Hot Peppers

ZAVET – “It’s like, like … I don’t know, like … fire!” I tried to say in Bulgarian to the doctor as I held out my hands.
“Kakvo pravi?” she asked. (What did you do?)
“I was cutting little peppers,” I said in Bulgarian, “and now my hands feel like … what was that word again? Ogan? Yes, yes, like ogan – fire.”
The doctor nodded that she understood and then walked to her apartment. She yelled up to somebody on the third floor. They threw her some keys and we got in her car in search of a cure for my burning hands. And so began my first medical emergency in Bulgaria. I wasn’t sick from some killer bacteria. I didn’t have any broken bones from a runaway horse or cow. No, my problem was from a small, innocent pepper.
It all started the previous week when I bought four big watermelons at the flea market for the summer camp. The man was nice and threw in a bunch on small peppers for free. On this night I decided to dice a few of the peppers for a potato dish.
At some point during the pepper operation I wiped my nose with my hand. Soon my nose was on fire. My sinuses opened like flood gates and my face turned bright red. I wiped my nose with water and soon the pain was gone after 15 minutes, but both my ring fingers had the same burning sensation.
My friends laughed at me for cutting peppers without gloves. And I did too, thinking that my stupidity was over. However, it was just beginning.
The pain worsened and my only relief was cold water. After an hour I went to find the doctor who lives close by. I explained the problem and went to get some cream and ice. I don’t have a freezer, so we went to the restaurant. It didn’t have any ice. We drove to another café and finally found some.
I kept my hands in ice water for 30 minutes, but the pain was even worse after before. The heat had spread to my palms. It was like I my hands were really close to a heater. After an hour of waiting I went to find the doctor again.
She was at a na gosti -- or visit -- with her brother, who lives two apartment buildings away. He answered the door and immediately I smelled rakiya (Bulgarian whiskey). At that very moment, the wind blew through the apartment slamming the other door shut. The glass in the door shattered and soon his 7-year-old daughter was crying.
He didn’t seem concerned and kept smiling as I entered and stepped over all the broken glass. He led me into the back to a table and told me to sit. I didn’t feel like eating, I wanted to speak to his sister. He told me I needed some rakiya – that would help heal my hands. I said I would later. He said the “rakiya therapy” would not work unless I had some now.
His sister finally came in and said there was nothing more she could do. All I could do was wait and only cold water would help. She left the room and didn’t seem concerned. Her brother poured me a small glass of rakiya (actually, he missed some of the glass). I drank it quickly to appease him and then I left.
The pain went away during the night. I fell asleep with my hand in water. The next day everyone knew about my problem with the “luti chushki”. This week people have asked me at the store whether I will cook with peppers. I laugh and simply say, “Neekogah”. Never.

Black Sea
A few weeks ago I finally made it to the Black Sea. Lots of volunteers go on the weekends, but I had been stuck in Zavet pretty much all summer. I met two friends, Michelle and Mary, in Varna, the largest city on the Black Sea. It is very modern with a huge promenade with shops, restaurants and hotels.
I spent the day on the beach reading and drinking beer in the shade. The beaches were crammed with people – more than my liking. Many cafes were on the beach. The one to my left was playing techno dance music. The one on my right was playing American Oldies like the Beach Boys and Chuck Berry. As I looked east toward Georgia and the rest of Asia, the scene kept changing from a Euro trash beach party to a sunny afternoon in southern California during the 1960's.

The first thing I noticed was the lack of clothing. Within my first five minutes on the beach I saw four HUGE German grandmas without tops. That was a sobering sight. Quite a few women were without tops, although I would have suggested to many of them to keep them on. But with others it was just fine with me. One thing I’m happy that hasn’t caught on in the U.S. is men wearing Speedos. About 90 percent of the men wear them here. I even saw a man thong – not a pretty sight.
After Varna I met my Bulgarian friends and we headed north toward Albena, a resort town filled with Germans and Russians almost exclusively. It was very nice, although spendy by Bulgarian standards. Almost everyone spoke English, and when I told them I was American they always asked “Why are YOU here?”
We stayed in Kranevo, a small town three kilometers from Albena. It’s cheaper, smaller and has tons of foreigners. I met a lot of Russians, Belrussians and Ukrainians. I sat on the beach and read for three days. Of course, we ventured to the discos at night. In places like this you can see how much American culture prevails. All the people would sing along with the English songs. It wasn’t any different than if I were in a club in Seattle, except that drinks were about half the price.