I won’t go on about the food in Italy. How even if you ate at the last, spaghettio-serving, waiter-was-missing-teeth, hole-in-the-ruins restaurant because it was the night after Rome’s football team had won the World Cup and there were no tables at even the underground bakeries, that even there, even then, the food would still be amazing. No. No. I’m not going to talk about it.

On china cabinets and understanding my in-laws better.

We waited in the rain for exactly two hours to get inside the Vatican Museum. We held umbrellas. Shoved the Russians. Befriended the Azerbaijani. There was a lot of eye-poking. The outer edges of my feet were cramped. Italian dirt had become lodged between my toes.

Once inside. . .torsos, tapestries, busts and bric a brac. I knew they were important. . .I knew they were sacred. . .I even noticed that most of them were naked. . .but. . . I guess without a tour guide. . .the benefits never went anywhere past exponential awe. My face was just a fountain of expression. One that intermittently sprayed with fervor, but never quite kept any water in the air.

So as I walked, rather than attempting to memorize dates, deaths and details, a previous and highly unadvised method for true understanding, I was looking for a few BPM’s—big picture messages. What I got was: that religion, no matter how much we say we understand, is bigger than most of us understand. . .and, on a lighter note, that Rome is truly the china cabinet of the world.

But china cabinets, the idea of displaying your grandmother’s rosette-painted plates, (which she probably didn’t use either) is a tradition that has begun to fade from America’s functional homes. The curio cabinet where hummels, piebirds and gravy boats once posed, might now be the location of your in-home office. Fewer people are watering the blooms, whether daffodils or dandelions, of their family tree. Individualism, boasting an Ivy League lawyer, has remembered to honor our ancestors, but is quick to bring up empowerment, freedom, mobility, and a lovely retirement community, which make the past a much smaller part of our lives.

But in Rome, the biggest china cabinet of the world, society follows history. Men stay near (sometimes in the next room) their mothers well into their thirtys. Families rarely stray further than a few fountains apart. Soccer teams loyalties tether one’s fine leather shoes to the ground of his or her birthplace.

And while this clashes with my adventurous spirit, I appreciate it with my whole heart.

On the capability of tourists to ruin just about anything. . .

Michael is now advising everyone we see to visit Rome in the dead of winter. That’s how bad it was.

Unless you were up at the crack of dawn or partying past midnight, the Spanish Steps was a gargantuan accordion of tired soles. The Pantheon--a pushing competition and pickpocketer’s dream. And the Trevi Fountain, with its bulging muscles, inflated ego, and fierce chariots, was a true fubar. I wanted to scream at the statues with their orthodontically outstanding horses: Why did you pick this area, a mere linen closet within the vast spaces of Rome’s penthouse apartment, to splash yourselves about? And I suppose they would answer, like anyone whose penis is on display: Duh! This is the spot where we would look the biggest!

But at least in the museum, people couldn’t pause for a gelato or cappuccino in front of the oldest rug in the world. Even so, it took strategy to avoid being completely surrounded by a slough of turquoise-capped sixth graders from Oslo, for example. They seemed about as manageable as a Macy’s Parade Balloon. Shit, I thought, as an adult supervisor elbowed by me, that will me one day! Me! I will have cheerfully volunteered to chaperone my child’s field trip to the Colorado State Capitol and I will be in charge of this mess!

As many of you might know, I’ve never been particularly skilled at crawling inside myself--remaining unphased by surrounding lunacy. Perhaps motherhood will do the trick. If I make it there.

On discovering the extraordinary within the cliché. . .and managing expectations.

After countless signs and arrows of false alarm, we arrived at the Sistine Chapel thoroughly exhausted. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since my last visit to the Sistine Chapel, it’s that life is about managing expectations.

And oh, it’s hard. Expectations are like persistent little bits of lint that stick to everything! But the trick is not to expect the worst (this would be much too cynical for my taste), but simply to refrain from expecting at all.

And this time, there I was, expectation-free. And indeed, there was no supernatural glow coming from Michelangelo’s kindergarten-colored clouds. The voice of God, I imagine, was long since hoarse from attempting to rise above the “shush” of museum staff.

I refused to stare at that image I knew best from mugs, mousepads and magnets at T.I.S. bookstore. So I searched for something. Anything. Just an orange wedge of an impression to chew on. I was not leaving empty-headed.

