics and allows online guests to "click where it hurts." The solution to the problem is not a surprise - it would be a product called Hammer Toe Splint, or Gel Toe Cap, or Dress Orthotics, or some other smart-sounding name.

Don't get me wrong: I have never tried the products and don't know how efficient they are. Something tells me, however, that hot sea salt water, nice warm socks and tender massage will take away the pain for free.

A Private Park? You must be joking!

My office is located at East 23rd Street in New York so I rarely think of my lunch time as a break. I walk out of the intimidating skyscraper and here I am again, surrounded by 20 even more intimidating skyscrapers. I need to make a fast decision where and what to eat, and calculate how much time I have left. Today, in the middle of that hassle, with a sandwich in my hand, I discovered an oasis.
The quiet park at Lexington Avenue looked like the perfect place for my lunch break. From across the street I saw a dark green fence, wooden benches, and jumping squirrels, enjoying the warm weather. "From now on I am having my lunch here," I thought to myself cheerfully. The strange thing was that I couldn't find its entrance. "Okay, there are people inside, so they must have entered somehow," I tried to unravel the mystery. Two of the doors that I reached were locked, and I continued circling around my quiet oasis. "Excuse me, where is the entrance to the park," I finally decided to ask a middle-aged man with grey hair and sunglasses, who was also looking at the park with a confused expression.
"This is it but it's locked. It is a private park - it belongs to the people who live here," he pointed to the buildings around. "Only they have keys for it. That's how it is today," he laughed.
I couldn't believe my ears. A private park?
"Now where am I going to have my lunch break," I asked myself and joined the other people sitting on the outside part of the dark green fence of the Lexington Avenue oasis.

Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights

I just finished watching Dirty Dancing Havana Nights and my imagination is still wandering around Cuba and coloring the curves of wild dance moves. The movie gave me a small dose of the rhythm that pushes the boundaries of the known world and screams to introduce you to the intoxicating power of pleasures. It definitely pushes the boundaries of my lonely Brooklyn room.

Dirty Dancing Havana Nights is one of the movies that people discouraged me to see. "The first part is classic but this one is just weak," they said. Nevertheless, I wanted to see it. The story line is more than familiar - the impossible attraction between a wealthy white girl and a poor Hispanic boy during the revolution. To be honest, I didn't pay much attention to the action. What I like about the movie are the vivid images of the Cuban life, its music and the spell that dance brings. My eyes always seek the same scene: how the light curtains of a colorfully painted house spread, gently touched by the wind, to show the calm green hues of palms. And under the palms tanned middle-aged people smile widely with their well-ordered teeth and dark olive eyes. Then you slowly step out of the wall-sized window to join the people and absorb their happiness, inspiration and sunlight.

Although you may not like Dirty Dancing Havana Nights' storyline and the way it is served, I still encourage you to see the movie. Because it can trigger hidden scenes in your mind waiting to be released to push the boundaries of your lonely room.

Moving Out, Moving In

My eyes slowly investigated the old two-storey house at 747 Crown Heights, NY. This is where I am going to live for the next two weeks. I don't know the roommates, I don't know the neighborhood, I don't know what I am going to do.
"Think of it as an adventure," I tell myself.
I step in and try to unlock the door. Failure. I think the woman, who is renting me the room and who left for Argentina, lied to me and gave me the wrong key. It makes sense - I already paid her. The door is finally unlocked and I sigh with relief.
"I wonder what's next," I tell myself.
What's next is the absurdity of the room, in which I am going to live. I know I saw it before but somehow it looked different. Or at that time I had convinced myself that the cheap price and the short time period justified the living conditions.
"Well, it doesn't matter any more, does it," I tell myself.
Then, I try to drag my bright red suitcase Grand in the room but there is not enough space.
The room is with the size of a Camel cigarette box just without its soothing beige nuances. I laugh - it is like a funny sit-com scene.
"This could only happen in a movie," I tell myself.
There is a bunk bed, a shelf heavily packed with big Economics textbooks, and more books, and more books - all staring at me threateningly to remind me I know nothing about economics. I don't even need to turn around to see the other part of the room - it is a desk with an ancient Visual Sensations desktop and a closet behind it. The only way you can sit in front of the computer is to push your chair a bit into the closet. When someone enters the room (and the carpet doesn't get stuck at the process) he/she will see your arms, and feet, and maybe your nose. But half of your body will be actually in the closet. So this is how I blog right now.
"Two weeks," I tell myself. "Just two weeks"

