tourism/national mentality/ satire

Bulgarians Are Full of Hospitality

But not toward Bulgarians

I’m in the middle of my summer holiday, trying to get over a bad case of IBS, and meanwhile, dragging myself to the pool every day where my kids practice swimming. My kids are brand-new swimmers, and the pool is brand-new. It’s the first time we visit it, that is.

Every pool you visit for the first time looks like this:

Otherwise, it’s a fifty-year-old pool in a fifty-year-old hotel in my two-thousand-year-old hometown Plovdiv. Reconstructed a few times, of course. Just like the hotel. And just like Plovdiv.

I guess this was what my hometown looked like before the threat of never-ending high-tech innovations:

Wait a second. Why did I start writing this article? To remind you that I’m alive and enjoying the summer break, to complain about my stomachache, or to tell the history of Bulgarian towns and hotels?

No, the idea was the pool. Or rather, the pool guard. I can’t call her a lifeguard. She was exactly what I just labeled her: a pool guard. Or, rather, a guard who guards the pool from Bulgarian people in Bulgaria.

I’ve talked about this phenomenon in another article. Take a look, if you’re interested:

Unfortunately, it’s not only the winter holidays. It’s also the summer ones.

The new pool guard is an old scrawny lady, an ex-professional swimmer, maybe a world champion, who knows. What’s left of the past glory now is a mighty tone of voice that she probably used to do something fruitful in the past, like screaming ‘Victory!’ in Bulgarian throughout the galaxy, but now its only purpose is to make all Bulgarians feel like losers.

I captured her image in my mind. Yes, this is exactly what her fingers looked like:

The hotel is one of the three five-star hotels in Plovdiv, and extremely expensive. It’s crawling with foreigners all year round, and normally I wouldn’t think of crossing its divine threshold if it weren’t for the comparatively cheap summer pool, open for outside visitors.

Of course, we can’t buy anything from the pool bar, not even water, because if we do, we’ll have to live on bread and water for the next twelve months. As bringing in food and drinks from outside is not allowed, we clench our teeth and don’t drink water for the three hours we spend there. My kids are Bulgarians. They know how to clench their teeth.

I sometimes wonder if over-gritty kids look like this:

Or like this:

Today the pool was quite full. Italians, French, Turkish, English, and American people. Nice guys, nothing against them. They were even moving out of my kids’ way so that they can swim safely.

The problem was not them. It was the new pool guard.

When we settled in (I was under the umbrella and the kids were in the water), she came to me and asked,

‘How long have you been coming here?’

A bit startled by the mighty voice of a world conquer, I first thought, What business is that of yours, and then answered politely,

‘For five days. Today’s the sixth.’

‘The kids can’t be in the water without a parent.’

It was hot. Believe me, it was damn hot in my town that day. My stomach was not well and my head was not well. And one crazy little Hitler was trying to ruin my only chance to take a break from hell.

‘Actually, if I’m in the water, my visibility will be poorer,’ I said through my teeth. ‘Plus, my kids have had swimming lessons for two years. I think I can leave them on their own now.’

She looked at the kids. They were obviously doing well in the water. They were obviously doing much better in the water than she could do at present, judging by the change of her face color: from pale brown to pale green and back.

‘You should watch them!’ she threatened and went away.

Meanwhile, I noticed there was another group of children in the pool. They talked in a foreign language. They were younger than my children, and they were doggy paddling, screaming, and throwing a dangerously small ball around.

The pool guard never went to their parents. She never said a word (is it because the only language she proudly knows is Bulgarian, or is it her inner charming shyness?), and she never even gestured in the parents’ direction.

One hour later, she came to me again.

‘Can I check your bag?’

‘Why?’ I found out my tone had become mightier than hers. I think I might have been a world champion in something in my previous life, too.

‘No drinks and food are allowed in. I have to check your bag.’

‘It was already checked on my way in.’

‘I have to check it here, too.’

‘Nobody told me such a thing. You’re not touching my bag.’

‘If I see that you or your children are drinking something that’s not bought from the bar, you’ll be fined.’

She trudged away, and I swear that I saw a few drinks in the hands of the groups of foreigners that were not bought from the bar. They didn’t have the blue logo ‘Ramada’ on the bottles, so I knew that. Yet again, the little Hitler had obviously decided I was the only territory that was conquerable.

Another hour later, she came to ask me why I had given her just two entrance tickets, not three. I said that the woman on the reception desk had been telling me for five days in a row that my little girl didn’t need a ticket.

The pool guard said that I had tricked the receptionist. All children over three had to buy a ticket. I screamed, go ask the receptionist, stop bothering me! The pool guard shuffled away, muttering something incomprehensible. Maybe planning my murder under her breath.

Another hour later, I let my kids play with a small ball in the pool for ten minutes before leaving. We had been extremely quiet the whole time, swimming like robots and not drinking water. We deserved some fun. Of course, the little Hitler came over and said that my kids were too noisy and it was noon. The hotel guests needed silence and comfort.

That was the last straw.

Have you seen the last straw? Here it is:

I nodded toward the group of foreigners.

‘I didn’t hear you telling them off. They’ve been talking and laughing loudly the whole time. They’ve been jumping in the pool while it’s strictly forbidden. Here, they’re doing it right now!’

And her answer?

‘They are guests of the hotel!’

Oh, I thought, then we should be quiet so that the hotel guests feel at peace to scream their asses off?

Of course, I didn’t tell her this. I told her,

‘I didn’t know there were different sets of rules: one for the guests and one for the outside visitors.’

‘They are guests,’ she insisted and gave me a wicked smile. She knew I couldn’t retort. It was true, I wasn’t a guest. I was a visitor. The other people in the pool were foreigners, but I was more foreigner. I’d do everyone a favor if I just cleared out of here and made room for other guests.

I left with my kids, and all afternoon I’ve been thinking whether I should change the pool even though the rest are far, too far from my place and my daily schedule will be completely ruined if I have to take the kids there and back every day.

In the end, I decided I’ll stick with this pool and clench my teeth.

(Did I tell you that clenching teeth is a basic Bulgarian skill?)

This pool is five minutes walk from home, and the kids love it.

I’ll keep going, but I doubt I’ll enjoy it the way I’ve been enjoying it until this grand manifestation of Bulgarian hospitality.

Actually, I can’t wait to leave for Greece now.

One day you, courteous Bulgarian hotel, restaurant, and business managers, one day you’ll get your wish fulfilled: we’ll all clear out of here. For good. We’d rather be in the farthest corner of the world than here because we know that in that farthest corner of the world, we’ll feel more welcome than in our own country.

One day my little swimmers will grow up, and they’ll be able to choose if they want to go back to your pool or find another one.

Be careful, you courteous Bulgarian hotel, restaurant, and business managers, because the guests of the hotel are here temporarily. They’ll vanish, and if we have vanished along with them, you’ll end up alone on a deserted island.

Be careful, or your future country might look like this:

If you liked this story, you might enjoy any of my comic pieces here:

Thank you!