Daily Routines

Kyle (who never leaves the house without a camera) says that people are mistaken about good photographers. He says that most of us think that professional photographers take good pictures because they are exceptionally talented or have super equipment. According to the Professor, even though talent and equipment are big factors, one of the most important reason why good photographers take great pictures is that they take MANY pictures EVERY DAY.

I don't doubt this because I've heard a lot of people say the same about writers. Good writers become excellent writers by writing every day.

Memphis Sunset.

So now I take a camera with me everywhere I go and try to write here more regularly. Hope you'll help me keep at it.

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Gender roles in bi-cultural relationships

When our pipes froze, I started calling people for help. I called Angie whose dad has a maintenance company. I texted friends, I updated my Facebook status, searched the local Craigslist. Everyone and their mother knew that we needed a plumber. I was able to talk to about a thousand plumbers who gave me very consistent and straight-forward directions:

1. Find any vents and/or openings in your basement and make sure they are shut.
2. Find the central switch and turn your water off when you leave your house.
3. Turn your heat up.
4. Wait and listen for sounds of water leaking.

I did a great job of taking notes and communicating their directions but at no point in time did it occur to me that I would be involved in the actual implementation of the advice. I just sort of... well... assumed that my husband would go out into the garage, locate the appropriate tools and take care of vents, openings, central water switches, whatever.

That's exactly what he did. He covered the vents, found the switch, turned the water off when we left the house, turned it back on when we came back, turned the heat up, kept checking the faucets, etc. etc.

I can't remember the last time I felt as Bulgarian as I felt earlier today.


As many of you already know, I find Bulgarians quite curious on the gender equality front. Bulgarian women have been getting higher education degrees in "traditionally male" disciplines forever. Most women work outside of their home. Our legal framework is fairly progressive, granting a variety of provisions that make parenthood and child-care manageable. Women are still paid less, get promoted less quickly and are often harassed by their male colleagues but, generally, women do alright in the public sphere.

The domestic space is a bit different. Most Bulgarian families are quite traditional when it comes to the division of domestic labor. Women do most of the cooking, cleaning, childcare, family networking; men change light bulbs, work on the car, take out the trash and do other "manly" jobs. This angers me quite a bit as most of the time it's women who end up taking up most of the burden in household management. Yeah, sure, men do difficult jobs but those are jobs that happen only once in a while. Women cook, clean, etc. every day.

I see a lot of that in my own family (although my dad is a big helper) and friends. And I notice some of it on my own end... albeit our own dynamic is a bit different. Kyle and I are good about sharing all of our household responsibilities... BUT... I can't be bothered with "typically male" tasks: mowing our small lawn, changing light-bulbs, screwing in lose screws, and, today, closing off open vents.

I am very embarrassed by this and had a hard time deciding whether to write about this but I thought it'd give us an opportunity to have a good conversation about gender roles in our bi-cultural relationships. Based on little stories I've heard here and there, it seems to me that the division of household labor along gender lines can be a big source of tension between people: for example, Bulgarian women expecting their non-Bulgarian partners to be handy-men and Bulgarian men expecting most cooking and cleaning be done by their partner...

Is that how things have been with you? Do share even if you prefer to do so anonymously!

Birds and words

About a month ago, Kyle and I were at a dinner party where we met a couple who're avid birdwatchers. They talked about rescuing wounded eagles, stuffing dead birds in their freezer, traveling to San Francisco to see the parrots of Telegraph Hill and taking daily bike rides around town to observe local birds. I was fascinated by their stories. When I asked them how one gets into birdwatching, they told me, d'uh, start watching the birds around you.

So, I started peaking out of our windows a bit more and, low and behold, there they were! Little birds, singing their butts off... right under my nose. The cardinals were the first ones that I was able to spot out because of their beautiful red feathers and punk style.


During our Christmas trip to St. Louis, Kyle pointed out the bluejays on his mom's porch. There were so many of them! Beautiful blue coloring and cocky attitudes: chasing other birds away from the food we'd left for them.


I already thought I was sort of hooked when Kyle presented me with the most awesomely unexpected holiday present ever: BINOCULARS! He's had them since he was a little kid but, needless to say, hasn't been using them much in the last twenty years or so. Now they're mine!


Exciting! Obviously, I am curious to learn about the birds in my backyard but also, I am looking forward to practicing sitting still and being patient: the two most important skills for a birdwatcher. Or any human being, really.

