An American?! You're from the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA?!?

I had this hysterical conversation last night with a drunk Bulgarian out last night at Bilkova Bar (22 Shishman, Sofia).  I've never had someone get so excited about me being an American.  (It's true there are people in this country who still like Americans!) Also I couldn't help but wonder if this is what being famous is like and if it is, I'll pass.

I guess I should start the story at the beginning.  It goes like this: there are two guy at the bar and one is making eyes at my Bulgarian friend.  There is nothing discreet about it.  They both come over to talk.  Only I don't speak Bulgarian.  Sorry. We start talking in English.  He asks me where I am from and when I tell him the United States he grabs my hand, takes one step back and yells at me: Oh my God, you're an American! You're from the United States?!?

Wosa, is he asking me a question or is he making a statement? Yes, I am from the United States--that is what I just said.  I look at him and laugh.  Everyone in the bar is now looking at us  too.  Glancing over at my Bulgarian friend, she's doubled over laughing at the scene.<!--more-->

So he asks me why I am here and I tell him that I am living in Sofia.  He says: you're not visiting? Nope.  I am here teaching English.  He says: Oh you're here teaching Bulgarian. No. I am not teaching Bulgarian.  I am teaching English. I think to myself: do you think I would be talking to you in English right now if I was qualified to teach Bulgarian?!

We go around like this a couple of times and I decided to break out my Bulgarian.  In Bulgarian, he finally gets that I am teaching English and not Bulgarian.  He laughs and starts asking me some basic questions that I can answer like where do you work and where do you live.

Then he tells me that he likes to listen to me speak Bulgarian--that is sounds really cute.  I know that he's telling me this to be nice but he says it in such a way that I become more self conscious of my Bulgarian than I normally am.  It's infantilizing.  All of a sudden, I feel like a little baby that people are cooing over rather than an adult.

The thing is I am not something to be coo-ed over; I am not a party trick.  I am just a girl trying to learn enough Bulgarian to understand what's going on around me and to communicate with people.  This language isn't easy but I am trying--and it doesn't help instill confidence in my abilities when you tell me it's cute to hear me speak Bulgarian.

But it turns out that he gets it.  He looks around the bar and tells me I bet only 1/4 of these people speak English.  I am not sure if this is true but he continues on.  It would be different in Europe.  The implication is that more people speak English there and that people don't speak English here because they are backwards or stupid.  Again I don't think this is true but it's an interesting observation.

About this time an awkward man comes up to me.  He tells me he couldn't help but hear that I was an American (I knew it--the other guy was yelling really loud!). He's a nice enough guy and I learn that he's been living in Sofia with his Bulgarian wife for the last three years and he teaches Business English.  We talk for a little bit about teaching and life in Bulgaria.  At some point in the conversation, I realized that he was giving me "the American personal space" space.  I thought wow.  I've been here awhile now that "the Bulgarian no peronal space" thing is compeletly normal to me.

I go to the bar to get a beer and stand there for only a minute before another guy is speaking to me in English.  I guess this is what happens when you've been identified as The American.  I order my beer in Bulgarian.  The Stella is 2.40 leva.  I try to pay with a 5 leva note (not a 10 or a 20 the other two options I have). The bartender looks at me and asks me in Bulgarian if I have any thing smaller (like what?!). <em>Oh yeah.  I am in Bulgaria.</em> Clearly he wants me to pay with a 2 leva note but I don't have one.

I dig through the change section of my wallet and scrounge up a 1 leva coin, 2 .50 pieces,  and 2 .20 pieces.  The bartender stands there waiting for me to find the correct amount as if I'm putting him out by not having exact change.  I can't help but thinking while I am digging for change around the bottom of my purse, which seems really big at this moment: this would never happen in the states.  Then again I'd never pay so little for such a big beer in the states.