Bulgarian Daze

I am leaving for a couple of days to go visit a friend in Pazardzhik. It is about two hours away from here by train. She is a teacher so I will spend some time in her school and then just seeing yet another Bulagarian town. Poor Mark. he’ll be so lonely. He’ll have to do all the dog walking and food preparations on his own. I wonder how he will manage???

To keep you entertained while I am gone, I give you these random photos:

These are Mark’s new shoes. European size 43. He feels like he fits in a little better with such Euro-style shoes. Now, if he could just learn a little more of the language!

This is our Monopoly game. Except that it’s a British Monopoly game, so instead of Boardwalk, they have Mayfair Park, or something odd like that. And the money is always in pounds. Mark always beats me because he buys up all the cheap land and puts houses and hotels on them. Then he just sits back and watches me lose all my money. But not this time! I finally beat him. The second picture shows all my winnings. He had NOTHING left. Heh!

We found a way to order takeout…in ENGLISH. Woooohoooooo!!! And so we did. We had Indian food…nan, dal, vegetables, chicken curry. Delicious. The food here is fresh, but not so spicy. So the Indian flavor was a nice change.

You can see Mark really enjoyed it!

Well, I’ll be back in a few days, probably with another batch of pictures. until then….beeeehave!

In my ongoing effort to somehow participate in some Olympic Games somewhere, I decided to take up ice skating. Ok, well, I didn’t really “take it up”. I was invited to a good old-fashioned ice skating party in an old hockey rink. And….as you might expect for this part of the world, the roof was all leaky and all the rain dropped in on our heads and left puddles on the ice (which you would think would freeze quickly on ice, wouldn’t you???). The entrance smelled like the worst locker room I could ever imagine, what with all the old sweaty ice skates for rent. And so I took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and headed off to chase my newest dream.

The skates I rented only come in European sizes. Which is a problem. I don’t know my exact European size, though I do know the range. I asked for a size 39, but they didn’t have any. I used my excellent Bulgarian vocabulary to ask for a size 38 instead, which I then tried to squeeze my feet into. Being new o the sport, I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to feel like my feet were being bound Chinese-style, or if that was just the normal fit for ice skates. Not wanting to have yet another foot surgery, I once again, stuntingly communicated to the guy that now I needed a 40. And so he gave me big man hockey skates. But they were comfortable. So I guess my feet are now man-sized.

I started out careful, of course. My traveler’s insurance was due to expire at midnight that night, so I didn’t think now would be a good time to test out its effectiveness by rushing into a tripe axle jump. No, no. Instead I held on to the side wall with a grip so tight that the wood splintered and stuck in my palm. I made my way around the rink several times using this method.

But then I got brave. I would let go of the wall for like 5 steps at a time. Before I knew it, I was skating whole laps without ever touching the side. Well…now that I was a professional, I decided it was time to begin my spins. That’s right…I spun, as in, going in a circle. And I was successful! Nothing could stop me now. I could just envision myself in a short ice skating skirt twirling around the rink, flipping and triple toe-looping all over the place. And so I did what all the pros do. I made my way to the center of the rink. Where all those poor souls hanging on for dear life around the sidewalls could witness my transformation–my transformation from gangly schoolteacher to swan-like Michelle Kwan.

I did a few spins with ease. I even put my hands in the air and waited to spin with lightning speed like I’ve seen the skaters do on T.V. Lightning speed never came. So I figured I should throw my own twist into the deal. I spun around and then lifted on to my toes the way Michael Jackson does in his “Billie Jean” video. You know, the one where he wears the shiny, white-silvery socks and the infamoous glove? Yeah, only I didn’t have the glove on.

So when I fell flat on my you-know-what, my un-gloved hand struck the freezing ice with extreme force, leaving it bruised and a bit scraped up. Once I stopped coughing trying to catch my breath, I realized that it’s a good thing I was showing off my skills right in the middle of the rink so the entire party of about 100 people I hardly knew could watch the whole spectacle, laugh and point at me. I felt awesome.

I guess this sport may not be my ticket into the Olympics. And since I’ve been too lazy to swim, that’s not looking so promising either. Maybe I should begin the movement to include Sudoku-solving in the Olympics…

So…there isn’t much to do here in the winter, except stare out the window and curse the neverending rain, or to persuade it to turn into snow. Although, at the present moment, it is refusing to freeze itself into powdery snowflakes, and so I continue to curse it.

