There are female friendships, usually formed in our youth, that last a lifetime. Even if you haven't seen each other for a whole 10 years, the second you meet in person, the shared adventures of the glorious past send some kind of electricity through both female creatures at cellular level.
And once “the current hits them”, it instantly welds them into one ceaselessly chattering, excited, inseparably bonded female whole.
Time, marriages and responsibilities are powerless against it. Emo always wrings his hands in despair at “how much I change” whenever I meet up with a friend from my youth.
And he's right – I do change. But how is it my fault – the moment I see some mate from the old days, I can feel the black hole of our shared memories opening up. It sucks the two of us into the DNA-like criss-crossing tunnels of time and space and spits us out on their other side, there – back in time and in the place where we met.
In this particular case, we're talking about me and Anna, the Polish girl. And the particular place and time where the black hole of memories would spit the two of us out of its tunnel is the year 2005. On the 13th floor of a skyscraper on Castlereagh Street, in the very heart of Sydney, Australia.
We shared a flat there, spacious enough to hold all 5 of its occupants, as well as the countless guests each of us dragged into it at all hours of the day and night.
Besides me and Anna, it housed her best friend Jola, their compatriot Daniel and the Brazilian Alejandro. Daniel only went out with Japanese girls, and his mania for Asian women had gone so deep that he only watched porn with Asian men and women. Anna and I found this out by accident, when one day, while downloading some photos from her camera onto the computer, we stumbled on a disc with the work of art in question. Our mood, extremely buoyant at the start of the film thanks to the oh-so-intriguing find, sank to sombre as the narrative developed. Every now and then we threw each other looks full of great, great pity – an emotion the genre of the film was not meant to stir in its female viewers.
After the film ended, we stopped judging Asian women quite so harshly for the obsessive fanaticism with which they want to hook up with a white man.
Even back then, almost 20 years ago, Anna was in a serious relationship with Steve, an Englishman. They'd met in London, where she'd gone looking for happiness, running away from some personal problems in Poland. Steve lived in London, but waited patiently for Anna to scratch her itch travelling the world before coming back to him.
Anna is 8 years older than me, and Steve is 20 years older than her. In other words, Steve was, and still is, the same age as my father, long may they both live and stay healthy.
Anna and I parted ways in 2006, when I came back to Bulgaria, met Emil and stayed here for good. She went back to London to Steve and they moved in together.
Living in London, our Anna became seriously posh. Because Steve is a property developer. They own 3 houses in Notting Hill, one of the swankiest neighbourhoods in London. Steve buys buildings there. He renovates them, extends their floor space by, for example, digging out a whole floor at -1, building it on a slope so that light comes in from one side.
Back home we'd call it a “basement”. But it's not exactly a basement, because lots of light gets in. All the hassle of extending the old and expensive buildings in the area is justified. Building new ones there is banned. They want to preserve the spirit of the neighbourhood and a load of things like that. So every single square metre of extension to existing floor space there is worth a fortune.
The first time I went to London was to introduce Anna to Emo. That was in 2009. Emo was approved of instantly. By her, at least. When we Eastern Europeans are on “foreign” territory – that is, that of the developed world – we observe the unwritten law of helping each other in every way possible. Be it Bulgarians, Poles, Romanians and so on, we always support each other, both morally and materially. So it was more than clear that Emo and I would sleep in the best room, in the best of Anna and Steve's houses. The one they themselves live in.
Steve wasn't too pleased at being reduced to the rank of their cat Fluffy, with whom he had to move out of his own bedroom at short notice so that their guests from Bulgaria could settle in there. Both members of the human-and-animal tandem in question received a bursting-with-health, sturdily built Polish kick up the backside each. And they went flying into the smaller bedroom. So that Emo and I could move into their places like royalty.
I'd be lying if I told you this raised my stock with Steve. Anna used his credit card to treat us to toast with black caviar for breakfast and oysters and lobster for dinner. With every single fruit of the sea I swallowed, I plummeted further down his chart of people he'd like to spend time with.
Steve looked at me so reproachfully through the slits of his narrowed little eyes, while Anna fed me like a mother with their money, that the lobster in butter-and-lemon sauce turned to sawdust in my mouth. I could feel his thoughts:
“There you go – this situation illustrates the rotten system of the European Union. We English pour money into the budget, and the Eastern Europeans stuff their faces on our credit cards and sleep in our beds.”