What I found was a little depth. Literally. I hadn’t remembered how Michelangelo made his maidens and men pop three-dimensionally down to meet us. How every being was in motion, on fire, a sense of urgency springing from their souls. Muscles contracting, chasing, running, loving, dying, both lost and found. Since I saw it last, the Sistine Chapel seemed to have come alive.

Perhaps a decade had taught me to look a little deeper.

On finding God my own way. . .

My experience at St. Peters, immediately following, was better. Like a soccer field at the heart of a village, its odd space gave everyone room to breathe. And the Basilica, well, as Michael said, it is “the ultimate attempt to inspire or belittle the common man.”

Last time I was here, I touched the Pope. It’s true—our hands had brushed. A pink-cheeked John Paul II was riding around in his little white pope-mobile. But back then I was just following instructions. It was a great place to start, and I am thankful for such a foundation, from which to leap> But back then, I had yet to think much for myself. Now, eleven years later, I know that everyone finds God in their own way.

I’ve found him in surprising locations. A dark alley in Prague in 1996, somewhere in the Rocky Mountains the year Michael and I were married, at a fountain in Sofia last fall, crossing the street in Bucharest near Christmas.

Inside the Basilica, there was a small knave curtained off for worship. So I prayed. I prayed to myself. And as crazy as it may sound, I also answered back. Because I’ve learned that while God bounces around town dropping off his dry cleaning from time to time, surprising me from a new angle, He is actually somewhat of a homebody. Usually just hanging out at home, deep inside myself.

Altruism is trendy in the United States these days. Volunteering is at an all-time societal high, sitting on a non-profit board is a resume builder, and fundraising committee participation is practically required for parents. Charity, now considered somewhat of a band-aid has stepped aside for philanthropy, which attacks society’s underlying problems. God bless Sally Struthers for lying such a firm foundation, but now, instead of sending a check to that child named Udugu on Channel 11, you can loan him money to start a business selling fruit. . . .instead of providing twenty cents a day to farmer in Columbia, you can buy a Starbucks frapuccino to support fair trade. There are coat drives, blood drives, shoe drives and turkey drives. People even escape for pre-packaged, third-world, volunteer experiences. And they pay a hefty price. Feeling better about yourself, while getting a shot of Mt. Kilamanjaro at sunset, isn't cheap.

What’s it all about? Why do people volunteer? We want to help. To learn a little bit about humanity—how the other side might be living, breathing and buying groceries. But we’re also trying to erase guilt about our privileged life and fulfill our own need to be helpful. We’re hungry for self-discovery, eager to question our own values and ambitions through introspection.

I’m no different. When joining the Peace Corps, I wanted to make a mark on the world AND serve myself a scoop of personal growth--that manual-free kind of evolution, which chips away at whatever you might be hiding behind your own poster of Raquel Welch. A wall. Impatience. Materialism. Self-absorption. Whatever.

Well, it happened. I came to change Bulgaria, and I think maybe I have. But mostly, Bulgaria has changed me. The problem? I’m afraid I may have served myself more than I served this country. So, does that make my service a primarily selfish endeavor? And if so, does that self-service wash away the goodness?

I hope the answer is no. But I think that highly depends on what I do with my “benefits”, post-volunteerism. Because it’s immediately after our good deeds are done, where the whole concept sometimes loses validity, beginning to resemble that weekly church habit. Often, once we’re energized, satisfied that we’ve somehow “given back” or been assigned penance, we head back to our busy, unbalanced lives to once again, build up the guilt or lose the missing piece which will make us return. It’s an endless cycle of extreme emotions which doesn’t achieve any kind of peace.

So what’s the solution? Simple. Not easy, but simple. To maintain the nobility of my endeavors, I should fold my newest lessons and values into every day life -- exhibiting the generosity or kindness or patience or repentance on a regular basis.

You know, taking only what I need. Waiting without huffing at the post office. Picking up the toy for the stressed out mother in aisle two. Withholding the pernicious comment about that hideous dress. Tipping my grumpy waitress, who just might be a single mom, a few quarters more. Being kind to my husband after a difficult day. Taking responsibility for my own happiness. Becoming a better wife, daughter, friend, stranger, sister, driver, customer, colleague, neighbor.

