Costa Rica

Pura Vida! Siguen algunos photos de mi viaje a la tierra de selvas, volcanos, y monos de caras blancas... That is to say, some captured moments from a picture-perfect land of rainforests, volcanoes and white-faced monkeys. Initially planned as a peaceful six-day "girlfriend getaway," our vacation there quickly evolved into an adventure packed week. On the second day, barely having buried toes in the blackish sand of Costa Rica's Pacific coast, Galina got a screaming eye infection from her contacts. So instead of frolicking with the local surfers with sun-bleached hair and a serious taste for European chillout music, we jetted to the emergency room in Quepos, then back to San Jose to seek an opthamologist. That was the bad part...the fun part was that I somehow managed to string together enough medical Spanish to explain to the taxi driver, the receptionist, the nurse, and finally to the doctor what was wrong and why she was glued to my elbow and why both of her eyes were "tapados" i.e. patched up with gauze and tape (the treatment she received at the emergency room). Though she didn't let me photograph her in that state, she laughed through the ordeal, mainly at the irony of going to a place of such astonishing beauty and biodiversity and being robbed of sight. Not fair. Glad she opened her eyes again in time for the monkeys.

Seeing the world

A winter hiatus deserves a spring awakening. I have nearly abandoned this space for more worldly pursuits, but it might be time to resurrect it. Since this blog has been as close to a travel diary as they come in this day and age, it would be treacherous to leave it behind on my next excursion.

Varna

This is Varna. It is October, and the hues of the Black Sea are a little sour; it's been seven years since I've last seen it this way. I usually come here during the summer for the beach. Now, with fewer things to do outside, I spend most of my time with the few friends I have here who haven't left for greener pastures, sipping Viensko kafe (a specially prepared espresso with a thick swirl of soft ice cream) in the cozy but choked with cigarette smoke cafes that make this place so European yet so Balkan.

The entrance to the Sea Garden, the main city park overlooking the beach below.

This old man in traditional Bulgarian costume was playing his bagpipe for tips near the city cathedral. One rarely sees street musicians dressed this way (and rarer still, with a bagpipe), so I gave him 1 lev and asked if I could take his picture.

Amphorae, from a large collection of prehistoric artifacts found in or near Odessos (the old name of Varna) around the 4th c. BC. The area's first settlers were migrants from Asia Minor.

More flying

The past month has been fantastic as I've seen some of the places I've wanted to see for a long, long time. But I especially look forward to my next trip. Not without expecting the nagging pangs of remorse I feel every time I go back to Bulgaria knowing that I will have to leave again so soon. Not without trepidation that my hard-won, almost-won battle for the visa may turn out to have been in vain when I face the vapid institutionalized stare of the U.S. consul in Sofia. And not without the faint regret that I am to leave New York just as fall arrives and the grid comes back to life. But I look forward to it because I am tired of enunciating my name in slow motion to friends of friends and replying that 'no, I'm not Russian' to strangers. I am even tired of this local 'me' that wants to stay informed on essential topics like Fashion Week and troop withdrawal and the best new restaurants in the city, lest I be branded a clueless immigrant. I look forward to being an easy breezy Bulgarian babe for a while.

Chicago

A trip to Chicago this Labor Day weekend was a duel between pleasure and pain: my luggage, hugging within its folds four pairs of designer heels, got lost by JetBlue, whose screeners I'm convinced are in dire need of completing their GED degrees, so they can conquer the mystique of reading destination labels. After several rounds of phone calls to various departments at the airline, it emerged that there was no record of my bag ever being scanned and loaded at JFK airport, or of it being anywhere in New York or Chicago. For all anyone knew, it might have been on its way to Albuquerque, N.M., or simply pillaged, its contents auctioned at a lunch break game of dice, by TSA officials. So, with nothing but the clothes on my back to tide me over the weekend, instead of stepping out to enjoy the nightlife of the great Midwest last Friday, Señor Pollo and I strolled down the Magnificent Mile shopping for t-shirts, lingerie, and a toothbrush. I guess I now know how a homeless person feels when she is finally taken off the streets and steered to a fine city shelter, determined to clean up her act. Still, the next day dawned bright and clear after my bag found itself, took a cab, and arrived at the hotel at 4 in the morning, without so much as a distracted apology.

The rest of the weekend was outstanding, divided between admiring the architectural splendor of the city, dining on rabbit meat and cucumber sorbet, and savoring the sight of 40,000 squawking, flappering Iowa Eyehawks fans. I'm told college football reigns supreme in the midwest.

Cape Cod

Being a marine engineer's daughter who steered her first cruise ship through the Dardanelles at age 11 for all of five minutes, I love all things that are in, near, and of the sea. In search of naval thrills, a friend and I trekked to Cape Cod and found the aquatic life of Hyannis and nearby Nantucket rather charming. Nothing beats having oysters for breakfast 200 feet from where they clustered, unshucked, mere hours ago. Below, some photos from the journey.

Nantucket

Hyannis Harbor

Parallel parking

Providence, RI

Umbrella, ella, ella...

A bacchanal weekend that began as Noche Flamenca in the East Village, tornadoed through the upper reaches of Manhattan and spiraled down amidst vintage liqueurs at Brandy Library in Tribeca, with many, many bottles of champagne in between, helped me ease into the awesome notion that as of last week, I am certified "extraordinary" by none other than the U.S. government, which finally granted me the rare distinction of an independent foreign journalist visa, also fantastically known as a "people with extraordinary abilities" visa. In my life here in America, it is a milestone I mostly have all my extraordinary friends who drafted impassioned letters and unreservedly put the weight of their journalistic organizations behind me to thank for. To my lawyer Jonathan, no check is big enough and no amount of Godiva truffles sweet enough to express my appreciation for his best and stellar efforts. I am ecstatic...