Brock { Abroad }

Reykjavik was a long, rainy, fairly cold, and very expensive 24 hour visit. (even though it’s a recession there, I still have the dollar…) I instantly made a friend from my friendly neighboring province of Ontario who I spent the day with wandering around the provincial city that 60% of Iceland’s 300,000 people inhabit.  After warming up in one of the many geothermal pools located in Iceland and getting a shower, we made plans to go to the Reykjavik International Film Festival opening night, still currently taking place. It was difficult to make a connection with the contact I’d made from couch surfing, but by six p.m. I was contacted by his roommate to inform me that Asgeir had fallen in love and was currently touring the ring of Iceland with his new girl. Nonetheless, the invitation still stood and I arrived to their home after the film, Another Planet, based on the hardships of youth in developing countries; instantly I was offered a beer by a fellow couch surfer, a girl from Rome, who had been staying with the four boys for a week. What ensued was a broad conversation around world politics, hypocrisy, mushroom cultivation in Iceland, psychology, and more topics so off-topic that they ended up relevant. I didn’t go to bed until one or two in the morning and had to leave by four to catch an early flight. But, thank you Oskar for the bed and for killing your television to silence the mass media hysteria; it’s what makes my mother think the Middle East is somehow more dangerous than anywhere else in the world.

There’s something very thrilling about arriving in a city; whether it’s a city you know and love, would love to know, or somewhere in between. I knew I loved Amsterdam after a brief visit here back in 2006, but was excited about coming back. My first plan of action was to call Bobby, my Bulgarian host.  I took a moment to listen to a street musician, or “busker”, and even stopped to smell the tulips! I was unsuccessful. There was a coffee shop next door that wafted out the delicious aroma of a plant that may not have been as pretty as those tulips, but definitely had its own charms. I looked down to my watch. I was in complete disbelief! Three hours had passed since I began staring down all the slim buildings that graced the canals lined with bicycles, bikes, bars, babes, and boys alike.

Finally, I reached a phone and called Bobby. He was excited to have his first couch surfer in Amsterdam. He has been here for less than a month and works for a women’s rights organization. We exchanged a little background as I explained my website and frustration with developing it.  After mentioning he had a Bulgarian friend who was a web developer, I began to see at least a partial reason for our meeting.  Bobby reminds me of the kid who gets talked into sticking his tongue on a metal pole by all his friends. He likes to please people and has an unmatched generosity.  We talked more and within ten minutes, I felt like I was catching up with an old friend. Now, I realize that I have made a friend that will one day be called an “old friend.” There are special friendships where the new part of them wears off quickly, and I prefer it this way. Bobby may already be considered an “old” friend as he is twelve years my senior and his friend, Pavlin, is sixteen years ahead of me. Pavlin is just as adorable as my old theatre director; a big teddy bear, we used to call him. He’s one of those burly guys that look like they could kick your ass until they open their mouth.  He is also doing an admirable thing in my mind; trying to work independently for himself in a place that he likes. In short, he is having a hard time making it work and I was happy to hire the guy. Both the guys from Bulgaria seemed a little shy when we would go out, but seemed grateful that they had a social butterfly around when new people would cross our path. While talking about the website and my travels over drinks

that evening, I could sense Pavlin had become a little jaded with the world. I won’t go as far to say that he is a downright pessimist, but he did agree that I reminded him a little of his idealistic youth. He became silent and looked down to study his scuffed shoes on the sidewalk.

“This is my age,” he told me.

I am a firm believer in the power of positive thinking. I asked him why he left Bulgaria in the first place.

“All the people there are so unhappy. It’s not an easy life.”

“This is a post-communist place of a new-found individualism still struggling with what individuality means.”

When Bobby mentioned this issue Bulgaria faces, I was reminded of earlier when, to my utter shock and disbelief, he told me that there wasn’t anything to write about that hadn’t already been written.  I saw this as a cultural difference.

“But Bobby, there’s no one who will ever be on this planet that is exactly like you experiencing the very same things in the very same way at the very same time, ever! Don’t you think there’s someone else out there who wants to hear my voice? If I do not put my thoughts on paper, they will go unheard and be lost forever.” I admit this may have been a little corny, but for emphatical purposes, I went with it.

I was raised in America; by my single mother, an extreme (if not intense) case of individuality. By kindergarten, I was dressing myself (“just as horribly as I do now,” my mother claims) and I was always treated as an adult able to make informed decisions for myself. Whether or not this is exactly a perfect method of parenting, I won’t elaborate, but I am grateful for it given my demeanor.

The following evening, Pavlin came over to Bobby’s place and I we began to design the site together, me looking over his shoulder demanding this and that, and eventually from the kitchen with a glass of wine as I prepared us chicken alfredo. We sat down and enjoyed my first hot meal since home. I was grateful to be in their company and so happy that I’d finally found a proper web designer. The universe seemed to be taking its course. Bobby looked over at me as I stuffed a chunk of chicken in my mouth.

“We are your Bulgarian aunties, I think, Brock.” He smiled.

“I am a grumpy Bulgarian auntie!” Pavlin countered.

The room broke out in laughter.  I squeezed my insides to keep them from falling out as I went into a deep giggle fit and spilled my glass of wine. Yet another joke about my age was made as I made a dash for a rag.

Last night, as Pavlin and I met for a drink, he thanked me. Finding work here hasn’t been easy, but he said spending this weekend with me made him feel young again, it reminded him that life is supposed to be fun. He then looked at a flock of pigeons near us and smiled. The sun was setting and the flock took flight above our heads.

“Come,” he said

“Your Bulgarian auntie will buy you your first beer tonight.”

“the aunties”

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