Recently, Michael was researching something called The Long Tail. It’s a term to describe an economic and business model where products that are in low demand or have low sales volume can collectively make up a market share that rivals or exceeds the relatively few current bestsellers and blockbusters.

Seems like The Long Tail might be applicable to benevolence, too. Maybe if I remember to spread just a little bit of goodwill over a bigger sector of society, perhaps I can overcome my self-service and continue to make a difference. Maybe an even bigger one.
_______

Today (okay not today, because I wrote this blog three months ago, so pretend it’s still winter) as Michael parted our red and yellow trying-to-be-regal curtains, which keep out the light about as well as a pair of trendy sunglasses, I breath a sigh of relief. Another cloudy, dreary day. While the sun hangs like a bare, crack-apartment lightbulb in the Midwest during the winter months, it doesn’t even show up in this country. And I don’t mind. But my Colorado native husband hates it.

In his head, he mumbles: A tiny glow of sun is leaking through the clouds, struggling to make an impression on the day before disheartedly slipping behind the horizon, in a couple short hours...maybe tomorrow. . .maybe tomorrow....

Here’s the weird thing. I love this weather. No kidding. I always have.

About four years ago, I was in my Jeep Cherokee stoplighting through downtown Denver with my friend Ayn Fox, a professional muse who works above the Tattered Cover and wears cowboy boots with skirts.

I had expressed my love for the currently rainy day and she said,

Oh, so you’re one of those. You like the drama.

And I realized she was right.

There’s something literarily lovely about rain, cliché’d but nevertheless, correct. About the melancholy music it makes. . . . about the weight of every last drop. . .about the depressed, alcoholic poets of the last century who seem to write lasting lines only during a drizzle. . . about the glistening streets it leaves behind. . .about what’s going on behind the protectively ambiguous blur of water. It is the drama. The gloom, with all its substance and stories, unlike buoyant happiness, gives everyone something to hold on to.

But it’s more than that. Rain is an element of heavenly proportions. Like death, like a hurricane, like change, it’s something beyond our control; it’s a relatively harmless force we succumb to, a force beyond ourselves.

Five or six years ago, I saw The End of the Affair. The relationship between Maurice Bendrix and Sara Miles happened during WWII, a time when blurry lines, shifting loyalties, and uncertainty about the future deteriorated moral judgment. During any war, many people, be it the soldiers, the attacked or the innocent bystanders, feel an utter loss of control. And during this war, in this movie, amid the persistent rain, that helplessness led to a sultry surrender to fate .

When the war was over, so was the affair. The atmosphere shifted back to reality. Back to logic and back to life. The difference, to those trapped in war-time mindsets, was ironically devastating.

I love this movie.

But these philosophies. . .they are not part of me, are they? I’m not a fatalist, right? I believe my actions have a direct impact on future events. . . deep down, there is Republican in me. . .and to believe otherwise is the easy way out! This can’t be me! I am not Bulgarian!

I am far too level-headed, I tell myself, to regularly crave crisis for drama’s own sake. Too happy to carry on like Oliver, Millay or Plath. Too weightless to regularly participate in that evocative, but maudlin martyrdom.

Right?

But. I guess it’s why I like rainy days. Sometimes, when the baggage of control begins to weigh me down, I am thirsty for a force which lets me abort all previous plans and stay safely inside myself.

Stay tuned on this topic. . .after reading Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being, I feel I could journal into oblivion about it. . .and that bring me to the book club, which I need to write about. Okay, okay, I’ll get back to blogging.

Trip to the Police Station On Foot: 16 minutes
Figuring out the Right Window: 4 minutes
Waiting in What Can Only Be Described as a Mob While Strange Chinese Guy Breaths on Your Hair: 25 minutes
Waiting at Window While Pink-Sweatered Bulgarian Women Disappears: 11 minutes
Retrieving Your Lichna Karta: 5 minutes
Knowing You'll Never Have to Return to The Sofia Police Station: Timeless

Some people are content with public confusion, chaos and disorder. For everyone else, there's America.

*Lichna Karta is the Bulgarian equivalent of a Driver’s License

You might say that the DMV is not your favorite errand either. But let me assure you that there is really no comparison. This was my fourth trip to the police station over the course of three weeks. All for one purpose.