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Photo of the cardinal by Timothy K. Hamilton
Photo of the bluejay by Bruce Bodjack

Don't be afraid of Santa

This holiday season, Kyle and I have been mad about video montages of crying children having their picture taken with Santa. I was telling my parents about it and Dad sent me the following portrait of me at the age of 3, I think. The picture was taken minutes after I got my glamorous purse-present from Santa (We called him Grandfather Frost in Bulgaria at the time).


I emailed the picture to Kyle and here's what he wrote back in response.

Some observations:

1. You are adorable.
2. You said you were "almost" crying...
3. You have the same haircut!
4. Kude e Diado Mraz?
5. Mnogo te obicham, tikvarina.

kailcho :*

Happy New Year to you all! Don't be afraid of Santa!

This Thanksgiving

I am grateful for my mom and my dad who are the sweetest, most caring and giving adults I've known in my life.

I am grateful for my little sister who is funny and smart and inspires me every day but also fills my heart with heaps of joy.

I am grateful for my American family who always remind me that home is not a place. Home is people that care.

I am grateful for friends: here, there, everywhere. Old and new. I am always amazed at how generous and gracious y'all are and how much easier the rough times are when you are around.

I am grateful for technology that helps us all stay in touch even thought we are thousands of miles apart.

I am grateful for this little life we are living: Midtown, our feather bed, our jobs, our cute house, our pots of herbs, our record player, the old film cameras we purchase on Ebay and the produce section at the local Kroger, my Borders discount card. For the first time in a long time I feel like I live HERE. This is where we are AT.

I am grateful for a wonderful Thankgiving day with Dr. J's family who are the most welcoming bunch you'll ever meet.

I am grateful for Dr. J sharing her Memphis with us.

I am grateful for finding a great recipe and making coconut-and-oats macaroons that might have just become my favorite dessert.



But most of all, I am grateful for my husband who not only had the brilliant idea to dip the macaroons in melted chocolate but also makes me feel like I am the luckiest girl in the world. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

Much love to you all!

Memphis kindness

When I was getting off the bus this morning, an old lady said to me: Have a blessed day, sweetie. You know I am not the religious type but I loved her for sending some good vibes my way.



As I was waiting for my transfer, this guy walked by... spring in his step, all smiles. Hey, are you new to Memphis? he asked. I walk this way every day and I've noticed you recently. You stand out, you know. What's your name? Turns out his name is Bobby and we seem to be on the same work schedule. He asked if I had a boyfriend but when I told him I was married, he took the news like a true gentleman. Damn, he said. Well... that's alright. He then made me promise I would continue to say hi to him.

Riding the bus is one of my favorite things to do in Memphis.

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Translating Tolstoy

Earlier today I came across Translating Tolstoy: an interview with Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, the husband-and-wife duo behind some of the most beautiful translations of the Russian classics in the last couple of decades. Oh, my! I thought. These two are the superstars of mix-breeders!

Mr. Pevear, 66 years old, was born in Waltham, Mass., and initially translated works from French and Italian. His wife was born in Leningrad, Russia, and emigrated to Israel in 1973, where she lived for two years. The couple met in the United States in 1976 and married six years later. They've been translating books together since 1986. Ms. Volokhonsky provides the first translation of each work, with running commentary on the author's style; her husband works from that draft to render his own version. They then confer and work on that text together.

The interview is obviously focused on their work but as I was reading it I kept recognizing familiar patterns of interaction:

WSJ: How do you resolve your differences over the work, and do disagreements ever spill over into your personal life?

Ms. Volokhonsky: Richard is a native speaker of English. I'm a native speaker of Russian. My task is to explain to Richard what is happening in the Russian text. Then it is up to him to do what he can. The final word is always his. I can say this is not quite what the Russian says. Either he finds something that satisfies me or he says no, this is how we're going to do it. We discuss endlessly and sometimes it becomes a nuisance because we return to it again and again even after the manuscript goes off. But we really don't quarrel. It would be much more interesting if we did.

Kyle and I do that too. When I am moved or offended by an article, an email, or a comment on my other blog that was originally written in Bulgarian, I translate it to Kyle. Then: explain, explain, explain, go back and forth, explain. We do quarrel sometimes, though, and it definitely IS interesting.

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Remembering the fall: Maria Vassileva, Cambridge, USA

This week we are remembering the fall. If you would like to share a story, please send me an email at petya.kirilova [at] gmail [dot] com. Life in the Trenches will be back next Wednesday.


