uppity in sofia (a snob's lament)

I'm afraid, as I sit in my hotel room overlooking the outdoor seating of Flannagan's Pub here in Sofia, Bulgaria, that I will never understand football fans. It's 2 AM here and they have been singing football songs for hours. They exhibit no signs of letting up.

In cities larger than Sofia it's easy enough to steer clear of the punters, and our accommodation is usually situated well enough away from them. The handful of fans who do travel with the media charter tend to be more mannerly and dedicated than the average football bloke. There tend to be wives along on the media charter, and more elderly fans. But these Bhoys below us at street level... these are those beer-swilling, fat bellied, red faced, roaring types who would rather engage in their masturbatory, fanatical exercises than head next door to the casino which features buxom women. I mean really, can we talk about priorities?

I'm especially disappointed in the young man I know who is here with a group of lads for a stag weekend away whom I just spotted amongst the sea of bloated, singing Irish. A STAG weekend. Like the last blowout before you get MARRIED. For, like, FOREVER. And they're not groping, shagging and gambling. They're in the closest Irish bar they can find singing with the fat lads, just like they could do at home as married men for the rest of their lives.

Where are their priorities? What's the point of organising a naughty bachelor party if you're not going to make the most of it?!

Ok, so I know I also came here because of a football match, and of that fact I am DEEPLY appreciative. Football has brought me to many places I wouldn't have thought twice about going to off my own bat (or, perhaps, my own right foot is a better analogy), and that is a marvelous thing. But when I visit a city because of a match, I go wandering and try to experience the place. The vital difference between me and... er... them down there in the identical shirts they've been wearing in the hot sun for days on end whilst drinking vats of beers is they came FOR the match. 7000 years of this city's history matters not a whit. It's all about the match tomorrow... and the beer and singing tonight. And tomorrow night.

As I listen to the 18 millionth round of "Come on you boys in green" I'm sending out a little prayer to the Good Lord above to see to it that Ireland qualify for the World Cup next summer, just to make it worth their, and my, while.

deliverance

"Deliverance" wasn't set in Pennsylvania, that was "The Deer Hunter", wasn't it? But sometimes I think it could have been set here.

We drove through Londonderry, PA yesterday and oddly enough there wasn't a Catholic or Presbutton around for miles, just Amish out for a drive on the Christi Himmelfahrt feast day, when they don't work their arses off in the fields. My little, grumpy Italian grandfather drove us in his enourmous station wagon (the kind that arrives a minute before you do and has fake wood panelling on the sides) while I trained my little video camera on Amish buggies as we roared past them. I was always met by the wide-open, blue eyed stares of young Amish girls wearing black bonnets, who would hold up their fingers in what would begin in a wave-like gesture and end up in a half-hearted salute of palm and slightly splayed fingers, as if they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. It's almost like they're as in awe of me and the way I flaunt my religious freedom as I am of them and the way they practice theirs.

My mother gives a running commentary about the occasion of Indian place names we see when we drive around southeastern Pennsylvania and how there are no tribes left here, and she recites parts of Chief Joseph's speech "I will fight again no more" and tell us how she can't read it to her students because it makes her cry.

Hocessin.
Toughkennemon.
Skoolkill.

These sit side by side with German place names, and of course English Colonial and Irish ones. Kennett Square, where my Grandmother was born an raised (which is also the mushroom capital of the world, they say) is named after the river Kennet in Barkshire near Newbury, England. My folks live around the area where the Americans fought the Red Coats in the Battle of the Brandywine, where you still occasionally turn up a piece of musket shot if you're digging your garden.

I watch my grumpy little Italian grandfather bustle around the yard with a hoe battling weeds, tackling "tree debris" with his leaf blower and scowling at the bird shit on the car like it's the most important thing ever. He does smile, and does so more often these days, and he makes funny cross-eyed faces with me because I'm his only granddaughter. I had a beer with him for the first time ever (he doesn't drink beer but opted for a Rolling Rock) at Delaware Park where he used to run the racehorses he trained decades ago, and we talked about the sport of horse racing and how much it's changed, and how he secretly misses training horses.

He mechanics old World War II airplane engines now for my uncle whose business is to restores them. He talks to me about how he always followed his heart and did what he loved, whether it was horses or airplanes, and he lights up when I tell him about how I must follow in his footsteps. "Yeah," he says, "and don't you let anyone tell you you gotta do something. I'm tellin you right now, I never let anyone spoil my dreams and I'll be damned if they try to tell me I can't do somethin. You know those assholes up there..." He points off in an imagined direction of "those assholes" and begins to rant. The rant will continue for as long as you let it. I usually redirect him back to talking about what he loves and he lights up again.

It's lovely to come here and be with these people. I'm also reminded of why I decided to move so far away. I would kill myself if I lived here. While there are beutiful places to look forward to, like anywhere there's a lot of backwardness. Did I mention they probably could have set "Deliverance" here?