Bulgarian Hospitality

June 21, 2007

I remember Boshidar. A short, stout man, rather non-descript, with the work ethic of a master mason and the heart of a silent suffering saint. His accent was so thick I could barely understand him. Not having yet traveled or learned the frustration of new languages and cultures, I despair to think how impatient I was with his efforts to communicate. I knew he was from Bulgaria, wherever that was. Fifteen years ago if you had narrowed the map down to Eastern Europe alone, I still couldn’t have pointed to Bulgaria.

Boshidar worked for my mother’s photographic lab and was one of the most dedicated, devoted employees she ever had. He had a cat named Rocky who he adored; actually adored isn’t a strong enough word. He lived for Rocky. I remember him telling me how Rocky would kick him out of the bed at night. A cat. Kicking a fifty year hold, stocky man out of bed. Imagine. We used to laugh about how Rocky ruled the house, never really thinking about the man who had no one else with whom to share his overflowing love and generosity.

He loved soccer perhaps almost as much as he loved Rocky. He saved his money for years to go to the World Cup. He had to buy a suitcase to carry back all the souvenirs he brought for the other employees of the lab. He even brought a soccer jersey for me and one for my son, just four years old at the time. I can’t imagine how much money he spent on all the gifts he brought. The lab was decked in World Cup paraphernalia for years to come.

Boshi, as we used to call him, died a few years ago. He had no one in America; no one but Rocky. One of his co-workers, concerned when Boshi did not show up for work, found him dead in his own bed with Rocky watching over him next to him. It was my mother who saw to his funeral arrangements. We never knew his story, what he had suffered or why he had come to America. He never talked about his past. Despite the fact he was always kind and smiling, he seemed to have no life, no friends outside the job he devoted day and night to.

Boshi always wanted to take me and my mother out to dinner. I would dread it but I would go, mostly for my mom, partly for some immature pity that only twenty-somethings can feel when they look on people who have actually lived a life and think they are in any position to judge where that life has brought those people to. I remember that Boshi would always pay the bill, when we went out, always. No matter how my mom and I tried to get the bill from him, he always won. Mom and I are both pretty stubborn and rarely lose a dinner-check war, but she never won against Boshi.

Little did I know then that this is the Bulgarian way. They are the most gracious, generous, giving people I have met. Wrestling a bill from their grasp when they are your host is virtually impossible. It does not matter to them that their average monthly salary is less than Americans spend on a oak-walled steakhouse dinner, what matters is you are their guest and hosts take care of their guests.

Rositsa, one of Couchsurfing’s most active members, already had two surfers with her when she received my request to surf her couch in Sofia. She explained, apologetically, that I could have the other bed in her room if I didn’t mind sharing a room. I received her kind offer the same time that Orlin and Ralitza emailed that their family could host me. Not wanting to put Rositsa out, I accepted their offer. But that wasn’t the last of Rositsa. Not only did she meet me the night I arrived to show me around town with her two surfers, but she took me under her wing for the rest of the week, driving us Tuesday to see the charming town of Koprivshtitsa and then all the way down to Rila to see Bulgaria’s largest monastery on Thursday. Her boyfriend, Emil, joined us for both road trips. Between the two of them, and the fact we couldn’t argue in Bulgarian, they always managed to snag the check. At one point, the other surfers and I had to stand at the table and all but threaten physical abuse if they didn’t let us pay for something. Their generosity in the time they shared with us, the insight into their country, and their spirit, not to mention food and beer, was amazing.

And then there was my new Bulgarian family. I cried when I parted ways with Orlin and Ralitza in Plovidv. It was the first time leaving a host truly broke my heart. From the moment they picked me up at the airport, half an hour from their home, to the moment Orlin placed my pack, that he had insisted on carrying, in my room at the hostel, they were the kindest, most genuine, generous, caring family that I have ever met. They cooked for me, took me to special places to eat, shared their home and their business, their hopes for the future, the joy from an important success that happened while I was there, their children, their trust, and their love. I will never understand how life blesses me with such beautiful people.

When I left the states, I asked around where Boshi was from so I could pay my respects to his homeland on his behalf. No one knew for sure. I don’t know if anyone had ever asked. I lit a candle at the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral in Sofia to wish him well on his journey, wherever he may be now, and to tell him I was sorry for not being more patient, not doing more to see the man inside, not caring enough to connect. As the candle burned, I cried tears of regret for having been so impatient with an immigrant’s fumbling English and unknowable past. Now, I am the foreigner, forever in strange lands, who relies on the patience and kindness of others. I deeply wish I had given Boshi even just a fraction of the acceptance and consideration when he was in my country that his countrymen have given me in theirs. If spirits hear our hearts, I hope he knows somewhere that he is loved and missed.

Comments

[steff]

Hi Sherry!

Catching up with those pieces of your writing. And they really touch me as always. It is so true that we barely take enough time to connect sincerely and deeply with our fellow human beings - be it foreigners or simply neighbours, family, collegues... Time flies so quickly at times and we keep running after it when we should probably and simply stop, watch and listen to others.
Do not worry about Boshi though. From what you depict, I am convinced he understood well enough that you were simply young and pretty unexperienced in interacting with the elder and foreign :) Most of us are, and coming to realise this is a great step already, don't you think? Sounds like he liked you and your Mom a lot.

BTW, a completely different topic...
What are your travel plans at the moment? Any chance that we see you in Switzerland for Vince's paella? How about Eastern Europe? I'll be going shortly through Slovenia and Bosnia and longer through Croatia beginning of August, flying back from Budapest. Any chance you would be around? Bulgaria sounds lovely, but I'll keep it for another year since I'd need a passport (which I haven't!) to reach it through Serbia.

Sending you huge HUGS et de gros bisous toulousains xxx

Steff

[Roman]

I rarely get moved to tears but this story drove some into my eyes.

My personal belief is that death is terminal, so I suggest anyone moved by this story look abuot themselves to see their Boshis, and reach out...

-Roman