I have found some diversion, though. Besides reading…A LOT, and sudokuing….A LOT, I have found the gym and the pool in town.

The gym offers an excellent Pilates class, though I beg to differ with the title. It’s more like a little bit of stretching, a whole bunch of situps and some plyometrics-type exercises, all to the tune of aerobics-style music. Nonetheless, I do like the class. Also, the pool is indoors and quite nice. Not to chlorine-y and long lanes. Mark and I have been trying to go twice a week.

Despite all these fun-filled activities, I find it hard to get motivated to leave the house on a cold, rainy morning to tromp through puddles that would drown the hound just to get into more water…a pool. I did well last week, but this week was not so successful. I know what you’re thinking–how can I fulfill my Olympic dreams of becoming Michael Phelps if I’m too lazy to even walk the kilometer to the pool?

Next week. Next week will be better. I vow to improve my workout schedule. I will just keep my eye on the prize–a shiny gold medal around my neck–and strap on my wetsuit boots and swim walk through the flooded streets. Until then…I will continue to obsess over placing the numbers 1 through 9 iinto grids, all in the comfort of my heated flat.

Because it says that the current condition is 12 degrees Celsius and Partly Cloudy with winds at 6 km/hr.  Lies.  All lies.  It’s more like 8 degrees Celsius with huge wind gusts that turn the temperature into something more like 0 or minus something and make it sound like our entire apartment building will topple over any minute.  Oh, and it’s pouring down rain.  I guess when they said “partly cloudy” they meant “all the way cloudy” with water dropping down.  Oops, a simple mistake, I presume.

But all is not bad.  The snowstorm in heading our way.  It is currently hanging out in Western Europe and then it will come here for a visit.  The next 5 days should be full of rain and snow.  Which makes Mark giddy.  He envisions himself leaping from powdery mountaintops.  I envision myself cautiously sliding down plateau-like hills.  Either way, we are hoping to use those skis soon!!!

But for now, the hound and I are opting to stay inside and huddle near the radiator while we watch movies.  We know we should be studying Bulgarian.  And we will.  In just a few hours.  But first, he (the hound) has chosen a nice selection of “chick flicks” as Mark likes to call them, and he (the hound) is tapping on my shoulder to start one immediately.

Ahhh it’s a dog’s retiree’s life.

We experienced a major communications breakthrough on Sunday evening–the video teleconference using Sky.pe. Mark and I were able to successfully watch and talk to my brother, his wife and almost-two year old son at the same time. It’s almost as good as being at home. Almost.

They showed me their Starbucks cups and explained in detail what they had in there.   Non-fat Chai tea latte with two Splen.das and a non-fat, no sugar vanilla latte.  I remember so well.  Obviously there is nothing even close to Starbucks here…only thick, black Turkish-like coffee or Nescafe. Blech. We showed them our flat and what we had in our refrigerator, the highlight being the salsa we brought from home. Then they panned the camera to my nephew who was lounging on the couch watching his Einstein movie with the dog sleeping next to him. Really, all he needed was a remote control and a beverage and he would have been the exact replica of my brother…and my other brother…and my husband…and well, me. Okay. I said it. And me.

So, all you family and friends, if you’re feeling up to it, take on the challenge of the video teleconference. Besides actually seeing who you are talking to, you can pretend you are a movie star on the camera. Or just put your nostril up to it real close like Mark does.

Well…I thought this was the title of that 70s song Mark is always humming around the flat with his hair peaked in front, shirt half buttoned, and gold chains dangling, but he insists it’s actually called “Working on my Night Moves” and deals with some guy’s awkward teenage blues. And that doesn’t work with my theme today, so let’s just pretend that the song says “Night Train” (although why some guy would write a whole song about working on the night train IS a bit odd…funny I thought that. I guess I will add it to my Embarrassing-I-Fake-Knowing-The-Song-Lyrics repertoire, which would include when I thought Prince’s song “I Would Die For You” said “Apple Dapple Doo”. Yeah. Mark corrected me on that one, too. Poor guy, I must embarrass him so often with my self-assured singing.)

But I digress. Onwards.

In case you hadn’t yet guessed, we rode a night train. Remember that exciting trip to Zavet, the microscopic Bulgarian village? Well, the only way to get back to Sofia is either to take a two-hour tour and get lost for any given number of years on a not-so-deserted island with the Professor and MaryAnn six hour bus ride that left at 2:30 in the morning, or to take a night train. Not fond of standing on deserted dirt roads awaiting a bus in the wee hours of the morning, we opted for the train…with the sleeping car…and a bed.