America's Next Top Exploitation

Putting my hand on my heart I say that I despise reality shows. Ridiculous is the least I could call them. But they are an excellent combination of strong marketing tools, cheap production and pop culture promotion. You have probably recognized some of that behind the immaculate styles of Tyra Banks, Tyson Beckford, Paula Abdul and whoever else you want. No matter how extensively I would like to talk about all that, I should stick to my theme: travel. America's Next Top Model is definitely corrupting my idea of travel.
This evening I was sitting in front of the TV with my two Chinese friends, who decided to take advantage and catch up on the show while VH1 was running an inexhaustible marathon for a couple of days now. As every girl, I immediately chose a favourite but changed my mind at least three times after the beginning of the episode. I also thought it was interesting and new to see that the models were in Thailand. Needless to say, I changed my mind about that, too.
The judges assigned the catwalkers a challenge to learn a Thai dance in one day, and reinterpret the art in front of audience. You can never have an exact idea of how long this process took but, judging from what I saw, it was not more than 4-5 hours. During this short episode, the emphasis was again on the models - their thoughts, personalities and arguments.
"Hey, you are introducing a new culture here! To thousands of young viewers," I wanted to shout out. They could have as well stayed in New York or Los Angeles and hired a Thai choreographer, couldn't they? Yet, they needed the authenticity of the environment and the exotic images your imagination can bring to life. The fashion icons conquer the elegant moves without knowing much about their history and meaning. So, are you familiarizing audiences with Thai culture, or are you presenting them with a distorted and limited perspective of the country's appeal? I think the answer is clear.

So Began My Obsession with Travel

Travel for me used to mean only and entirely fun. I am glad to say that this word does not any more evoke in me images of luxurious hotels, Malibu cocktails and spa centers, decorated with Japanese symbols. It is more of an abstract term - I think of travel as the storm shaking the foundations of my fragile mindset.
And so I like to embark on travel adventures. I like to get on the cheap Chinese bus lines, take pictures of sleeping strangers in the subway, visit friends in new places and return to the secure feeling of my home. I also like to walk the lonely streets without fear of getting lost, to drag my red suitcase around small airports and stare at the unknown distance challengingly. My obsession with travel has expanded to the online world where I like to spend half a day following links, one after the other, to websites with fresh ideas and original design.
I hope that my young vision for travel will be enjoyable to you with discussions of hundreds of real and cyber spaces.

The Child of Eastern Europe

I like to think of myself as the child of Eastern Europe. This thought would not have occurred to me if I hadn't come to the US. After all, my home country, Bulgaria, is the only place in Eastern Europe where I have been. Since my arrival in Western Massachusetts, however, I have never felt so close to the eastern European culture.
Now stored in my mind are the vivid images of techno music, ancient architecture, charming accents, cheap hostels and sophisticated fashion. Almost everyone who left that part of the world has the same images stored in her mind. Something more - these moments are not just silently existing in our subconscious worlds, but they grow and like to laugh provocatively in the face of every present encounter.

Leaving Eastern Europe's quirky appeal, I entered the serious world. And I developed the pleasant distraction, from time to time, to again escape into this expanding mind storage of mine. Have you noticed how your imagination starts playing tricks on you by creating new details to dear past experiences you like to go back to? That is exactly what happened to me - my fantasy still loves to add reminiscent smells, theme music and new conversations to scenes that have already taken place. It is quite amusing when towards the end of the flashback, I start asking myself if this really happened.