I am regularly reminded of my own foreignness living here Bulgaria. In the beginning it was overwhelming and today it's like my foreignness is lurking waiting to pop-up and surprise me. Interestingly, the more time I've spent here, the more I've acclimated to the quirks and to little surprises that are part of life in Sofia and I feel less foreign and more me.  This is of course the space that your own foreignness sneaks up on you--when you feel less foreign and more yourself.  Then you run headlong into your own  foreignness when you're least expecting it.

These days I've grown accustomed to stray dogs, unreliable costumer service, pickles on my pizza, uneven (or even missing) sidewalks, people who do double takes on the street (and for the record, I still can't keep myself from double-checking to make sure that my skirt hasn't been tucked into my tights), the never ending traffic jams, and the fact that alcohol can't be sold on election day (or the night before).  More or less, I've accepted these things--sure on bad days these things frustrate me but on good days they become part of the charm. I know this.  I am an American living abroad.  This is not America and I wouldn't want it to be (even on my bad days).

Somehow though my Americanness isn't as obvious to others as I think it must be.  I think that I must wear my Americanness like a badge with my accent, my clothes, and my mannerisms but more often than not Bulgarians I've just met tell me they assumed that I am Dutch, German or maybe even French before they'd have guessed I am American.  <!--more-->In fact, recently I was at a party and a Bulgarian asked me: are you Bulgarian? I think his question was another way of asking: what are you?/where are you from? In other words, it seems to me that this question was his way of saying: I can tell that you're foreign but I don't know what you are.

I am an American. For better or worse.  Clearly, I don't think of myself as the worst kind of American but there are certainly times where I am uber-aware of my own Americanness.  Oh and yes, I think that my Americanness is a special case of foreignness. I am not just an outsider in Bulgaria; I am an American outsider.  I grew-up seeing, experiencing and learning about the world through a very specific lens. An American one.

So what follows are a few things that catch me off-guard, remind me of my foreignness, and make me think: Carolyn, you're such an <em>American</em>. The italics are important. They emphasize the fact that I know I am making cultural assumptions and judgments based on where I grew up. The thing is, I often don't want to be an <em>American</em> but this is a hard thing to unlearn and I am not even sure that I'd want to if I could.  I guess that it will have to do that I know I am being (and thinking) like an <em>American</em> from time to time
<ul>
	<li><strong>The acceptability of drinking beer in public places. </strong>I took the metro from Mladost to the city center recently and there was a young man drinking a beer and reading a beat up book.  I noticed him first because he was reading (see my point below) and then I saw that he was drinking a bottle of beer as well. He kept the bottle tucked between he legs when he was turning pages.  In some ways it looked like the most natural thing in the world and then it hit me: he's drinking beer on public transportation, how can he do that? Yep, that's an <em>American</em> response.</li>
	<li><strong>People reading (or not reading) on public transportation</strong>. So I noticed the young man in the story above first because he was reading.  After five years in Washington DC, you begin to judge people by what they're reading on public transportation (and nearly everyone is reading)--which newspaper they are reading, what novel, the magazine they are flipping through (the Economist, the Atlantic, the New Yorker, Time).  There's an unspoken hierarchy in reading materials. So here I am trying to see what this guy is reading--even though it likely wont mean much to me.  This is either the English teacher in me, the elitist or the <em>American</em> in me that makes me act this way.</li>
	<li><strong>Working on Saturday to make up for a weekday holiday given by the government</strong>. The <em>American</em> in me doesn't understand this at all. The Bulgarians I know seem to shrug this off.  I am nearly incapable of doing the same. I would like to but I can't.  I want to say two things when this happens: the weekend is mine and stop screwing around with my schedule but I have no one to say this to. So I'll just complain about it on my blog (this also seems fairly <em>American</em> to me).</li>
	<li><strong>The size of coffee</strong>.  I'd like to say that 98% of the time I am happy with the size of the coffee in Bulgaria but the other 2% of the time the <em>American</em> inside of me screams in need more coffee than this. I need more. I guess there's a chance that it's the coffee fiend inside of me that's screaming this but I have a hunch the fiend wouldn't know to scream for more coffee if it wasn't an American-coffee-fiend.</li>
	<li><strong>Bank fees</strong>. I hate that money costs money--this is clearly the same the world over a trade I make for a bank to keep my money but it still irks me. I know that Bulgaria is more or less a cash economy and a year and a half later I am okay with this. But when I look at the extensive list of fees from my Bulgarian bank for things like purchases with my debit card (0.20 leva) I think: really?! That's when I remember I am an <em>American</em> and this is why I pay for my purchases with cash.  Oh and why is the bank fee 0.98 leva for withdrawing cash from another bank's atm? Be <em>American</em> about it and just charge a whole 1 lev.</li>
	<li><strong>Pickled vegetables of every size and type</strong>.  When I see big buckets of pickled veggies at the markets, three things happen. First, I wonder who's eating whole pickled carrots; second, heart burn begins to radiate through my entire body and third, I cringe at the fact that these pickled veggies (cabbage, carrots, pickles, peppers and what not) are just open to the world without a lid covering them.  In this case I have a harder time distinguishing which part the <em>American</em> in me is reacting to and which part is just me.</li>
	<li><strong>Boys in purple.</strong> As a general rule in the States, girls wear pink and purple and boys do not. Unless you're a boy who goes to a prep-school or you still like the prep-school-look after college, then you probably still wear pastel pink polos, nantucket red pants and chinos with little turtles or whales embroidered on them.  As such, the <em>American</em> in me gets a huge kick out of seeing lots of vivid purple on teenagers and twenty-something men. They are rocking it. And I think that rocks. Why should purple be a girl color?</li>
	<li><strong>Ice cubes</strong>. Many days I never miss them.  Then I get a room-temperature or warmer coke and a glass to drink my coke out of and all I want is five or six decent ice cubes.  Yep, that's it.  I don't need the <em>American</em> glass full of ice cubes; I just want a few to cool down my coke.</li>
</ul>
So, there you have it. A few of things that remind me that I am a foreigner, that Bulgaria is not my home and that deep down, I am an American.  I am an American living in Bulgaria.  But I guess I wouldn't have it any other way.  Living away from your home country teaches you a lot about yourself, your country and your new country.