I shared my worries with Emo. I wished I had his healthy attitude to the matter:
“Honestly, this Steve's a right little Snow White, isn't he – 'Who's been eating from my plate, who's been sleeping in my bed.' Ohhh, we're far too pampered, tut tut.”
I have a theory about the creation of Brexit. And it's that immediately after the end of our first visit to London in 2009, Steve went round to see his good neighbour Nigel Farage. He complained to him.
He told him about the persecution he'd been subjected to in his own country, in his own house and in his own bedroom by the Bulgarians. Carried out solely thanks to the support of the Poles.
This opened up for Farage a niche of discontent among the people, which he then managed to whip up into a wave he could ride for personal political gain, and which led to Brexit in 2016.
Yes, Farage (along with Stella McCartney, Claudia Schiffer and a few others) were Steve and Anna's neighbours. Or as Emo liked to say during our several visits to London, they were “our” neighbours.
So imagine how surprised I was when, this time last year, we received an invitation – the whole family – to Steve and Anna's wedding, in Wrocław.
After 20 years of living together, they wanted to tie the knot. The wedding was only for a close circle of friends – read: rich people of their rank, and us
My first problem was what wedding present to get for people who own 3 properties in Notting Hill and set aside 3 months every year to travel the world. It had to be something with sentimental value, because there was nothing material we could impress them with.
I rejected Emo's suggestion that we buy them each “a nice Bulgarian folk costume”.
I couldn't see how they'd be used. If, say, Steve were a big fan of Bulgaria, it would come in handy at least once a year. Every 3rd of March he could tie on the sash, pull on the peasant moccasins and knock back a whisky to our unbreakable nation. But given his attitude towards us, that's extremely unlikely.
Perhaps a Bulgarian folk costume might find a narrow niche use. For example, if Anna kicked him out of his bedroom over some misdemeanour of his. Then he could remark sarcastically that, as he remembers it, this bedroom has always opened its doors to Bulgarians, even at the expense of the English and their cats. He could disguise himself in the Bulgarian costume in order to gain access to his sleeping quarters. But I see no other use for it.
As for Anna, a Bulgarian costume would be of no use whatsoever. Here in Bulgaria the women's costume has one single function:
We take some girl, lavishly equipped with every possible enhancement known to plastic surgeons, dermatologists, make-up artists and the creators of filters. For some reason, probably marketing, we want her to rack up loads of likes online.
If we photograph her in her natural habitat, the photo will get mixed reactions. The pious Bulgarian will judge her for the fake eyelashes, the fake lips and the extensions, and will generally label her a “floozy”.
But if we take exactly the same girl, dress her in a folk costume and write above her “The natural beauty of Bulgarian women”, then we're on the right track. All the reactions will be positive. The comments will overflow with statements like: “there's no such untouched and tender femininity any more”.
Along these lines, the female folk costume serves as a tool for creating an impression. Those wearing it automatically acquire humility of soul, spirituality, inner and outer beauty. At least for social media users.
Anna has no interest whatsoever in convincing Bulgarian Facebook users of her virtues, or of anything at all about herself. So the costume wouldn't get any use.
We saved the present situation thanks to a cracking runner, Karolina. Besides running, she's developing two brands of her own creations – one for personalised silver jewellery https://www.facebook.com/carissima.silver, the other for pictures made of Lego figures https://www.facebook.com/legominiface.
With her help at the last minute, the newlyweds received a silver necklace in the shape of Australia for the bride, as well as a framed picture of Lego people depicting typical moments for their family.
We loaded ourselves into the car and had a very pleasant road trip to Wrocław, with an overnight stop in Bratislava. On the way the kids were very excited. Because, according to themselves, they spoke English at “native speaker” level and would finally get the chance to practise it with their own kind.
We arrived at the hotel in Wrocław in the early afternoon, a few hours before the wedding.
As soon as we walked into the hotel, the kids got the chance to start their English conversations straight away. With our very first step into the hotel lobby, we ran into the groom, who was already blind drunk.
“And here's the most beautiful woman in the whole hotel” – with these words, slurred in English, Steve shot out from somewhere and flung himself round my neck, where within seconds he drifted off into a light doze. Then he twitched awake, mumbled something, came to his senses and made an effort to pull himself together.
