Great Women.
That's my category on The Floor.
By chance or not, “Great Women” was placed between the categories “Office” and “Cuisine (International)”.
Hang on a minute, what category, what placement, what women, you'll rightly be wondering – and anyway – what is this The Floor thing.
The Floor is a TV format new to Bulgaria, with a hundred contestants. Each of them is an “expert” in a given category. With that category they defend their own territory, and to conquer a new one they have to attack it, challenging its owner in their own category. In other words, each of us contestants has to be prepared on at least 100 categories (it later turned out to be a few more), which are sent to us about 10 days before the show starts.
And it's called The Floor because the 100 contestants are positioned on a huge illuminated floor, on which our territories and their current layout glow. We start with 100 equal territories, which go through intense redistribution as the game goes on and in the end merge into one – that of the grand winner.
While preparing for my participation, I watch the 3rd season of the American version of the show. As the “owner” of a category as magnificent as “Great Women”, I can't understand how those dim Americans duel on categories like “fruit” and “vegetables”.
Obviously the Americans have no general knowledge, but have they really sunk so low as to show off Year 2 knowledge? – I thought, still not grasping what the game was really about. I was yet to learn that the “baby” categories like “fruit”, “vegetables”, “beach”, “office” are actually one of the finest sieves for the contestants, because the decisive quality in this game is keeping a cool head. This is the place to add that the game is purely visual – contestants have to identify and name images within 45 seconds.
Even in a duel on the simplest topic, say – “fruit” – one of the contestants will be knocked out. The one whose time runs out first. Even if two brilliant players are playing. In the end one of them still loses, because they were half a second slow with the answer “parsnip”. For example. Here seconds and hundredths carry the same weight as in sprint distances in running.
The first season is going to be filmed in Holland. At the airport I discovered that a large number of the 100 contestants knew each other, and not only knew each other, but were super close. It seemed strange to me that at castings which lasted, say, 2–3 hours, they'd managed to forge such firm friendships. Clearly – I concluded – people know how to close the distance faster than I do, and here I'd always thought I was the champion in that dubious discipline.
At the airport Mitko, who's also a runner, struck up a conversation with me. As we made our way through security and gates, I noticed that he too knew quite a few of the other contestants. It turned out he'd been with some of them on various QUIZZING teams, at a number of QUIZZING events. He wasn't the strongest of the quizzers, mind you. The toughest ones were this guy, this guy, that guy and that guy – Mitko pointed out various people whose faces I still can't remember. And then – that lady over there, Dimitrina, was a 25-time winner on “The Last One Wins”, and that lady – Megi – was the Queen of Spades from “The Great Chase”. I realised I was dealing with Prepared-and-Cool-Headed people, seasoned veterans of quizzes and TV formats.
Only at that moment did the scale of my unpreparedness for The Floor begin to dawn on me. On the plane I was lucky enough to be seated in front of three of the best quizzers, who were doing a light revision of the material. The lads next to me happened to be the quiet type, so together we got the chance to eavesdrop on the stellar minds behind us. Laptops were opened and they decided to revise “Oscar Winners” – one of the categories I had devoted some time to. In about 40 minutes they went through every single Oscar winner since 1942. Given that we were, after all, preparing for 100 categories, I had focused mainly on the Oscars for Best Actor and Best Actress. But the gentlemen behind me ploughed through the winners for directing and supporting roles too; from them I learnt, for example, about Viola Davis, whose name I secretly jotted down in a little notebook where I kept track of my preparation.
Straight after landing we headed to the studio to do the test shots and find out our places on The Floor. Having felt utterly disarmed on the plane by the other contestants' knowledge, in the studio I restored the balance of power. I achieved this by resorting to my most powerful weapon – and come to think of it, in this situation my only one – putting on a very pretty pink suit. The brainboxes might have known all the Oscar winners, but that didn't help them look good in pink (except for one lady with the stage name Enigma, who will very soon be shining on your screens). Not that it was of any practical use whatsoever, but at least it was a little something for my confidence.