However, I would like to take this opportunity, back-handed as it may seem, to say a good word about the BG. Change, thank goodness for Bulgaria, is inevitable. This Lichna Karta experience, compared with last year’s, was a considerable improvement. Friendlier. Less time consuming. Another clerk (on an earlier visit) was downright helpful. The pink-sweatered lady also seemed to have a sense for who had been waiting in line since birth and who had used what we call “cane charity” to reach the counter. Yes, my friends. Customer service is slowly trickling in.

Business is blooming through the concrete, too. Not exactly a tree growing in Brooklyn, but growth. Definite growth.

The Kenar sandwich place where I get a weekly helping of corn and mayonnaise salad, tomato sauce and white beans, all together on a sandwich, (“not a very nice combination,” even my Bulgarian friend commented) was remodeled to include an automatic sliding door, increased behind the counter organization, retro signage and even a couple of decorative plants!

Recently, the fruit and vegetable stand, run by my buddy Veli, was nothing but a 2 x 5 space of cracked glass, sagging shelves and bent boxes. She now carries almond-stuffed green olives an kiwi. See the photo of her new store below.

There’s even a new airport with overpriced bottled water, toilet paper in the bathroom and electronic grids with flight information. Everything you might expect!

Technology. While moving. Last time we took a Bulgarian train, en route to Serbia, the customs guys came around with a little mini-computer, and they were somehow actually punching our passport numbers into some kind of SYSTEM (!) which was somehow connected to some other kind of SYSTEM (!) which determined our lawfulness. Impressive.

The list of goods unavailable in Sofia is shrinking. Since we have arrived, our non-stop (24 hour grocery store with three aisles) has begun carrying fish sauce, coconut milk, bean sprouts, Mexico-imported (actually spicy) salsa, soy milk, tofu and peanut butter which tastes crunchy, sugary and very American. DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MONUMENTAL THIS IS? The big commercial grocery store is looking more and more like Safeway every day, too. They even have avocados and tortillas. Warms my heart.

Sometimes, however, I cringe at America’s exports. Basically, anything useful, mass produced, profitable and making every suburb identical and identity-less, is now a form of excitement in Sofia. For example, in the last year: A three-story mall including food courts with multi-continental choices, bathrooms which can hold a hundred, and a twelve-plex cinema. I tend to steer clear.

Bulgaria’s been thinking about the law, too. While rules can really suck, this country could use a few. There’s been slow and bittersweet progress against pirated music and movies. I admit, we participate. Even my Bulgarian friend, founder of Art Group Haide, a club which supports young filmmakers, insists that “because no one can afford to rent movies or attend cinema on a regular basis, without free downloading, we’d be stuck watching only Bulgarian films.”

But the government is making it harder. A few of our favorite sites have changed (and taken away) their tune. The owner of one, Data.bg was arrested. Bulgarians don’t like it one bit. They even staged a protest. Slightly ridiculous of course--a little like American immigrants protesting about having to be legal—but nonetheless, progress. Protests mean Bulgarians suspect that their own actions may have a direct impact on change.

Oh yeah, that whole EU thing. It’s part of the reason we initially chose Eastern Europe. An EU transition sounded exciting, dynamic, full of possibility. That wasn’t exactly the atmosphere we encountered. Most Bulgarian people were as excited about the EU as they were, say. . um. . . well, most Bulgarians don’t actually get excited. (Michel and Ani you are different!) Sure there’s no immediate gratification, but long term, baby, long term! There will be benefits. Like a parent, in response to a negative teenager, I want to say: “It’s for your own good. Really. You’ll thank us for this one day.”

Charles Darwin suggests that “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.” While that may be true, I believe those who not only respond, but accept and even roll out a red carpet for change will not simply survive, but thrive. It’s taken some time and tears, but slowly and surely, Bulgaria is being charmed by the wiles of change. I’m happy for them.

A few weeks ago, we went out with a Peace Corps couple who recently served in China. You know, China! Don’t tell me you’re not picturing majestic little temples, high-necked silk tunics, rice paddies, tea and fire drills. We were psyched to talk to them and at their request, chose a traditional Bulgaria restaurant..

But before the grass looked any greener, they made us appreciate our supportive program staff, higher degree of anonymity and less intrusive Bulgarian government. These two were far from enamerate of the place they called home for the last two years: A city of eight million people infested with cinderblock cities, mocking English schoolchildren and flophouses. The strict social mores and communist laws, once, I could imagine, appearing research-worthy, had become an annoying affront to their basic freedoms.

