Alone in Plovdiv, A Revelation
For about as long as I’ve had a self-concept, that concept has included the idea that I am someone who struggles to connect with others. I’ve always thought of myself as being exceptionally awkward, someone for whom making friends is difficult, an introvert to the max who is more comfortable being alone than having to go through the excruciating gauntlet of interacting with other humans.
This idea probably started because I was a soft spoken, shy kid who loved reading. Then somewhere along the line those perfectly acceptable traits started to seem like liabilities. Puberty hit and I became more self conscious, social situations more awkward to navigate. Rather than realizing this is what happens to every human when their hormones go bonkers, I told myself that the problem was me. I told myself that meeting new people was hard and embarrassing, that making friends didn’t come easily, and that it was all thanks to my own shortcomings. Surely I was the weak link in all of my cringeworthy social interactions. As a defense against all this new stress, I told myself that I liked being alone. In fact, I thought, I only truly thrive and flourish when I’m alone. Alone is actually my preferred state. Being around other people is just a hardship I have to endure from time to time.
It’s not until now, at the age of 32, in the midst of spending five weeks alone in a foreign city that I realize what complete and utter nonsense that self-concept has been all along. I have come to the startling realization that I actually really like people. I mean, I am a people! And us people need one another in order to thrive, be happy from time to time, and find meaning in the world. I am no exception to this rule. I don't know why I've been telling myself the exact opposite for so long.
I arrived in Plovdiv three weeks ago. I lived in Bulgaria as a Peace Corps volunteer several years ago and wanted to return for an extended time to finish writing a book about that initial experience. I chose to stay in Plovdiv because I always liked visiting when I was a volunteer. It’s Bulgaria’s second largest city with a well-preserved Old Town that includes ancient Roman ruins and charming cobblestone streets. There’s also a more modern promenade with shopping, outdoor cafes, parks, and fountains. This time around I even discovered an arts district where I was able to sip wine at a cafe named "Basquiat" while that one Johnny Cash album where he covers Nine Inch Nails played in the background.
The Kapana arts district in Plovdiv. So hip.
I also chose Plovdiv because I don’t know a single person here. I could have stayed in the capital city of Sofia where many of my old students are going to university, or gone back to the village where I used to live and reconnected with old friends and colleagues, but I decided that I wanted to be completely alone. People would just be a distraction, I thought. I was going to write a book and surely that does not require any socializing. I imagined that I would spend each day writing at a cafe for hours and hours, losing myself completely in my work, then strolling around the city or reading a book, completely content with my extended solitude.
Instead, almost as soon as I settled into my AirBNB in Old Town, I felt an uneasy sense of loneliness. I desperately missed my friends back home in Portland and the people I’d just met at a faith community in England where I'd spent the previous two weeks. It was a surprise. I really hadn’t expected to be lonely so soon. I thought I loved being alone. In reality, I’ve spent most of my days in Plovdiv writing at a cafe for a few hours, then wandering around the town center, trying to guess who the English-speaking tourists are based on what brand of backpack they’re wearing. If I see one that screams foreigner (Osprey! Score!) I might try to walk slowly or linger near them to see if I can insert myself into the conversation somehow. So far this tactic hasn’t worked and most nights I go back to my AirBNB to cook and binge watch things I've already seen on Netflix.
I don’t say this to garner pity or to get reassurance (although if you want to call me on WhatsApp, by all means. I'm probably just sitting here watching 30 Rock for the 3 millionth time). I’m totally ok. I've already made plans to go to stay in a community environment again after Plovdiv. I can make it through a few more weeks of solitude. It’s just that this experience has shown me finally, once and for all, that I do in fact like people a lot, and best I can tell people like me too. As I was leaving Portland it became abundantly clear that I've gained an incredible community of friends there over the past few years, and it wasn’t some excruciating struggle to meet people. It just happened naturally over time because I genuinely enjoyed spending time with people and those friends welcomed me into their lives. It turns out that I am not quite the misanthropic social pariah that I have for some reason always imagined myself to be. It’s been nice to finally change that concept of myself.
As evidence of this newly realized need for connection, I did end up going to that strange dance class that I wrote about last week. The spritely woman who stopped me on the street to invite me was there in her studio on the second floor of a nondescript grey building. There was a pair of older women, one who spoke some English, having lived in Atlanta for a few years, as well as a middle aged woman who was sort of a teaching assistant, and one quiet woman who had brought her young son. He sat in the corner for most of the class, playing a game on his cell phone and looking at us all like we were insane.
The women were all very friendly, excited and interested to have a new person attend their class. We sat for a while as the teacher went over the history of “Paneurhythmy" and passed out a chart outlining "good and bad food combinations." (Apparently vegetables are good paired with protein, but not with fruit?) Each woman took turns chipping in whatever English they knew in an attempt to translate and explain everything that they were discussing. Then our teacher set an orange paper lantern in the middle of the room (different colored lanterns signify different things, don’t ask me what orange as for) and we began to walk slowly around the lantern in a circle, lifting our arms in various combinations while a Bulgarian folk song played in the background. It was super weird and yet somehow strangely relaxing.
After the dance, we all sang the folk song that had been playing in the background, focusing on the words about love and God and nature and a bunch of other stuff I didn't understand. Then the teacher and her assistant asked for my birthday so they could "read my numbers." All in all, here's what I walked away with:
My "numbers" said something about love and family and a past life, but I didn't get much more than that.
I probably won’t go back next week, but only because I think my presence derailed the class a bit with everyone trying to translate and cater to me. Also, I don't need some chart telling me I can't eat apples with my pork chops or whatever. Figuring out what to feed myself is hard enough as it is. Mostly, the class proved to me again that I do like people and that I’m willing to put myself in awkward situations in the hope of connecting with others. That’s something I never would have admitted to myself when I was being voted “Most Shy” in my senior high school yearbook (I really hope they've gotten rid of that dubious award at this point).
The dance class hasn't been my only attempt at connection in this city either. Last week, while I was writing at my usual cafe, I overheard a man and woman, clearly American, talking in very churchy language about their “calling” and “God’s will” and “my encouragement to you.” I like church (or at least I used to, more on that later), so I approached them as I was leaving the cafe and asked them if they attended a service here in Plovdiv. They gave me a flier labeled Evangelical Church of Plovdiv, and even though “evangelical” is sort of a triggering word that brings to mind all sorts of awfulness in theses post-election days, I decided I’d check it out.
Sunday morning I showed up to an old stone building on a narrow hilly street just off the city center. The man I'd met at the cafe turned out to be one of the pastors. He was preaching in English that morning with his co-pastor translating to Bulgarian after every few sentences. The whole thing was painfully boring and peppered with the sort of problematic teachings I've been distancing myself from in recent years (i.e. "We must love others...." Cool! "...and the best way to love others is to get them to come to this church so they can love Jesus." Umm.....wait a minute.)
Still, such was my desire to meet some nice folks, that after the sermon I thanked the pastor for inviting me (even thought I really invited myself) and tried to ask a few leading questions that might prompt him to introduce me around. "Sooo, how often is the sermon in English? Seen anyone wearing an Osprey backpack around here lately?" He didn't take the bait though, just answered my questions matter-of-factly then stood there awkwardly before finally handing me his business card and turning to other parishioners.
I left feeling a little disappointed, but also glad that I tried. Again, not something I would have done in all those years of telling myself I was a lone wolf or that making friends was too hard and that I should just give up before I'd started.
The Evangelical Church of Plovdiv. At least the building is nice?
So church, much like woo-woo dance class, was a bust in the friend department, but it did help reinforce another idea that I’ve been trying to remind myself of lately. Namely: I am not the only awkward person in the world. This might seem obvious, but again, not something I understood in my teenage years. It's a mistaken belief that's taken a long time to correct itself.
It's funny to think that for so long I blamed myself whenever any social interaction I was involved in didn't turn out completely stellar. Not only is it not my fault, it’s no one’s “fault.” People are just awkward, all of us, everywhere, in different ways and in different situations. We’re all imperfect and weird and "too quiet" or "too loud" or literally speaking different languages. We all misinterpret social cues and bumble hugs and mess up handshakes and accidentally make faces that show our disgust when someone says the word "evangelical." It's hard and weird, this human thing, and the only way to get through it is together. Just maybe not in Plovdiv.