There had long been speculation and unconfirmed rumours about who the host would be. At the test shoot in the studio the secret was revealed: it would be Julian Kostov. I won't go deep into him. But I will say that he proves the rule that the more successful you are (and he's made it on a world level), the more down-to-earth, approachable and human you are. Besides which, he is – I'm choosing this expression – easy on the eye.
So I'd found out who the host was. But how was I going to find out who the big sharks were that I had to watch out for?????
Some had already been pointed out to me – Atanas, Ivan Pantev, Dinko (Dinko was one of the ones revising the material behind me on the plane, and the hole he burnt in my self-esteem won't be easy to patch up), Dimitrinka and 2–3 others. But I knew there were over 30 or so experienced quizzers here. Thirty-odd minefields where my foot had better not tread.
In the studio the lamps, lights and spotlights came on, and at last they lined us up by our numbers on The Floor. From 1 to 100. I was number 84 – looking for some symbolism in it, I remembered that I get on very well with people born in '84. Well then – there you go, it must be lucky for me.
The time had come to do a bit of reconnaissance on these tigers lined up around me. My potential first opponents.
There were 4 of them, with the categories “Made in USA”, “Office”, “International Cuisine”. The 4th category remained one big question mark for me. Its owner – an ethereal, flamboyant type who described himself as a Poet-of-Peace, with the stage name Kikir (honestly, what a bunch they'd picked for this) – refused to reveal it to me. The other lads, two of whom I made friends with, told me their categories without a fight.
Why was I clawing to find out my neighbours' categories, you ask – because it gave me until the next day to concentrate my preparation on those 4 categories, instead of all the 100-plus original ones. My first battles were more likely to be with one of them.
Kikir was bouncing around me, dressed in a cherry-red plush musketeer costume. Instead of a rapier, he was slicing the air around him with a big peacock feather (he is a Poet of Peace, after all) and refusing to reveal his category to me. All my attempts at an exchange of information were foiled by this pacifist sly fox. Communication between us went roughly like this:
Me: “Come on, tell me what your category is…” (cursed, cursed Sagittarius sign, when will you learn to add a bit of foreplay before getting to the important question, just for decency's sake)
Kikir was clearly not a representative of my diplomacy-free star sign, because he elegantly parried with a question to my own question:
“Have you been a dancer since you were little?” – I looked into his blue eyes, which radiated a divine light coming straight from timelessness and luring me back there, towards infinity, where we're all happy, our ego is defeated, we're equal before God, and we don't peek into the bowls of our neighbours on The Floor. Those eyes didn't judge me for being a materialist interested in other people's categories. They understood that I was on a lower spiritual level, accepted me and forgave me. They knew that in a few reincarnations I'd reach the level of their owner. It's just still too early for me.
This dialogue repeated itself several times, but instead of a dancer, the following times Kikir asked me whether I'd been a track-and-field athlete since I was little, and then – whether I'd been a gymnast since I was little.
There was no point wasting my time on him; after all, if the randomiser landed on me tomorrow, I'd have a choice of three other categories I already knew. An even more important factor than the category itself is its owner. If they're a cool-headed player, they can thrash me even on the topic of my own biography.
Particularly warm feelings were stirred in me by my neighbour on the left, owner of the category “International Cuisine”. His first name and surname – Nikola Yotov – are the same as my younger son's. With motherly love I explained to Nikola Yotov that if the randomiser landed on me, he'd be precisely the one I'd attack. (The “randomiser”, or the “shuffler”, is an allusion to divine intervention. In plain English – it's the algorithm, appearing to us mere mortal players in the form of a beam of white light and choosing who plays.)
Nikola Yotov agrees. I think all people with that name are very cool. I wonder, if this scenario comes about, whether the Nikola Yotov I gave life to would cheer for his mother or for his namesake.
Behind me is Vankata. We've become super close buddies. His category is “Made in USA”, subtitled “Symbols of the American Dream”. Vankata has promised me not to attack me, so that he can enjoy the view of me in my pink trousers from his vantage point for as long as possible. When you know your cards aren't strong, you start being less attached to your principles of fair play. You might have to pull all sorts of trumps out of your sleeves and trouser legs. Vankata, let's say, I've neutralised by not entirely ethical means. But lately, seeing what people do to achieve their goals, I'm practically an angel from heaven.
Right. Let's revise the positioning. Nikola Yotov on my left with “International Cuisine”, Vankata behind me with “Symbols of the American Dream”. On the square in front of me flutters and coos the dove of peace, carrying a big question mark in its beak instead of an olive branch. On my right stands a player who, I'll soon learn, can only be described with a million exclamation marks. But that can't in any way be gleaned from his appearance, or his meekness, or his category – “Office”. Back then I was living in the blissful delusion that the “easy” categories are given to “weak” players!
The game began and the randomiser started picking players at random. I was itching to play, I couldn't see straight. Fate rarely tailors its actions to my emotions, but this time it decided to take pity on me, and after a few rounds the randomiser landed on my silent neighbour with “Office”. He chose to go into battle with a professor on the topic of “bodies of water”.
The next 2 x 45 seconds completely transformed my idea of my neighbour. The players' screens showed bodies of water of every kind, marked in blue against the relevant part of the world, which could only be made out from the geographical relief and/or the outlines of the national borders. The players started with easier rivers like the Danube and the Nile, but as the seconds ticked by they went through Lake Baikal and got as far as the Iguazu Falls and Lake Ontario. Both the professor and my neighbour were answering within a second, and correctly. We spectators were like at a Wimbledon final – we could barely follow the lightning returns the players were firing at each other… The round ended, and when the dust in my own brain had settled enough for me to perceive and process information again, I discovered that my neighbour had beaten the professor…..
Bad news. Let's hope he chooses to go back and guard his territory! My appetite for playing shrank abruptly, like a snail whose little horns have been touched and which retreats lightning-fast as deep as possible into its shell. With his next words, the winner of the previous round dragged it out of its shell by force and slapped it down stark naked, unprotected, under the spotlights.
“Office” was going to have a go at the category “Great Women”.
Protect me, pink suit, give me strength, great women!
I stepped out into the arena; the battle would be fought on my own territory – great women. I already knew I was dealing with a top player.
The Floor studio is impressive and worth the trip to the Netherlands. Before each duel there's a short light show, which ends with the whole studio going dark and a countdown from 3 to 1 on the players' screens, after which the game begins. During that transition into the game I calmed down, or maybe panicked, I don't know which. The conscious feeling was as if I was swimming in a lake of infinite calm, but I suspect the iceberg of the subconscious underneath was shaking with panic. Because I started behaving erratically.
Not wildly erratically, just with slightly delayed reactions.
I heard Vankata say “pass” a few times. Which was good for me. When he gave a correct answer, it was my turn, and a woman appeared on my screen in a black-and-white vintage photo, whose face I had never seen. She could have been anyone – from Florence Nightingale to Ada Lovelace. I had the good sense to pass, and the correct answer appeared on the screen – one of our very own – Rayna Knyaginya!!! And to think that at breakfast that morning I'd been running through the options for great women with a fellow contestant from the show, and I told her that they'd 100% give me Rayna Knyaginya. But for me Rayna Knyaginya comes with her obligatory prop – the flag embroidered with “Freedom or Death”. Without the familiar context – the flag in the photo – she turned out to be completely unrecognisable to me.
Meanwhile Vankata had also got himself in a muddle somehow, because he kept dodging the correct answers with passes, while I started getting familiar faces. In fact, I didn't get a single unfamiliar face, but this game is far from being only about knowledge. This game is about quick wits, properly focused thinking and, above all – KEEPING A COOL HEAD. A tough field to shine in for someone whose blood is always on the boil.
Halfway through our game I went on a strong run. One after the other I correctly named Grace Kelly, Indira Gandhi and Petya Dubarova. I feel connected to the last one for many reasons, and when her face lit me up, I almost felt her protection. Time was flying; I'd told myself not to look at the timers so as not to panic, but I knew I was ahead of Vankata. The next female face I had to identify was Camilla Parker Bowles.
Well, this is where I let my brain relax and prematurely congratulate itself on victory.
I've followed the sagas of the Royal Family from Diana all the way to Meghan Markle and her dishes with violets, which she whips up “with love for H”. Not only do I know who Camilla is, I've read several of her biographies and countless reels and gossip columns. I opened my mouth to say Camilla Parker Bowles, but my grey matter, which I'm beginning to suspect has fewer folds than I thought, cut me short:
“Hang on, Nia, when this woman married Charles, shouldn't she have changed her surname?”
What was the protocol? ….tick-tock-tick-tock…. Maybe not? If so – what would it be…. tick-tock-tick-tock…. Camilla Mountbatten-Windsor??? No, I've never heard her called that… I'll just say her name – the one the whole world knows her by…
….tick-tock-tick-tock….
But….what was it again???…………….. In the middle of all the ticking, the surname Parker Bowles evaporated irretrievably from my mind… in its place a mush of celebrity names containing “Parker” formed. I watched helplessly as in my mind Sarah Jessica Parker hit Charlie Parker over the head with a little Chanel handbag, while he in turn rolled his eyes pitifully as he blew his saxophone…. Against the backdrop of this virtual Parker derby, in real life the seconds kept ticking.
I've always regretted being a child of socialism, whose first seven years were spent in justification mode (back then all of us kids were guilty of everything by default). In that moment of panic, a frantic urge rose up in me to explain to the whole world that I might not remember Camilla's surname, but I know who she is! Tonnes of explanatory information came bubbling out of me about who this woman is and what she's all about. The seconds kept running, but the signal for a correct answer never came, so at some point I had to come to my senses and say “pass”. The pass ate up another 3 seconds and put the ball back in my court. After a correct answer it's the opponent's turn, but after a pass it's your turn again. As I've already mentioned, keeping a cool head isn't one of my traits, and when Coco Chanel appeared before my eyes – whose life and work, again, I could tell you all about – I stayed silent.
Why did I stay silent, you ask? Because, against all logic, I thought it was Vankata's turn. Never mind that when it's your opponent's turn there's a red cross on your screen, not a picture of a great woman.
Don't ask me why. I don't know. Something in my settings isn't working optimally. Well, in the end I did realise it was my turn and said Coco Chanel, at exactly the second my time ran out.
The adrenaline drained from my cells and disappointment rushed in to take its place. I refused to understand and accept that I'd lost my very first battle, which meant the game was over for me. I also felt bad that I hadn't given my category – “Great Women” – a worthy showing. Although it was assigned to me by the production, it's perfectly in tune with my value system, and I'd embraced it almost as a personal cause – to show the greatness of women.
But whether women are great or not in the context of the competition – watch the first season to the end and we'll see who's who and who comes out on top. It may well turn out that a few women of a high rank of greatness are strutting their stuff in it.
As for me – I watched the rest of the show from the sofa in front of the studio, as it unfolded live. Of course, from the sofa I usually managed to give the right answer. But that's what we sofa players are like – we play strong only while we're sitting on said piece of furniture. Our powers evaporate when we get up from it. Since I'd got to know the people and had started forming preferences based on personal likes, I was on fire as a spectator too.
I met all sorts of lovely, impressive and inspiring people. Including someone with taste identical to my rather unusual taste in Bulgarian literature and contemporary Bulgarian authors – Zhorkata Karamanev. With him, with a girl – Magi, whom for some reason I feel extraordinarily close to – and with a few more people, including Dinko from the plane (wait till you see him play), we created Quiz for a Cause (quizza.bg). It's a website where you can support a cause by solving both themed and general-knowledge quizzes.
Despite all the side benefits I gained from taking part, I'm disappointed in myself. I wish I'd felt the thrill of this truly wonderful game, which demands a wide range of qualities, for longer.
I wholeheartedly recommend that my readers take part in the coming seasons of the show. But if you're not from the quizzing community and you lack experience – don't go unprepared. My game showed clearly that just reading books won't cut it. You need at least a few months of practice with quizzes on different topics, so that your brain gets used to handling general-knowledge information in a fast, competitive mode.
The preparation is actually fun – either join some of the many evenings organised weekly by the various quizzing communities, or practise your skills on our website –Quiz for a Cause – .