We understood. What is once romantic often sheds its regal robe to reveal a less attractive reality. This was life. Michael and my thinly veiled embarrassment at the tawdry, but allegedly traditional Bulgarian performance on the pagan-decorated stage to our right (really, it was horrible) demonstrated just how well we understood the extremity of their claims, too. It was obvious that the four of us were connected not just by our Peace Corps status, but by having all lived in a place we hadn’t exactly grown to love.

I immediately felt bad. Because I appreciated Bulgaria for myriad reasons. I have no regrets about our time here. I even feel ownership about Sofia's progress and my organization's triumphs.. But love was not a word I would use.

But then, the guilt really hit when I heard Michael’s description of the biggest differences between Bulgaria and America, and then heard our dinner companion’s responses to those differences. I came to a horrifying, somewhat shame-inducing realization. At that moment, I finally acknowledged that what bites about Bulgaria, is, not so shockingly, what bites about China, too.

For that matter, of course, what bites about Bulgaria might be exactly what bites about most of the developing world.

There were cultural differences of course, but a pattern of similar threads emerged.

Okay, so maybe this was obvious?

I guess I’d been painting myself into a comfortable but ignorant corner where Bulgaria was some kind of anomaly. But, at a higher level, it’s now starting to seem like America is actually the weird one. We smile while the rest of the world looks on. We schedule while most of the world lives spontaneously. We line up while most other continents push. We are even kind to strangers while the rest of the world watches them be bit by dogs. We. We. We.

I kinda feel like this chic who’s been ripping on everyone for not wearing, say, leg warmers and just now discovered that leg warmers went out of style over twenty years ago. It’s me who’s the freak. But who knew, or rather, who wanted to admit? Not I. And certainly none of my devoted leg-warmer-wearing friends. Especially when just because we happen to be the weird ones, doesn’t mean that we’re the wrong ones. Right?

But America has a pretty big ego. While it does sometimes seem so overwhelmingly clear that we are the center of the universe, that our way is so obviously the best way, the most efficient way, the right way. . . . .really. . . . . who are we to say?

I’ve always been a big fan. Spunky, cowgirl hip, remarkable vocal and instrumental talent, melodies that reminds me of home and lyrics that elucidate strength and softness. A little Charlie Daniels, a little cherry cheesecake, but chock full of sophistication, they’ve helped country become more cosmopolitan. And I’m all for that.

As I’m sure you heard, a few years ago, at a London performance, on the cusp of both their Top of the World tour and America’s invasion of Iraq, Dixie Chick lead singer Natalie Maines announced to the audience, “Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas.”

It was (and still is) her opinion. Protected by free speech, a constitutional right, Natalie certiainly broke no laws. Just a rule. That one about insulting your primary fan base.

It’s not something I would have chosen to say to a crowd of millions on foreign soil. Regardless of my opinion on Iraq or Bush, it just wasn't a dignified move. But because she’s from a genre of music known for their conservative (and often radical) views, I understood her need to clarify. And I'm sure thousands more wholeheartedly agreed with her anyway.

But many more did not. Overnight their reputation crashed like a pick-up truck in an old country song. The KYGO’s and WLLR’s of the USA banned their music. Sponsorships were pulled. The Free Republic, an independent online forum for grass-roots conservativism, organized and riled their devoted followers to hold cd-burning parties. Country’s primarily red-state audience spat into their spit cups with protest and outrage. Even moderates were stung by this interpreted lack of support for our troops. Hate mail and death threats followed. Maines eventually made apologies but they were later retracted.

By expressing their political views and reacting to controversy with somewhat naïve, knee-jerk reactions, the Chicks had shot themselves in the feet. More than once. While many fans remained, that group was a fraction of their original following.

***************

In 2006, after three years of musical silence, they released Taking the Long Way Around. With songs like “Not Ready to Make Nice”, “Everybody Knows” and “Bitter End”, their lyrics do more than just mention the emotional strain of audience rejection and unintentional martyrhood. But there’s not one note of apology or backpedaling. Not one regret. With an album full of messages, the Dixie Chicks held their ground.