The train pulled into Isperih for its full 60 second stop at 10:30pm. All 15 people waiting for it seemed determined to be first on. Let’s just say elbows were flying and old people risked their very lives. Once on (though it’s possible some people were hanging on the outside James Bond style), we waited at the sleeping car for the most chaotic travel upgrade of my life. People pushed us aside and our party of three got separated. We all wanted to share just one cabin, since there are three beds and three people. (Using my mad math skills again!)

But alas, that was not to be. Apparently, boys sleep in boy cabins and girls sleep in girl cabins, a la Sixth Grade Camp. This arrangement was not so inconvenient for me, since our third travelling companion–let’s call her Person X, or P.X. for short–is a girl. We found our cabin, made up our Brady-esque bunk beds, put on our PJs, and crawled in.

(This is a sleeping cabin)

I promptly put on my iPod and started reading my book. P.X. headed for the bathroom. Mark sent me a text message on my cell phone that said simply:

My guy smells. Like dirty feet. Yuck.

Which simply proves my theory that girls are cleaner and more orderly than boys, because our roommate was not only fragrant, but quiet as well. And I know there was some mean snoring going on in Camp Boy Cabin. I sent him a response commiserating with his circumstances, and continued reading my book. For a while. I had a vague notion that P.X. had been gone a while, but figured there was probably a line of people dying to use the loo on a train.

I guess not. Apparently P.X. got locked in the bathroom. Like locked, locked in…as in no opening the door or yelling to get out, locked in. There was actually a fourth guy travelling with us, the guy at whose house we stayed, but he was in the main compartment, as he was only going two hours away. Luckily, P.X. just happened to have her cell phone on her and texted him that she was locked in and could he please, please, please tell someone to let her out. Surely the vision of spending the entire night in the train bathroom with the tracks running by underneath you at slightly-less-than-lightning speed (or in the case of Bulgarian trains, at donkey trotting speeds) was less than appealing. A worker finally rescued her using a pair of pliers. So MacGuyver.
It must have been horrifying. Because there I was bopping to my Frida Soundtrack reading a book about Africa in the early 1900s, when in burst P.X. with tears on her face. Perhaps I am missing a sympathetic gene, but when she told me, I laughed and laughed out loud. I mean, really…could you imagine sleeping in a train bathroom? And what if nobody knew you were there for days and days? Man, I guess that would be, shall we say, less than funny.

Eventually we turned out the lights and hoped for a good night’s sleep. Which kind of happened and kind of didn’t. I DID sleep, but I kept waking up every time the train stopped, thinking we were home and I had better hurry and get on my clothes before we take off for somehwere else, like Macedonia or Serbia. I learned in the morning that the guy who’s “working on the night train” actually knocks on your door and warns you when you have 20 minutes left. Just saying, it would have been nice if they had told me that before!

And so we made it back. And except for Mark’s odiferous experience, we decided the night train isn’t so bad. Good thing, too. Because we can get to Istanbul, Turkey for like 40 leva, or $30. And just as soon as we’re legal, we intend on doing just that!

Since most of you had yesterday off to celebrate/memorialize Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his role in the Civil Rights Movement, I thought I would do a serious post (gasp!) on the race relations here in Bulgaria. In living here, where there is almost no desire to integrate the “minority” population, I have a much deeper understanding of the revolutionary message MLK spread. I say “minority” loosely because (a) that is not my favorite word, as minority implies minor, or less important, and (b) because, similar to California, the groups that once were considered minorities will soon be majorites here.

There are three main ethnic groups here: the Bulgarians, the Turks, and people of Roma descent, or as you know them, gypsies. Most of the Bulgarians are exactly how you would picture a person of Eastern Europe descent—white, with pale skin. As it was explained to me, the Turks are a bit darker, and the Roma have very olive skin and dark eyes. Although I still question how they know who is who just by looking at them. I mean, what if a dark-haired Bulgarian got a really great tan…would s/he be mistaken for a Roma??? They insist that they can tell the difference just by looking at them.

The Roma have long had a history of being a nomadic people who really don’t nationalize themselves into one country. They are spread throughout Eastern Europe. Their situation is a sad one, indeed. In general they are poor and live in ghettoes with no running water or electricity. Their toilets are, quite literally, a hole in the ground. They still push carts and ride on donkeys or horses. The crime rate in their neighborhoods (mehala) is high and Bulgarians themselves rarely enter them. In fact, even the Peace Corps volunteers I have met will not enter them. (Yeah, I know, perhaps they forgot the word “peace”). For centuries, the Bulgarians have mistrusted the Roma and the Roma do not trust the Bulgarians. Bulgarians often refer to them as “tzigane” which is the equivalent to the “N” word in English, though usually they do not know/understand this term is derogatory. For that matter, the word gypsy is also sometimes thought not to be the nicest word to use. The politically correct word is Roma. Likewise, the Roma do commit a lot of petty theft-like crimes and have organized bands of gangs. They take the metal off national monuments and sell it off. They have little interest in assimilating with the rest of the population.

The Turks and the Bulgarians have a similar relationship. The Turks ruled Bulgaria during the Ottoman Empire for 500 years. During that time, the Turks (supposedly) kidnapped Bulgarian children and used them to serve in the military. They were overthrown over a century ago, but you would think it all happened yesterday. There is such a great divide and disdain between the two ethnicities. Like the Roma, the Turks are also often very poor.

Not to sound like all these groups exist in a vacuum. Like the U.S, there is a mixture. The Roma often identify themselves as Roma and Turkish, or Roma and Bulgarian. Regardless, the basic rule of thumb here is not to trust dark-skinned people. Period. They are not accepted into mainstream society. And this is not a secret. It is openly discussed and people will even justify their reasoning, saying things like “they are dirty, they smell, they steal, etc.” I once had someone tell me, “even the dogs here don’t trust gypsies. They bark at them and attack them”. Even when I have asked simple questions like “well, what if they take a bath? Would they still be dirty?”, the response is usually yes, that it’s more than a bath, it’s a whole lifestyle, or just who they are, or something along these lines.

In saying all this, I must also include the fact that many Bulgarians I have encountered realize this racism is a growing problem here. The Roma are having many children and the average Bulgarian family has only one. Many people here realize that this way of thinking is outdated and that, at some point, they must integrate the societies in order to keep the country fully functioning. And because they live together. Oh yeah, and because it’s just not right.

While it is shocking to me to see such overt displays of racism, I have to remember that I live just one generation removed from when this was also a way of life all over the U.S. Again, not to say that racism and inequality don’t still exist in America. But you must admit, in the last 40 years, we have made great strides. And I can truly appreciate our progress when I am living here, in a country that hasn’t even begun the struggle, that doesn’t have any MLKs or Malcolm Xs pushing people to re-think their cultural norms.

Perhaps Bulgaria made its first statement, albeit a whisper, when they soundly defeated the bid for the presidency from the Ataka party, a party whose platform relied on the idea of ridding the entire country of all Turks, all Roma, all foreigners, hearkening back to Hitler’s message. For many people of my generation, there was disbelief that Ataka even made it as far as they did—to the top two candidates. Maybe that will be the first eye-opener to spark some change. The realization that there needs to be change. And that it won’t ever be made by just whispering that things are unfair, being afraid to say it out loud for fear of what others may think of you. They need a MLK here, someone who was brave enough to shout the message out even though it cost him his life. Because really, without him (and others), the U.S. might still be today where Bulgaria is, without even a conscience that this segregation is wrong and hurtful, and ultimately leading to even more problems.

So, yes, we still have problems in America, and as a very non-Republican, I am always quick to find those. But being here, and seeing a country that is striving to develop their democracy, I can see how much we have done right back home. At least we know about the issue, and we discuss it, and we teach our students about how things once were, so they know not to repeat it, not to “judge others by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”. Because without MLK and the whole Civil Rights Movement, we’d be….well…right where I am today.

Oh, those pesky Chargers! They wait until the season we are gone to have one of the best seasons EVER and go to the playoffs. As you can imagine, American football…not so popular over here. Actually, not even hardly known over here. So when we want to watch a game, we usually have to wait until about 2:00 in the morning and then head over to Mark’s friend’s house who bought the season through some internet service. He gets it on his computer and then hooks his computer up to the T.V. Except for postseason games–those were not included (I know, we are confused, too. Why show the whole season and not how it ends???)

Turns out, after only five months of being around this city, we finally learned that there is an Irish pub in town that plays all the American sports and all the “ex-pats”, as we are called, frequent it. While I was bundling up to head over there, I just happened to find a knit cap with the Chargers logo on it that we brought over. So festive I am. We headed over to Murphy’s–hard to miss with the giant Irish flag hanging outside!–to watch first the Bears game and then the Chargers game.

