Hester Street NYC, Friday Night

(these aren't the kids who I'm talking about, didn't have film in my camera though and I want to give you an image)

It was Friday and after a long day I just wanted to relax. I'd woken up at 6:30 because I am forcing myself to get up at 6:30 everyday, did my push-ups, taught three classes, helped someone water the concrete that he'd laid a few days before and I found myself in a village one over from mine. A few kilometers brings you into another world. I didn't want to talk to anybody but I still wanted to be out, so I made a little treck. I ordered something to quench my thirst and this woman who is a high school teacher, who I'd met once before, started talking to me and then asked me to go play with her son. What can you do? I walked across the street to where her son and three girls were playing with a ball. They were all 10 years old.

I'd never really played with kids or spent much time around them before moving to Bulgaria but I imagine that 10 year old girls are pretty much the same everywhere, tough critics. The boy was happy to have someone bigger and stronger to play with but right away the girls were laughing at my clothes and called me a liar when I told them how old I was. We got past all that though and they were actually nice kids. The boy's name was Yani and the girls were Rubi, Elli, and another Elli.

They ran to the top of a big double set of stairs which leveled out before another set of stairs that lead to the Church. My back was to the Mosque (This area of Bulgaria was Muslim, Communism came and it was "No Muslims Allowed," now that's not the case). I would throw or kick a ball to the kids at the top of the stairs and they'd kick it down to me and I had to catch it. I wanted to see if I could hit the Church so I kicked the ball as hard as I could. I didn't quite make it but the ball landed on the roof of a small "Sport Toto" building. (Sport Toto is the Bulgarian Lottery and it's an actual place you have to go to to play your numbers.)

I felt terrible. A ball is like a piece of gold, maybe even more precious. The building was about 12 feet high. I couldn't run, jump, grab the roof and pull myself up. Plus, I was dressed in my new stone washed jeans, a Polish-looking shirt I'd just bought in Poland and I had on Sean Thomas boots. I decided the ball was more important. The girls had climbed up the other set of stairs and they were looking down on the ball and pointing at it. The boy was sad. He looked like Ricky in 'Boyz N the Hood,' when they go to see the dead body and he throws his football to the older kids who don't give it back and Doughboy tells him that he's stupid and that he's gonna tell their mamma. I had to get the ball, for Ricky's sake, but I wasn't going to jump the six feet from the handrail to the thin tin roof like the girls wanted me to; I'd probably have fallen through.

I walked around to the back of the building and I saw the doorway that led from the kitchen to the television room of the house where I grew up. My brothers and I would take turns putting the smalls of our backs/butts against one side, our feet against the other and walk ourselves up to the ceiling and then jump down. I'm a pro in a doorway but this space was at least a foot and a half wider than a doorway. The girls saw me sizing it up and they probably climbed up their doorways too because they started clapping. I had my audience and didn't think twice. Actually, I thought about getting my shirt dirty mid-climb but I got up, no problem, threw the ball down to the boy, Yanni, and stopped to watch him smile. Then I hung off the side and dropped about five or six feet.

We played some more kick/throw and then everyone sat down and said they were tired. I walked back to the cafe and meet the high school teacher. One part of the story I left out was that she'd invited me to meet up with her 12th grade class at a bar later that evening. Now, she apologized and told me that she didn't think it was such a good idea because everyone would be drinking a lot and the girls would be upset because they would have wanted notice that I was going to be there. I get invited to and then dis-invited all the time so I didn't question it at first. Her and I hung out at the cafe for a bit and then I left to meet up with one of my colleagues and his wife.

Mid-meal, the conversation turned toward marriage as it often does. Every time I hang my laundry out to dry, an old woman asks me, 'Don't you want a wife to do that?'
'No,' I'd think, 'I want the nice lady with glasses and a fanny pack on Hester Street in Chinatown to do it.' (It took me two years to break her down to accept pennies. She wouldn't tell me her name but she finally accepted pennies.)