Touching on personal experience with IVF, Alzheimers and marriage, the new album also proves that the Chick’s music can evolve with their own lives. Furthermore, they hired Rick Rubin (a guy who’s worked with the Beastie Boys, Neal Diamond, Johnny Cash and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, among others) to produce a different sound. Less sugar and twang. More aggression and gospel. He claims it’s rock. I’m not so sure.

But everyone loves a little more controversy. While their latest Accidents and Accusations Tour wasn’t a big ticket seller and I've heard that radio play is harder to find, a Grammy sweep, including Song of the Year, Album of the Year, Record of the Year and Best Country Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocal proved at least, well, something. CD sales have skyrocketed. And we all know what an “above the fold” position on Itunes says. With a sigh of relief, the Chicks have slipped from purgatory back to earth.

I admit, I’m still in love. With the fight, the orchestral sound, the high-pitched melodies. Everything. This music is part of who I am. There’s no getting around it.

But it’s not quite over.

*****************

I recently watched Shut Up and Sing, a self-produced documentary which detailed their three year journey through the mud. There was backstage footage, song-writing sessions and even on-stage coverage of the Chicks return to London, three years after “the comment.”

Like a true outlaw, she repeated her original statement about Texas and Bush, confirming, in case anyone hadn't heard, that she wasn't the least bit sorry.

The documentary also showed me a little more about who they really are. Sisters Martie McGuire and Emily Robison seem like normal thirty-somethings with strength, traditional values, natural talent, husbands and children. Unfortunately, Maines is a different story. Even in her own documentary, she comes off as ignorant, arrogant and immature. I can respect any opinion if it's based on a little bit of knowledge, self-awareness and maturity. That wasn't the case.

But what did I expect? That just because I like her music I would like her?

Disappointing? Yes. Deep down, we all hope that our favorite musician, quarterback, author or actress is a little like ourselves. Which is precisely why it’s somewhat dangerous for these demigods to share too much with their audience. At lesat now they know the consequences.

I will never hear Natalie Maines voice quite the same way again. But the Dixie Chicks are not evil. They are not running sweatshops in Asia or paying a ridiculously low-wage to senior citizens at WalMart. I just don’t like one of them.

What I do like is their music.

****************

Lyrics to the Dixie Chicks song “Not Ready to Make Nice”

Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting

I’m through with doubt
There’s nothing left for me to figure out
I’ve paid a price
And I’ll keep paying

I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and
I don’t have time to go round and round and round
It’s too late to make it right
I probably wouldn’t if I could
‘Cause I’m mad as hell
Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should

I know you said
Can’t you just get over it
It turned my whole world around
And I kind of like it

I made my bed and I sleep like a baby
With no regrets and I don’t mind sayin’
It’s a sad sad story when a mother will teach her
Daughter that she ought to hate a perfect stranger
And how in the world can the words that I said
Send somebody so over the edge
That they’d write me a letter
Sayin’ that I better shut up and sing
Or my life will be over

I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and
I don’t have time to go round and round and round
It’s too late to make it right
I probably wouldn’t if I could
‘Cause I’m mad as hell
Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should

I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and
I don’t have time to go round and round and round
It’s too late to make it right
I probably wouldn’t if I could
‘Cause I’m mad as hell
Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should

Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting

I did it. I starved and I survived. The last few days were a breeze, by the way, but still. I'm glad it’s over.

I will do some kind of cleanse, probably annually. Here's why:

1) Empowerment The mental power needed to abstain from eating for ten days (no cheating) can be described easily in one word: empowering. It’s worth doing JUST for this.

2)Digestive Rest While I try to steer clear of regularly eating fried, spicy and fatty foods, I do sometimes indulge. My stomach hates me for this. During my cleanse I had no gas and my stomach was definitely more peaceful. Good incentive to keep away from pizza and and a good rest for my organs.

5) Body Instincts I am constantly trying to be more in touch with my body--it's the easiest way to stay in the moment: to recognize hunger, fullness, exhaustion, even your bladder (a feeling I often ignore) and appropriately respond rather than letting habits, work, schedules or other life demands sweep you in a different direction, a wrong direction. When you listen to your body, you take care of yourself best. There's no doubt that this cleanse has put me more in tune with my physical being.

4) Soft Locks During the cleanse, my hair was significantly softer. . .I mean, what does that say about food? Nothing good.