Since the Chargers game didn’t begin until after 11:00 over here, we were at good ol’ Murphy’s until well after 3:00am.  On a Monday morning.  Ideal for starting the work week, really…
And for what?

For them to lose, that’s what! Have they no appreciation of our dedication to trudge through post-Communist Eastern bloc in icy 25 degree weather just to see them?

So, yeah, we’ll most assuredly be at Murphy’s all the remaining Sunday nights/Monday mornings until that most holy of all American holidays–the Superbowl.

…for me to tell the story of our travels here. Although, seeing as how we are still deeply and legally embroiled in the visa disaster of 2006/2007, I will not be discussing that aspect. After all, this is a publicly viewed site and there are some things better left unsaid until they get “dealt with”.

Our original flight back to Sofia was scheduled for December 6th. Of course, we were notified that our visas were denied after I had cancelled the flight home, leaving us an open ticket. So, on December 7th, I called that famed airline (you know who it is….) and attempted to schedule a flight home. I asked for the following week which would allow us time to drive up to L.A. and collect the all-important passports. The ticketing agent comes back on the line:

“Good news! I can get you on the Friday flight”, she tells me.

“Perfect”, I respond.

Ummmmm…..might have been helpful if when she said “the Friday flight”, she alluded to the fact that she meant Friday, as in TOMORROW. Then we could have clearly explained that would not work since we had no passports and unless the laws had changed and we could travel the world free as birds with no documents, we would never be able to make that flight. But she never mentioned the word TOMORROW, and I carried on as if it were the following Friday.

The following Monday, I called in to get my eTicket confirmation. And this is where it got nasty. N.A.S.T.Y. I learned I had missed the flight I never knew I had. When I politely explained this to the lady, she assured me that was my own fault. “Mmmmm, I think I will be needing to talk to your supervisor”, I told her.

Well, that was a mistake. Apparently, the supervisors are simply robots trained to repeat the party line. And while I usually change the names here on this blog to protect the innocent, this lady is not innocent, though I will change her name to prevent any lawsuits. Francis, you know who you are! You work out of the Chicago Uni.ted Ticketing Office and you are EVIL! Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: There has been some mistake with my flights. I understood the ticketing agent had booked me on Friday the 15th flight and now I have just learned that it was Friday the 8th, which I have clearly missed and never would have agreed to given that I didn’t have my passport in my possession.

EvilFrancis: Well, that is odd. Our ticketing agents never make such a mistake. Let me see if there is another flight we can book you on. (Meanwhile I’m thinking…never is a strong word, isn’t it? I mean, you’re basically implying that your peeps are perfect, and I won’t go into the blasphemous nature of such a thought. As a matter of fact, I will keep all thoughts to myself as long as we are resolving this issue.)

EvilFrancis: Well there is no way I can get you back to Sofia for the same fare before January 16th, unless you want to pay the difference in fares, which is upwards of $1000.

Me: Francis, this is a mistake that your company has made, whether you believe it or not. It is your obligation to right this wrong. It makes no sense that I would purposefully miss my flight and then not call for a refund or exchange for 3 days. You need to find me a flight home before a month from now.

EvilFrancis: That is just not possible.

Me: Francis, look for a flight here. I spend a lot of money flying with your company and you need to find me a flight back.

Tip tap tip tap on her computer.

EvilFrancis: There is one that blah blah blah has a million connections blah blah blah and will get you there on December 18th.

Me: Okay, book my husband and I on that one.

EvilFrancis: Your husband? You should have told me long before now that there were two of you. You have just wasted all my time. There is only room for one seat on that flight.

Me: Francis, I was transferred to you and you were given all my information. It is not my fault that either you cannot look at the information or your people cannot properly inform you that the reservation is for two of us. And I couldn’t resist adding: So I guess your agents make mistakes after all.

EvilFrancis: Well, it is your responsibility to make sure I know there are two of you.

Me: I am not going to argue anymore with you. The information was in front of you and stop blaming me for your mistakes.

EvilFrancis: Well, if there are two of you, there is no way I can find you a flight until January. You shouldn’t have missed your original flight.

Me: (steam coming out from my ears, a virtual coronary waiting to happen) What is your name? Which office do you work in? I just want to make sure I have all your information for when I file a formal complaint with your company. Bye.

