I stayed up till 1am last night (this morning? That always throws me) making boza. Thus, I crown myself Кралицата на бозата. It"s not too hard, just messy, particularly as I don"t really have a strainer or cheesecloth. Both the Bulgarian and the Turkish versions are currently under way, bubbling, in my kitchen. The Turkish version is a lot lighter in colour, milky beige; the Bulgarian is darker, like whole wheat flour -- but that is probably because I"m using whole wheat flour, not white flour, in the recipe.
Recently, I"ve been on a boza kick, but the stuff produced here has aspartame in it, which gives me headaches and stomach trouble if too much is consumed. (Also the downfall of diet sodas. How long will it take for sucralose/Splenda to come to Bulgaria? When I was in France in May, it had just arrived there...)
It"s fun.
They say that I"ll soon be more Bulgarian than една българка. Not bad.

It is time to buy a new purse. The one that I mainly use now was bought in Paris exactly three years ago: a boutique on rue de Grenelle, Furla, 100 euro (on aime les soldes, n’est-ce pas?), with my dad but by me. The other one that I sometimes use was bought in Santa Ana, California, at a mall, in January 2001: Harveys – a black bag made of seatbelts, long before they became trendy and were seen everywhere. It’s heavy, sturdy and still looks good. The Furla... is starting to show its age.

I have looked in every store on Levski Boulevard, on Vitosha, in the mall, on and around Solounska Street, in underpass stalls, on Sakuzov Boulevard, and have found nothing. I want a bag of real leather, with a shoulder strap, nothing dowdy, nothing trendy, and preferably not in a depressing shade.

Most bags are large enough to hold a piglet. I do not have a piglet; I have a notebook, two cell phones, a pen, chapstick, a business card holder and sometimes a camera and/or an iPod Mini.

Sometimes, when I’m walking, I go through and date everything that I am wearing. Dating (things) has always held a great significance for me. In second grade, I kept a journal as part of my mum’s schooling requirements for us. For a period of time, I observed a lacewing’s life in our front yard. Then it died, and I was distraught. My mum did not understand why I did not want to write in my journal. Forced, in a shaky hand I wrote: “The lacewing is dead.”

This was all dated.

Today I am wearing: Diesel shoes, Sofia, July 2006, bought with Mum; teal socks, Lands’ End, mail order, US, 1992 (the last remaining pair from a threepack; the red and the pink pairs have since disappeared); jeans, FCUK/Philadelphia, July 4 2002, with friends; underwear, Target store in Orange, California, 2002; Under Armour undershirt, Christmas 2007, from D; Oilily Jeans shirt, January 1 2002, South Coast Plaza, Costa Mesa, California, bought by me while in distress over a boy; Schott NYC jacket, Istanbul, December 26 2007, Christmas present from D; Marchon Airlock 2 glasses, Dr Kaye’s office, Orange County, May 2005, insurance; bobbypins, Hondos Center, Dafni, Athens, Greece, July 2007, bought by me.

Does any of this matter?

No.

It reminds me of the baba with whom I sat and talked for two hours on Saturday January 26 at the koukeri festival in Pernik. She introduced herself to me: “I’m Ivan X’s mother Maria (I think that was her name). I have three lunch coupons.” I told her that I did not work at the cafe, and we sat and talked instead. She told me many things that I knew, but always pretend to not know, because the teller gets such pleasure out of national pride. She told me that she never buys clothes, making instead out of two old skirts a new blouse, out of two old blouses a new chemise, out of an old jacket a skirt. She told me some verbs for “to milk”: doya, mouzeya and again another one, but there I cannot make out what she wrote.

This leads me to think: what does one really need? My first six months in Bulgaria, I lived in a hostel with no kitchen, with only two small suitcases of stuff – clothing and toiletries. I ate kiselo zele, yoghurt, banitsa. It worked. Someone recently mentioned some social experiment that some families in the United States undertook: to not buy anything save the necessities for a year. They survived.

It’s easier to not buy: you will never be disappointed with the purchase.

Or, is it that one does not deserve to buy if it is not necessary?

Today I bought: apples from downstairs; pyjamas from women’secret; izvara, buffalo yoghurt, canned tomatoes, bulgur, oatmeal, lotion from Picadilly; broccoli and leeks from downstairs; bleach; rakiya x 2, choubritsa, fig preserves from the market on Sakuzov; natural toothpaste from Lechitel. This is more than I normally buy, maybe. I have this thing about the street markets that the babas and dyadovsti do: they have my 100 per cent support. Rakiya from two different babi, because I fear European Union regulations coming in and killing their lifesource and my enjoyment. The one baba said that I should heat it and mull it with indrishe, which turns out to be pelargonium. The other said that this would not be necessary with hers, as she already distilled it with oleander. The latter’s was finer, cleaner. But I wanted a comparison. Because one day this will be gone.