I am twenty months old in that picture, and this is my dad holding a sign that says "Nov. 11, 1989, The next, please!"; my mom is probably behind the camera. We're all in a little rented apartment in either Mladost-3 or Druzhba-2.

I am twenty-one now, and it's really embarrassing how little I know about everything that happened before I was born, and then before I learned to read and remember. I know I should work on getting my questions answered. I could address them to the library next door instead of my parents, since my parents always change the topic. (One upside of going to school so far away from them is that I don't have to see how they ignore this anniversary that is none.)

A few days ago, on the 9th, I was talking to a friend from Estonia about the power outages that seemed like so much fun when we were five or six years old. And about the times when there was no hot water, or no water, period. (But that's the mid-nineties already, and those anniversaries are yet to come.) We were waiting for our friends - one Czech, one German - with whom we wanted to grab a beer and celebrate the fall of the Berlin wall. The plan fell through because we all had
too much work to do, but it still felt nice and festive, and important to all of us. It didn't occur to me to celebrate the next day, except to upload this picture and scratch my head a little.

Writing this, I'm tempted to veer off and talk about all the things that gnaw at me in Cambridge, MA, because I miss Mladost-4, but dread going back in December when it will be at its darkest and dirtiest. So I'll just end here - look, cute baby picture! Babies are so happily oblivious. And my dad had to go and ruin it all.

Maria Vassileva, Cambridge, MA.

Remembering the fall: Alexandra Grashkina-Hristova, Boston

This week we are remembering the fall. If you would like to share a story, please send me an email at petya.kirilova [at] gmail [dot] com.

On November 10th, 1989 I was at home in our one-bedroom apartment, on the fifth floor of a gray cement building in the Sofia District "Mladost" ("Youth"). The phone rang and a close family friend said to my mother, "Congratulations, we have a new secretary general." The secretary general of the Central Committee of the Communist Party had been, for over 30 years, the dictator Todor Zhivkov. My mother paused and said, "Stop telling me political jokes on the phone." In fact, we had known that for several years someone listened to our phone conversations. My uncle's phone was tapped, too, and so was my grandma's. All because none of them were members of the Communist Party. Not being a member, at the time, had cost them a lot of sacrifices, but it meant they stayed true to their beliefs, morally and politically. I don't think that my family had the courage to voice their hopes that Communism will fall. But I know they had such hopes. For years before November 1989, my grandma liked to quote a relative who was a prisoner at the Belene concentration camp and said, "The economy will collapse and so will Communism." When she talked about this, she lowered her voice.

We also secretly went to church on Christmas and Easter but suspected we were being "watched." Christianity was not a good thing during communism. I had repeatedly asked my mother why I can say "Merry Christmas" to her and to my dad but not to my second grade teacher, Comrade Kostova.


So how will I myself remember Communism? Well, I remember it with the one and only time my mother had to slap me. We were at a friend's house and I had blurted, "You know, uncle listens to BBC radio." I had given out what was almost a top secret: that we listened to Western radio station. That one slap was the only repression I have suffered. But even though I was 9 on November 10, 1989, I know what it feels like not to be allowed to speak freely. Being able to compare the 1980s in our gray apartment building with the years that followed is nothing short of priceless. I know and acknowledge that November 10th did not change Bulgaria overnight, with the move of a magic wand. Nor did it necessarily make everyone more happy. Yet, for me it is enough that the people who I love the most in this world don't have to whisper and hide anymore.

To brighten up this memory, I am attaching a picture of District "Mladost," no longer quite so gray, about 10 years after November 10, 1989. It features me and a purple trabant on the day of my high school prom and a couple of months before I came to the United States for my college studies.

Alex Grashkina-Hristova, Boston

Remembering the fall: Biliana Velkova, Canada

This week we are remembering the fall. If you would like to share a story, please send me an email at petya.kirilova [at] gmail [dot] com.

On the day the Wall fell, I was coming home from school, at that time I was in grade 8 at the Fine Arts High School in Sofia (Hudojestvenata Gimnazia). The streets seemed strangely deserted, it was already dark, and I just wanted to get home to my grandmother's stuffed peppers. Back then we all lived in an old Sofian apartment, three generations on top of each other, plus our small dog Gigi. I remember my mom pulling me inside the apartment and excitedly but quietly telling of what had happened. We had to be quiet back then because "even the walls have ears". I didn't really understand the importance of the event but I could feel it was of great significance as all of my family members were quietly celebrating. The news of the events was on TV, very short and to the point as most of the news from the West was reported back then. Sofia was dark and quiet but on TV we could see fireworks and people cheering in Berlin. I didn't know it then but this event changed the fate of my family and myself and all of the world, really. Two years later, we left for Vancouver, Canada. I still go back to Bulgaria fairly often and to this day, my hometown is frozen in those days for me. My Bulgarian friends tell me that I have a great memory, but I think it is because this is all I have. My memories are forever time-capsuled in that dark, cold Sofian evening with the fireworks flickering from our black and white TV.