I then proceeded to call back approximately 6 more times, all talking to different agents, all who refused to help. Mark even started to call in, too. He got “Jake” from India. Jake had a hard time admitting he was from India. “Jake” had an even harder time admitting his company is not even Uni.ted Air.lines, that it was a call center that was outsourced by them. Ahhhhhhh. Now we understand. We can’t get any help because these people just.don’t.care. They referred us to Customer Relations, which, by the way, was currently closed. We could try them in the morning.

And so I did. I called “Dave” in India. It took me 45 minutes to get through to him, he took all the information several times, put me on hold, then said he can’t help me because they only deal with flights and problems that are over, not ongoing. But he was kind enough to give me a ridiculously long confirmation number to reference the conversation. Still unclear how that WILL GET ME HOME!!!!

Then we headed up to L.A. to get said passports. While Mark was inside dealing with the Mullet, I decided to call the airlines again. This time, someone finally helped me. They found us a flight on Saturday the 16th for no extra charge. I thought everything was solved….

Until we got to the airport on Saturday morning, bright and early, only to find out that I could not fly because Uni.ted, in all their genius glory, had changed my name on the reservation to my married name. My passport is in my maiden name. I always put my reservation and ticket in my maiden name. But they changed it.

Which made me a terrorist.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand the reason behind the rule. Clearly, you don’t want people traveling when you are unsure even of what their name is. But…what do we do when it is the airline messing up? You know, their infallible agents who would “never” make such a mistake??

The guy behind the counter, Alex, first started yelling at me that I should have my passport amended to prevent this from happening, blah blah blah. About the last thing I need at 5am after weeks of drama is to hear another Uni.ted agent lecturing me. And so this is what I told Alex.

“Dude. I understand what you are saying. But once again this is not my mistake and you yelling at me right now about something I cannot currently fix is not helping this situation. Right now I hate your whole entire company”. And I stuck out my tongue and put my fingers in my ears. Ok, not really. But I did produce all the paperwork that happened to prove my innocence, because this is what dealing with this company had denigrated into—my need to prove my innocence, as if I were on trial. I showed him how all the reservations I made were in my maiden name and that the only way it could have gotten changed was by one of their people. He agreed. HA! SO THERE!

Then he began the process of calling his own company to get it changed back. And believe me, if we hadn’t had a flight to catch, I truly would have enjoyed the sweet, sweet justice of watching a Uni.ted employee deal with the bloody mess that is their own company. Because good old Alex spent 2 hours (2 whole hours) getting passed around from person to person trying to resolve their mistake. Oh, did I mention that there was a yapping dog in the back the whole, entire time? Don’t those dog owners know to give their hound Benadryl before a flight to calm them…that’s what we do! Yeah, so Alex was about to have a hissy fit, especially when we were down to T minus 30 minutes until the flight left. I will admit to “having a tear next to my eyeball”, as my English pupil here says.

And then it finally got resolved. With less than 15 minutes to spare, and Alex yelling at us to run, RUN! to Security in hopes that we would make it. Which we barely did. We were the last ones on the plane.

The rest of the journey was pretty hum-drum until we got to Frankfurt, where I realized (thanks to my friend Dr. Google), that we really could be deported. Apparently, the laws had changed during our stay here. And so I panicked. Sweat, high heart rate, chills, fidgeting, etc. But what could we do? Stay in Frankfurt until we begged enough money a la Amazing Race style to get home?

No. So, I took a deep breath, boarded the plane and said a lot of Hail Marys until we got into the airport, where I said even more Hail Marys and threw in a few Our Fathers for good measure, until we passed Passport Control. And there I sat, waiting for our bags. Time ticked. And ticked. And ticked. And still they did not come. Two hours later, two out of four of them showed up. One of the missing bags had a computer in it. Dejected and exhausted, I headed back to the flat with Mark’s partner and left Mark in the airport to deal with the lost bags. He waited in a looooooong line of other passengers who had lost their bags—seems to be a common occurence here—and filed a report. Then he came home.

And that’s when the worms invaded the tub.

But…all’s well that ends well, as they say. We got the bags delivered to us the next day. And Hallelujah!!! The computer was there. Phew!!! And so ends yet another, near disastrous journey with the Gershwin-playing, unfriendly, accusatory Uni.ted Air.lines. No wonder they are near bankruptcy.

**I know many of you are wondering why I put the period in Uni.ted. It’s because it prevents some of the Google searches that bring freak shows to my site.**

Can you figure out the problem here?

Hey, while you’re here, looking around, check out the photo gallery. I added a few new albums. Also I changed some of the links on the side. Look around. Stay a while….