2 days and a half

Sofia, Bulgaria, a Saturday at the end of April, 9 a.m…. Here I am, seated in the hairdresser’s, overlooking the Porter's-Lodge of the smart condos where my highly successful sister lives…Why, damn on, I have been dragged from my bed at 8 a.m., after some 12 hours of a trip and then just 4 hours sleep, in order to have my hair toned and my make-up and manicure done, as if I was going to the Oscars? Probably, because, the first phrase, apart from the welcoming trivialities that my mom pronounced at the airport after I landed from Rome, was: “How you dare walking around with this dreadful look? You should pass by the hairdressers before showing up at my neighborhood….” Not that it was such a surprise that my beloved mother didn’t have a better idea for a conversation after almost one year she hadn’t seen me in person…Or that she didn’t care that, apparently, I am already 40, married with two kids, flying from Madrid just to be with my family for 48 hours, or… that by some chance I just had had a lunch with a young American version of Keanu Reeves, who didn’t find me so repugnant… In vain…Actually, her words sounded quite familiar, even refreshing ...a blast from the past, a renewal of the never-ending, over-demanding perfectionism, which as a red line survives trough the times within the women of my family.

So, the journey started there, with the controversial character of my mother… After 35 years of professional life, most of it teaching chemistry, she retired with 250!!! Euro monthly, “with the compliments” from the unhuman Bulgarian pension system... an amount that actually would’ve not allowed her to live decently, if she doesn’t have other sources of income. However, this does not prevent her to support financially a whole army of beggars, socially excluded individuals and even several gypsy families…Her tactics are quite curious, like regularly buying counterfeits like this hilarious copy of Dolce&Gabbana,

or renting one of her flats at a funny rate or even for free, “in order to help”…. At the same time, she could complain “the service is bad” in a five star hotel and tell she has nothing to put on, looking at her overloaded closet….

It would’ve sounded funny, if actually, during those two days I didn’t have the constant feeling that I was 15 again and my late father would open the door and bring peace and reason among us.

It would’ve been sad to feel so changed, if my visit to the cemetery with the graves of my paternal grandparents didn’t hit me in the face, lost somewhere during the years of studies, travels and numerous attempts to reinvent myself. It was such a shock to realize that I still belong to a place, to a nation, to a community. And as it is true that there are Bulgarians sleeping on the benches of El Parque del Oeste in Madrid, as Mario Vargas LLosa wrote in one of his last essays, it is also true that the most famous museum in the world, the French Louvre, shows exactly these months the treasures of the ancient Bulgarian kingdoms. This land is old, as old as the Greeks and the Romans are. And there is nothing to be ashamed of….On the contrary…Our blood is strong, since we have accepted any foreigner to stay…Our spirit is healthy, because we keep our faith alive and our understanding that there is no bad job, as long as it helps us to survive….

On that day, when I was buying beautiful flowers to my dead ancestors, I realized how lucky I was to belong to a family of honest men and women, who left my karma clean and my head high.

Finally, as if to complete that particular journey to my roots,  I met a 94 years old gentleman, once a famous lawyer, who had served as an army officer during the WWII in Karlovo, the native town of my maternal grandfather. He explained me that before each battle he used to take his soldiers to the Monument of Vasil Levski, the Bulgarian hero, the icon of our freedom and identity, who was born in that small historical town. Then, the old gentleman added – “You should be proud and lucky to bear his blood! Levski protects us wherever we go. During the war we knew some of us would be shot, others would survive, but he…will remain forever. As long as we keep him in our hearts, Bulgaria will be alive! And this is the most important!”

In the modern cynical world, cold and almost robotic, when human dramas are just business issue in the news headlines, these words were like a punch in my stomach. The almost physical feeling, the sensation that at least I was alive accompanied me during the lunch with a view to the Vitosha Mountain, during my flight back to the West and even the first day in Madrid, at a conference on the Global Governance…Ironic? Or a sign of the destiny? I don’t know…The only thing I know is that I’d wish that pain in my stomach to remain as long as it could…For my good…