Stalin managed to force the Bulgarians to do something even Hitler couldn't make them do. After the Communist coup on 9 September 1944 the Bulgarian army did enter the Second World War. The Bulgarian Army stopped the German withdrawal from Greece, and in December it helped beat back the German counteroffensive near the Drau River. Bulgarian soldiers celebrated the end of the war on 9 May 1945 in Austria.
"This day will never come again. So I will spare no expense or effort on it,” says a middle-aged woman while her daughter is trying on dresses that cost as much as the annual income of an average Bulgarian family. An hour earlier the two bought gold jewellery and expensive shoes and argued whether it would be better to hire a limousine or a second generation Porsche Cayenne. The mother is wearing an old raincoat and cheap shoes that have been to the cobbler's more than once.
When the first British expatriates arrived in Bulgaria, the Bulgarians were kind of surprised. Immigration (as opposed to emigration) was something new for them. Being a nation that lives at the crossroads of civilisations, they were used to foreigners passing through rather than wanting to stay, even though in history many had opted for the latter. Some had been refugees running away from persecution (like the Jews), massacres (like the Armenians) or civil war (like the White Russians).
Our teenage years are those when we rebel against our parents, explore who we are and what we stand for, and take comfort in a close circle of friends to help us through life's trials and tribulations. Important examinations loom on the horizon, we start to date and think vaguely about the future. But what happens to those teens who are wrenched from British society by parents chasing their own dreams of life in the sun?
Remember that initial move to Bulgaria: the excitement of a new life in the sun, that fresh lease of life, the endless round of lounging on the beach, drinking rakiya, making friends and living in permanent holiday mode? Many expats claim their move to Bulgaria is to get away from the drab British climate or to escape rising prices, crime rates and increasing debt, yet few will admit that the underlying reason is the hope that a new start will resolve fundamental marital problems. Indeed, for many it is a last ditch attempt to avoid a break up.
He loves the Bulgarian tomatoes, red wine, sunny weather and the good-looking people. He doesn't like the bling fashion, the potholed roads, the grey, crumbling buildings and the fact that Burgas airport shuts in the winter. Oh, and one other thing - he's gay.
“We've been burgled, had our business vandalised, our tyres slashed and been victims of various violent confrontations in just one year.”
Does this sound like experiences in a gangland suburb in London? Racial hatred in Manchester? Yet another testament to “broken” Britain? It may surprise you, then, to be told that the above account is an experience not encountered by an ethnic minority, social outcast or council estate resident, but by a British expat living in Bulgaria, experiencing intimidation, slander and violence from other expat Brits.
Truck Driver Turned Kennel Owner Dave Smith, 68, moved to Bulgaria from Grimsby in May 2005. Although he had visited over 80 different countries as a continental truck driver, the lure of cheap property in Bulgaria was his deciding factor for settling in Klimentevo, a quiet village populated by pensioners.
In Bulgaria they hang dead people on trees, not to mention walls, doors and, in particular, on the gate of their former home. Not literally, you understand, although my five-year-old daughter is inclined to believe otherwise. These necrologs are sheets of paper each depicting the deceased and mostly set out in a standard format. The word is derived from the Greek necro meaning dead or death. Uniquely, the first of these paeans to the dead to be posted does not include a photograph, there being a set period of 40 days before it is deemed correct to include one.
This story also begins with an English Opening - a retiree from Albion buys himself a house in a Bulgarian village. His name is John and he loves Bulgaria. He's visited the Black Sea a few times and even knows a little Bulgarian - he understands almost everything, despite his broken speech.
John's neighbour is the villager Ivan. Their gardens are divided by a common fence with a komshuluk, or little gate. Ivan immediately hops through the komshuluk to meet his new komshiya, or neighbour.
He lives in Plovdiv, his mother is Greek and his father is an actor. Born in 1964, the writer was captivated by the theatre before graduating in Bulgarian philology and developing a serious interest in literature. He studied in the Secondary School for Stagecraft together with artist Kolyo Karamfilov and producer Dimitar Mitovski. Literature and journalism prevailed and he has published three verse collections, a book of essays, a play and a novel entitled A Collector of Amorous Sentences.
Passing comment on workmen as they botched things together or attempted to lift heavy loads used to be a light-hearted joke. Tongue firmly in cheek, I would turn to my companion and jibe; “How many workmen does it take to dig a hole?” The answer - eight: one to dig; three telling him how not to dig; three, with folded arms, watching him dig; and one to keep the barbeque/fire going.
Most of my fellow “Nederlanders” do not like to be called “Dutch” because it sounds too much like our word for German (Duits). We attribute our dislike for our neighbours mainly to the 1974 World Cup Final. But since then we have fought other finals and we now play war with common enemies who blow themselves up, so what do I know. In reality, we truly are just the remnants of some Germanic tribes that drifted a little too far down the old River Rhine. During the days of the Romans most of what is now known as the Netherlands was called Germania Inferior, so there you are.
Clearing out the old junk that had accumulated on my computer, I came across an article that someone had sent me as an email attachment after the terrorist incidents in England in 2005.
Reading it again, I realised that I and all British people living abroad were now the immigrants. The comments made by the unknown author applied to us as much as the new people who live in Britain as our replacements. Maybe we foreigners in a foreign land should read it and see just how much it applies to us now the shoe is on the other foot. So here it is: