THAT DAY THIS DAY

THAT DAY THIS DAY           

On March 8, 1996, the weather in Blagoevgrad was sunny and breezy with a tint of winter’s cold and moments of soothing warmth. I was at the outdoor market strolling through aisles of vendors selling cabbage and cauliflower, onions and potatoes, carrots, peppers and eggplant, nuts of all kind - winter crops, many from home grown gardens. In another section goods spread across tables of body lotions and kitchen gadgets, towels, and down jackets, bras and infant clothing. 

The sun seemed brighter and the mood cheerier on this day in town, a regional center nestled between the Rila and Pirin mountains. I was with Kevin on my first working trip to Bulgaria, my first taste of the Balkans in Europe’s troubled Southeast area – countries only a few years from Communist rule, well into economic and political upheaval, suffering the throes of transition – from the known and expected to the whims of democracy and free-market capitalism.

Just two months earlier, I took a momentous step and accepted a position at the American University in Bulgaria (AUBG) – a short-term contract for six months. My family and friends were concerned at this short duration.

I replied, “This will be the best six months of my life. I feel it.”

I felt long term too.

As Kevin and I moved from stall to stall, I watched the vendors, bundled and calloused, weighing and making change. This was before the euro came to Bulgaria, and the base of currency, the lev, was way down. Kevin had been at the university a year or two before me and had learned the language.

As we left the market to return to our desks at the university housed in the former regional communist headquarters, an elderly man, grizzled and whiskery, in a frayed brown overcoat reached out to me with a single white rose in hand – offering it to me. I was flustered.

“Take it,” Kevin said.

I looked at the man.  “Blagadaria. Merci,” I said. Thank you.

I leaned into Kevin as he put his hand on my shoulder and brought my ear closer to him.

“It’s International Women’s Day,” he told me. “And the men give women they encounter a rose."

How lovely, I thought. Not Mother’s Day as in the US, but a celebration for all women.

Today is twenty years after, March 8, 2016. I sent an email note of greetings of the day to my Bulgarian women colleagues. I copied Kevin. He immediately wrote back to me -  from Islamabad.

 “I remember that day!!”