I know 18 and 19 year olds who are married. I know women who got married when they were 16. So, I fielded the questions but when she asked me what kind of girls I like, I said, 'I only like girls if they smell like cow's milk and have bigger hands than mine.' That's not totally true but I have a tendency to think about so many things while I am talking to someone in Bulgarian, and I pretty much only talk to people in Bulgarian, that I might have and A, a B, and a C for what response I will give and I always go with the one I know to be the most grammatically correct. I'm not too self conscious about sharing what I think or feel but a year in Bulgaria, speaking this foreign language, has turned me into a grandpa. My filter has almost disappeared. That might be the secret to life: become like a grandpa while you're still young. You might get invited and uninvited to stuff all the time but you enjoy yourself wherever you are.

Salads and Slugs

That salad and slug life is suiting me well. Each night, at least one but never more than three slugs, millimeter their way up and out of the drain in either the sink or the bathroom. That's my guess because I first notice them around the sink but they could come from the ceiling somewhere as I live on the top floor of a not new building. I share the building with a doctor's office, dentist's office, a pharmacy and a beauty parlor. The days here are very full and I'm happy with a salad to eat and slugs to watch at night.

The National, High Violet

A few hours ago my friend Blake sent me the new National record, "High Violet." My mom, who always brings up the episode of Oprah about Emotional Intelligence and the 'marshmallow test,' where the kid being tested can either take one marshmallow immediately or wait and he or she will be awarded a second marshmallow, would have been proud of me. I waited to listen to the album until I finished writing something that I am having to force out of myself. My treat was to turn out the lights, lay on my couch, close my eyes and fold my hands across my chest and listen. (I fold my hands when I think of it and more importantly, close my eyes whenever I can because this cuts down on energy loss but just like the calcium deposits signifying an excess of calcium, my behavior often shows an excess of energy. Tonight though I really just wanted to concentrate on the music.)
The sounds and lyrics brought me to a National show at Warsaw in Brooklyn with Rila, Blake and Lindsey, Polish sausage and sauerkraut. I thought about 'Weird Science,' and 'Can't Buy Me Love.' A review I'd read months back predicting the National getting bigger and isolating their core audience, simply by being thought has vanished from my mind, chalked up to filler words and filler thoughts, the norm now, in a world of filler news. I remembered a show at Webster Hall where I excuse me'ed my way up to the front of the stage to hand the singer a copy of my magazine during the pause between songs. And, as one thought ended and I wound up back on my couch, back in the music, I was off and running again.
The National encapsulate a spirit of New York City that resonates with me and they're the first to present it. They are not Velvet Underground or Paul Simon, Nice-n-Smooth, F.E.D.S. magazine or UTZ chips. They're carving out their own interpretation and sharing with their fans, their ever-changing relationship with a city and it's effect on their own personal development.

Ten hours ago, I was cleaning up a river with 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th graders. We had rubber gloves and we went for it: bottles, candy wrappers, styrofoam, shoes and other junk is out of the river. It looks great now. I was one of the last ones to start back for the school but a group of kids had waited for me. Our conversation was in Bulgarian and it as it often does, it drifted into talking about words. I said that I'm not a "kid," sort of joking because when we're playing basketball they call me by my first name and some just always call me Mr. Albin, mixing young and old. After we finished talking about ways we address people, one boy said, dismissing all other qualifications, 'You're our friend; that's what we call you.' This boy is hearing my new record but he doesn't really know any of my old ones. The person who hears "High Violet," and it's the first National record he or she hears, will love it for what it is and their appreciation of the band will only grow as they discover the work leading up to it.

I didn't pass the marshmallow test because I listened to the new album without an album cover in my hand, no artwork, no pictures. I'll never know how two would have tasted but this one was more than I imagined.

Smart Bar, FDR, William vanden Heuvel and Louis Kahn

I met Duff in Los Angeles and had a lot of fun talking to him. He told me about recording songs for Use Your Illusions I in a studio above the Smart Bar. I asked him if he'd ever gone to the Gingerman a few doors down but he said that pretty much all he did for nine months was record music and drink at the Smart Bar every night.