My kids, up to that moment absolutely confident in their English, for the first time called their language skills into question. They weren't sure they'd understood correctly that “their mother is beautiful”, let alone that she's “the most beautiful in the whole hotel”.
My two sons exchanged questioning looks and the younger one suggested hesitantly: “Do you mean, she is the prettiest in the entire hotel lobby?”
In direct translation: “Do you perhaps mean she's the prettiest in the whole hotel lobby?” – was my son's guess.
Now I understood why years ago my father complained that my brother, then 8, had told him he loved him the most of all the fathers in our block of flats. It hurts when they declare you “the most” within an extremely limited territory.
Otherwise, there's no point playing modest. If, at that very moment, a “Miss Lobby” contest had been held in the hotel, I really would have been the undisputed winner. My only female rivals present in the lobby at that moment were the bride's two 70-year-old twin aunties from the town of Kielce.
Even though they looked very fresh for their age, thanks to the reddest cheeks in the world, I think it was only right that they resign themselves to the role of my runners-up, because they had very bulging, knotty veins on their legs.
Emil headed towards Steve with his hand held out to shake:
“Emil, you lucky dog!” Steve hung lovingly off his hand. He asked us how our journey had been. When he found out we'd driven 1500 km just to make it to his wedding, he dropped reverently onto a chair. His face shone with sweet humility before the heroic feat of the 3 Balkan lions and their lioness.
“Friends, I'm so glad you managed to come. Thank you so, so much for honouring us! This means so much to us!”
We couldn't help noticing the sharp contrast in his behaviour. Years ago he'd been wondering how to sweep us out of his home as quickly as possible, and now adoration was pouring from his eyes and his soul.
“My friends were really hoping Nia in particular would come! I showed them her WhatsApp profile picture, the one where she's getting out of the pool.”
I felt like spreading my wings and soaring like Icarus in a victory flight, before the sun had melted the wax on my wings.
What can I tell you, people – Notting Hill is Notting Hill, but it's powerless before the charm of the Bulgarian MILF.
There you go, I've been here 15 minutes and I've already won an imaginary contest for the beauty of the lobby, and on top of that my arrival has delighted a whole gang of my father's contemporaries.
I'm holding my head high, crown and all!
As my sons would say – Keep Slaying, Queen!
A few hours later, the family came down for the party in all our splendour. Bow ties, shirts, evening dresses – everything just as it should be.
When I was packing, I'd chosen a long black dress and a dark-blue lace one. Neither of them was short enough to please the fans of my WhatsApp profile picture. I was worried I'd disappoint them. But when I was packing, I didn't know there were such high expectations of me.
The family sat down at our assigned table in all our glory.
We shared it with several ladies, most of whom, judging by their accents and their outfits, had just arrived from the races at Ascot.
I'd hoped we'd be seated at a table with some of the old boys from my fan base, so it would be easier to break the ice. But Anna had evidently decided that the company of these refined ladies was more worthy of us.
Viktor, our elder son, was irritated by the very first starter served. Two minuscule crackers smeared with beetroot purée and garnished with soy sprouts. There they are in the background:
Maybe some gourmet connoisseur would appreciate it, but not 15-year-old Viktor, who single-handedly eats a whole tray of chicken and rice for dinner. His irritation was heightened by the fact that he'd wanted to eat 5-6 sandwiches before the wedding to take the edge off his hunger. But his father had forbidden it, so as not to “spoil his dinner”.
I reassured him that this wasn't “dinner”, but some pathetic nibble. Just one of the preludes to the Great Feast. And so it turned out. By the end of the evening – actually, by morning – we were served everything from chicken to chicken's milk, at regular hourly intervals. But at that early hour, when the night was still young, the even younger Viktor was irritated.
Several times the child went to wash his hands, hoping that when he came back the miniature red “turd” on his plate would have been replaced by chicken with potatoes, pork with rice, or a wine kebab stew. Or better still, by a combination of all three. But no such luck.
In an attempt to distract himself from his hunger until something fit for humans arrived, he tried to kill a few minutes chatting in English with the lady seated next to him. She turned out to be a friend of Anna's, running a big recruitment firm. Anna had told me she was very “cross” with people. In other words, she didn't take any nonsense from anyone!
The lady was Spanish – in young Viktor's eyes, all foreigners speak English at “native” level like him, so he struck up a conversation with her.