3) Hardship Experiencing hunger was uncomfortable, but an interesting exercise. There’s no safer way of putting yourself into the shoes of starving people and appreciating food for all its nutrients and pleasure.

Added Bonus: Weight Loss Note this is not a reason for doing the cleanse again. This is not why I did the cleanse in the first place. But most people enjoy shedding a few pounds--it's a great incentive for eating healthy, continuing that exercise routine, taking one less cookie, etc. Just remember moderation. This cleanse was not designed as a diet and I don't think it should be used as a diet. I know someone here in the BG who's on her third master cleanse in three months. Not good.

Happy cleansing. . .

I’m alive. Physically, feel fine, save a few headaches. Mentally, not so much. Ability to concentrate has seriously decreased. The feeling of waiting for something to happen is ever-present. Does life really revolve around food? Should it?

8:15 Dreamt that I was on a high school bus, going to a basketball game, deep within it’s green leather seats with my big coat on and bare cheerleading legs. They stopped at McDonalds and I had a hamburger, only remembering half way in that I was on the cleanse.

Hungry. Can hear Michael open the fridge in the kitchen.

8:30 Get up and get dressed for yoga. Heat water for saline solution. Hungry. Rearrange my ingredients on my now sticky portion of the counter. Wash every night, but still, sticky. Syrup and lemons are messy. I am also known to be messy. Try to ignore boiling eggs on burner.

9:30 Have slight headache but getting used to this. Very hungry. Stomach growling. Finish my first 10 ounces of lemonade. Definitely ignore the muesli on the counter. Ignore. Ignore. I do not see it. It is not part of my world.

10:30 Attempt yoga stretching. Weak, but able. Only do for 25 minutes. Very, very hungry after this.

11:30 Walk to Habitat. Why is everyone I pass eating something? Bakery where I sometimes splurge on banitza is demolished. Coincidence? I thank some higher being for this small act of kindness.

12:00 At work. Kitchen is full of food. Bananas, cookies, tea, soy spread, soup, bread, you name it. F”ing smorgasbord. So, I think, this is what it’s like to be hungry. To be hungry all the time. I though it would go away. It hasn’t. A hungry man is an angry man. Who was it that said that? Ah yes, Michael reminds me, our tour guide at the UN headquarter in New York told us this, what, four years ago? I now see her point in a whole new way.

1:00 Hungry again, working on my third bottle of lemonade. Perhaps this is to make me appreciate food. Perhaps I will savor each bit a little more once I eat again. Didn’t expect it to seem, this . . .this. . .this, ludicrous. It sounds weird to say: I haven’t eaten since Friday. Like I’m locked in a wing of new anorexic patients. . .

Bright side: much more free time on my hands when I don’t have to bother to eat. Down side: cannot eat and have to pee much more frequently.

4:49 Out of lemonade. Have been for a couple hours. Realize that food and hunger have taken up permanent residence in a section of my brain. While annoying, this leaves less room for other stressors.

5:13 For the fifteenth time since on the cleanse, plan my celebratory end-of-cleanse meal. What will I eat? Will it taste as good as I think it will? Try to accept the fact that when the cleanse is over, I cannot actually eat anything but fruits, veggies and soup for another three days. So, really, the cleanse is for 13 days.

5:14 They are making popcorn here. Hate them. Today is my hungriest day yet. Still have a headache.

6:25 Home. Feel terrible. Want to lie down. For the first time in ages, feels totally okay to watch episodes of Lost or Grey’s Anatomy for hours. I watch only one.

8:36 Have downed three Nalgene bottles of lemonade in last two hours. Feel much better. Younger brother Philip just called to ask me my opinion on which kind of cake he should have for dessert. Swear at him.

Four days to go until orange juice. Stay tuned.

8:30 I am alone. Alone in this Sofia flat. Strange. No interest in getting up. Was up til 2:30 watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. It’s no Lost, but I like it.

9:30 Okay, I should get up. Seven hours is plenty. But I resist, because this is the first day of my Master Cleanse. The first day of ten whole days when I will eat and drink nothing but specially mixed lemonade, herbal tea and saltwater. This is the first day of my toxin release. I am excited, but a little nervous.

10:00 I have made my salt-hot-water combination and I’m sipping. It’s pretty nast. I am in the bathroom a lot. I bring in my Economist. It’s easier than going back and forth.