This photo is of my brother and me two weeks ago at Smart Bar. I can always have fun but inevitably I'm drawn back into the solitude necessary to study and write. This evening I came across an interview with William vanden Heuvel on Charlie Rose where he talks about "the long journey of a New York memorial to Franklin Delano Roosevelt designed by the architect Louis Kahn." It's worth watching; it took place on April 20, 2010.

William vanden Heuvel reminded me of Studs Terkel: a classy guy who lives fully, taking life seriously and having fun with that interpretation.

Students, Spring

I recently spent a couple of days in Sofia, a couple more than I expected because of the flight delays. My reason for the trip was to pick up my friends who were on their way to visit me but are now stuck in Paris due to volcanic ash clouds.

On the bus ride home I ran into Stancho, a guy from my village who talks about Viet Nam and Asian women every time I meet him on the street. The grass is green, trees are budding and spring is here. It felt good to see a familiar face and tomorrow it'll be nice to see the students. I'm always thinking about them and planning lessons for them. The brain never fills up. I know the names of almost all 150 students, 20 colleagues, countless people I have talked to on the street, at cafes or in book stores. Lots of these names are Bulgarian names that I'd never heard of before moving here. And, I still manage to think about nearly everyone I ever went to school with, played sports with or spent any time with.

One of my favorite things about each day is that I spend it in the presence of kids and old folks. That contact is good; never knew what I was missing.

Easter

I love seeing my brother Joe smile.

In the first photo we have Vlado and Julia between my parents and me. Vlado is from the village where I'm living in Bulgaria. Vlado left for America almost eight years ago and returned home to see his family for the first time. I loved meeting him and eating food that his mom made and just hanging out. I interviewed him about studying economics at Sofia University and eventually working at Yellowstone National Park, living in Detroit and then moving to Chicago. He came in and spoke to my 8th grade class. We all talked about our dreams, successes and failures.

Vlado's girlfriend, Julia is from Uzbekistan. They met each other six years ago in Chicago and they were able to communicate because they both speak Russian. I'm enjoying studying Russian and it was fun to have Vlado translate all the Russian songs I have been listing to lately. Turns out that my favorite song is all about smiles and their power to bring people together. Here are the lyrics to the smile song.

From the smile the nasty day is lighter,
From the smile the rainbow will wake up in the sky…
Share your smile
And it will return to you many times.

And then, highly probable
Clouds will suddenly dance
And grasshopper will play the violin.
A river starts with a blue brook
And friendship starts with smile.

From one sunny smile
Even the saddest rain will stop.
Sleepy forest will tell good bye to silence
And start to clap hands.

From the smile everyone will feel lighter
Elephant and even little snail
So let's everywhere on the Earth
Smiles turn on like bulbs.

Chicago, Warsaw, Nish

I left Bulgaria for the first time in a year. My destination was Chicago, to see my family. On the way there, I stopped for a few hours in Warsaw, Poland and I made great use of a layover.

I borrowed a taxi driver's cell phone, called a friend of a friend and everything was taken care of. I jumped on the bus and made my way into the center of town like I had been to Warsaw before. In some ways I have been here before. I grew up in Chicago. Everyone in Poland looks like someone I know. The girl I was going to meet had a few more hours of work and I didn't know what to do with myself because I was so excited. First I talked to everyone in H&M, then I smoked half a pack of Menthols and I am not even a smoker. I drank coffee and thought about Steve Nishimoto and how much he would love Warsaw.

Before I knew it I was in an illustrator's studio, then hanging out with Polish actors, artists and intellectuals. I watched home videos of one guy's last years Easter. He told me that the new thing is to bring out the machine after dinner and take everyone's blood pressure. checkin up on health.

I had big plans of writing on the airplane but a day and a half with only peanut M&M's in my stomach made me sleepy and I slept for about 9 hours. Wa laaaaa, I was in Chicago.