Thank you, Petya for letting me share these memories. I am including a photo from those days (maybe a little earlier).


This is from a class trip to the Archelogical Museum and I am in the middle, bottom row. I remember getting in trouble because I was wearing white clogs, which did not go with my Pioneer's uniform.

Biliana Velkova, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada

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P.S. For the record, please note that none of the kids are smiling.

Remembering the fall

Let's spend the week reflecting on what happened 20 years ago. You know, THE Wall falling and all that. Where were you then? Where are you know? How's your family done through the transition? For the non-Bulgarians among us, does the fall of communism hold any personal significance to you? Email me your stories and pictures and I would be more than happy to share here on the blog. I hope this would be a post-heavy week.


The picture above was taken in Berlin this past summer. My dad is headed towards the crosses that mark the death of East Germans who tried to swim their way through to Western Germany. It's a horrifyingly peaceful site. My dad, however, was more interested in testing the settings of his digital camera.

Happy Friday!

Tonight we are staying in, looking at slides that Kyle took over this past summer.


What are you guys up to?

Little Edie Beale

Little Edie Beale was the inspiration for my Halloween costume this year. I particularly love this scene of the Grey Gardens documentary and tried to recreate it.



Here's the end-result:


I am a tiny bit concerned that I was a crazy woman for Halloween but my ENTIRE costume was composed of clothes I actually own AND wear in pretty much that very same combination. Hmmm.

Did you guys dress up for Halloween? Show me pictures!

Following my own advice

Your weekend assignment

Here's what I think you should do this weekend. Get yourself a big cup of coffee and a book and go find a quiet place in the park to sit and read for a little while. If it's raining, open up your umbrella and sit on a newspaper. Sip and read just as well.


Then come back and report how it was.
Enjoy your weekend!

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Photo taken in Sofia by Prof. Grady

Saturday night at the K-G's

Kyle and I have been BUSY. This new city we live in is wonderful and we are both excited about our jobs but today we both felt like we needed to have a quiet day at home. Reading, watching baseball, and eating lazy food. It's divine.

Updated Mix-Breeder Blogroll

Hey, kids. Just wanted to give you the heads-up that I updated the Mix-Breeder Blogroll. If you know other people who are in bi-cultural relationships AND blogging, let me know, OK. I would really like to expand the list!


On a totally unrelated note, this is a picture of my Baba Vessa. She's my mom's mom and lives with her husband (my grandpa) in the village of Lopian, which is about 60km North-East of Sofia. She is posing in front of her epic bean garden and is a little bit unhappy about being photographed in her gardening clothes. She is the sweetest woman in the world.

The photograph was taken by Kyle this past summer and is a part of a bigger family portrait project he is working on. You should check out his photo-stream on Flickr.

Black & White

Check out Robert Kalman's Black & White project composed entirely of photographs of interracial couples. It's beautiful.




Via Pocket Cultures.

Urban gardening

Kyle and I planted basil, parsley, oregano, zinnia and nasturtiums. We love watching them grow.

Get the flash player here: http://www.adobe.com/flashplayer

The basil is the fastest of the bunch. Some unidentified bug seems to like munching on it so we might need to re-plant at least some of it and bring it inside. The nasturtiums and zinnias are doing pretty well too, despite their initial shyness.

That's Memphis

I've loved William Eggleston ever since Kyle introduced me to his work a couple of years ago. His subject matter, Eudora Welty writes, includes "old tyres, Dr Pepper machines, discarded air-conditioners, vending machines, empty and dirty Coca-Cola bottles, torn posters, power poles and power wires, street barricades, one-way signs, detour signs, No Parking signs, parking meters and palm trees crowding the same curb." To put it differently, he usually photographs "ordinary" life: the strangeness and beauty of it. The trite and the odd. The usual.







Of course, I'm the last one to realize that Eggleston is actually FROM Memphis. And that a lot of his photographs are, in fact, taken around town.

WHAAAA?!

Then I look back at some of his work and it makes perfect sense. That's Memphis.