11:00 I make my lemonade—two spoonfuls of American-sent Grade B, maple syrup, a balanced sugar to keep me moving; two spoonfuls of freshly squeezed lemon juice, high in vitamins and good at loosening the mucus in my body; a dash of cayenne pepper, a blood vessel dilator, thermal warmer and provider of vitamins; water, to keep me hydrated. I shake up my Nalgene and drink.

What a relief. I find it delicious.

5:14 Had to run and get more lemons. I’ve already had four 16 oz glasses of the stuff.

5:45 I reread the Stanley Burroughs Master Cleanse book in an online PDF. I read it a few years ago, but it’s good to review this alternative theory from the early 70s. I read a couple of online journals about past Master Cleanse experiences. It's become a popular weight-loss method among celebrities, but this is not its original purpose, just a bonus. I know any weight loss will disappear once I begin eating again.

6:15 Wishing I could have "lunch" with my friend, Erin, who has been doing this cleanse for years, and finds that she loves spending ten days without the excessive sugars, preservatives and fats, that in our fast-paced lives, seem to make their way into our bodies. My yoga guru, Baron Baptiste, is also a proponent of the Cleanse.

I'm trying to remain unbiased and go into it with a clear mind. Maybe I'll feel renewed. Maybe its a bunch of crap. But I won't know until I try.

6:41 Mmmm. Hungry.

Reading is a bliss of mine. Perhaps even a glory. Since living in Bulgaria, I’ve cried with Pearl S. Buck in China, got swept away with deranged delight in Asylum and pondered the human condition in Ann Marie McDonald’s epic The Way The Crow Flies. I was fascinated by Malcolm Gladwell’s surprisingly clear academia, uncovered a source of calm in Stegner’s Crossing to Safety and even caught up with a few classics, like Slaughterhouse Five and 1984, obviously appropo.

I recently ran across Gypsy Girl’s blog, a colorful little flower bed of inspirational blooms that often follow my own spiritual spirals. On her sidebar, is the title: On My Nightstand, with book cover photos which were assumedly stacked in that decoratively messy style next to her bed. Just like those glass bowls I saw in Cheerio commercials and wood slats covering exposed radiators which pop up in poet’s apartments, (both of which I now have, ironically, in my poorest existence yet) I longed to one day have the nightstand stack. Check mine out below.

But enough of the prologue. THe point is books and for months now, having dearly missed my own book club back in Denver, and eager to encourage discussion, debate and idea exchange in an organized format, I've tried to begin a book club here in Bulgaria. Of course, Michael tells me that the first rule of Book Club is that there IS no Book Club (Big Ed Norton fan), but I’ve decided to spread my news anyway.

When I first introduced the idea, my Bulgarian friends were bewildered, but curious. So, we're getting together every month? At a scheduled time? To discuss a book we're all reading? Yes, come on! It will be fun!

Now, after several botched scheduling attempts, but a serious burst of determined enthusiasm from fellow Bulgarians, it's happening.

A couple weeks ago, five Americans and four Bulgarians (I know, I know) sat around a table at Veggie Home and began a purposeful run toward the first logistical hurdle of 1) getting books in both Bulgarian and English 2) at an affordable price 3) in a reasonable amount of time.

Too, conversational chemistry takes time. I can see that I’ll have to last through uncomfortable silences in order to encourage the shyest of our group, ball-hog management will be required and as discussions are in English, slowing down my speech will be mandatory.

We’ve decided on White Castle by Orhan Pamuk, an award-winning Turkish author, who was prosecuted by his own government for a Soviet-style crime: defaming his nation through literature. Charges were eventually dropped, but not before this incident was added to Turkey’s growing number of offences regarding freedom of the press. “White Castle” recounts the life of a young Italian Christian taken captive at sea by the Ottoman Turks in the 17th centur. In a dialogue-free style, “White Castle” explores modernization and its ironies as it pits two main characters against each other in a continuous and mutual moral melee.

I would not have chosen this book, but that is, after all, a primary purpose of Book Club---to read a piece you would not have otherwise selected yourself.

Our next book will be Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera, first published in 1984 in France. Set in 1968, Prague, the novel details the circumstances of life for artists and intellectuals in Czechoslovakia in the wake of the Prague Spring and the subsequent invasion by the USSR.

I’ll keep you posted.