In an accent impeccable by his standards, and in (objectively speaking) impeccable English, Viktor struck up a conversation. In my opinion, at least judging by my son's choice of topic, they'd recently done the lesson “what my day is like” in English class.
Because he leaned over protectively towards the Big-Boss-Lady-from-the-Iberian-Peninsula, casually draped his arm over the back of her chair and began explaining to her what his day was like. Probably because of his stomach grinding with hunger, the emphasis of his day fell on food and everything to do with it. The conversation went something very like this:
“In the morning I get up at exactly 6:00. While it's still dark, I wash the dishes, that's my job. In these dirty plates and in this greasy tray, last night there was something very tasty. Sometimes it's been pizza, sometimes pasta bolognese, sometimes marinated ribs. But now they're gone and all that's left behind is piles of dishes to wash…”
I'm looking on proudly. The Spanish lady knocks back champagne after champagne, seeking salvation in a conversation with some adult. The DJ calls us onto the dance floor.
While we're dancing, thank God, the main courses are served and Viktor has managed to stave off his hunger. He's not full, because he's never full, but he's calmed down enough.
We go back to the table to find some products of Polish cuisine on it – meat with vegetables, but in jellied form. It's already getting on for 3 in the morning.
The bride and groom are heading our way. The bride, we can safely say, is carrying the groom. The man in question, as we already know, has been in a rather crumbly state since the previous afternoon. And the series of speeches and their accompanying toasts have only made things worse. Anna, throwing us an apologetic look, says:
“Steve, say good night to Nia, Emo and their kids, and after that I want you in bed.”
The firmness of Steve's backbone rivals that of the jellied meat from the Polish delicacies. That doesn't stop him showering me with lots of affectionate “good night” kisses. Drunk he may have been, but every single one of those kisses landed right on my mouth. At some point he gave a start. He remembered it isn't polite to wrap only one member of our family in so much love. He corrected himself by devoting himself to passionate kisses on Emo's cheeks. The kisses for Emo were no less ardent than those for me, but that didn't move Anna.
A friend of mine from way back, just like me, she found the episode harmless and extremely funny. She grabbed the groom by the lapel, winked at me and told him:
“Now, as punishment, since you're sooooo much of an expert at kissing ladies from Eastern Europe, you're coming with me right now to kiss my aunties from Kielce 'good night' too.”
Steve obediently went off to kiss aunties and go to bed. Our contest in the lobby may never have taken place. But all three of its would-be prizewinners received a present – a kiss from the groom.
I turned towards the centre of the table to eat my wedding cake. My eyes came to rest on Viktor and the Spanish lady. Now fed, he'd focused on another part of his daily routine. While we'd been dancing and kissing the groom, he'd filled her in, in broad strokes, on the main part of his day. They'd already got to a description of his evenings.
Viktor was in his element:
“Believe it or not, each and every evening, I take a shower.”
Resignation could be read on the woman's face – as if to say, I believe you shower every evening, just don't go any further into the details!
My son, not believing in such things as facial expressions, continued: “We have a bathtub at home and I use it on daily basis. I wish we only had a shower cabin, as opposed to a bathtub, because taking a bath is rather time consuming, compared to a quick shower. And I need my time, because after my bath I devote at least an hour to playing my guitar.”
The little Spanish woman managed to drown her yawn in two huge gulps of champagne. As she was thirstily lapping it up, she met my proud maternal gaze. Her expression softened, she smiled at me, raised her glass to me and toasted me: “Your son is SO LOVELY!”
Lovely he is, of course, Mummy's golden boy.
My other golden boy, Nikola, was eating his cake and thinking out loud. He couldn't get his head round a man his grandfather's age only just getting married. Not to mention that the bride is older than his own mother. “Damn, these newlyweds are proper boomers,” he shared with me.
“Actually, are they boomers, or are they the generation before the boomers? Eh, Mum? But there's no one left alive from the generation before the boomers.”
For reference on what a boomer really is: (https://www.beresfordresearch.com/age-range-by-generation/). Otherwise, for my son, boomer means: old person.
Emil, as always analysing the situation and looking for some practical advantage in it, nudged me:
“Listen, Steve seems to like Bulgarians more than he did in previous years. Why don't we take advantage of that, eh? Let's send Viki to study in London, and while he's studying he can live in Notting Hill with him and Anna? They've got so many houses there – what do they need them for anyway?”
