In the first hours of the morning

Image by Ognyan Lazarov

In the first hours of the morning,

I still love him,

even under the thick cover of charcoal

from my broken heart.

The beautiful moments together

are stubbornly keeping their faces unchanged,

no matter how many times

I run the wash cloth over them

and wish they will fade away

and become debris in the pile of old flames.

In the first hours of the morning

my head is buried in pillows,

aching to start another day.

Maybe today I will pack my belongings

and befriend the image of a girl

wearing worn-out jeans and a tattered sweater,

walking through the streets of an unfamiliar city…

In the first hours of the morning

It's time for another travel,

another adventure,

another bite at my soul.

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

Divided (Travel through the Golden Festival)

Dedicated to the people of all Balkan countries,

to their fiery spirit,

to their passion,

to their music.

The first snow day in New York for 2016 is a Sunday. A glorious gray January morning opens eyes and tucks my cover tightly. It’s certifiably cold. My consciousness follows the wake up call around noon, but my body refuses to engage in a vertical posture all day. I stay in bed the remaining Sunday hours. The hyperactive child that I once was, has capitulated after 2 days with no sleep and a true example of what happens when the “rhythm gets you”.

Zlatne Uste • Golden Festival is one of the biggest Balkan festivals in US. It has been taking place in New York for 31 years and for 2 days it brings together people from all around the world, who love to share and experience the music from the Balkan countries. It’s not the typical gathering, where the audience watches passively. Under the drums, the twists of accordions, the “odd-metered” rhythm your limbs obey, whether you hear this type of music for the first time or you’ve been born into it. For me, an avid dancer to all types of music, the Balkan melody in particular works like the Pied Piper of Hamelin’s tune to mice - it’s in my veins, it flows with my blood and it fills every pore of my skin. Everytime I hear the voices of the bagpipes rising, goosebumps crawl down my spine. The melody works like a magic key to a sanctuary hidden inside of me, where I always feel safe. It makes me want to cry and sing at the same time.

The Bulgarian "101 Kaba Gaidi" Bagpipe group based in New York

The 2016 edition of the festival is the 2nd one I’ve been to. A year ago I dragged my beaten body to it after 4 weeks of bed rest. I had completed a double mastectomy and neither my flesh nor my spirit were in the mood to mingle. The winter of 2015 was vicious, giving anyone even less of a reason to go out. However, my nephews were performing at this festival and my aunt (my only family across the ocean) had convinced me to go see them, maybe stay an hour and go back to bed. I was grumpy and achy. My arms refused to follow any normal movement patterns, which made putting on winter layers a 2 hour clothes-wrestling session. The wind kept smacking me left and right, as I slowly conquered the short distance from the Park Avenue station to the Grand Prospect Hall. I arrived at 6pm and had all good intentions to be on the way back home as soon as my nephews finished their 20 min set. I left at 2 o’clock in the morning.

A howling wolf taxidermy

I can’t explain what happened exactly. Some sort of energy transfusion occurred the second I stepped into the Hall. The building is fascinating - dressed in kitsch, glamorous chandeliers, mirrors at odd places, hidden small rooms and some really interesting taxidermy. The warm interior sort of hits you. It carries the face of an old lady that knows her way with makeup, but often puts too much of it and then dims the lights to look more attractive. I don’t think that trick has ever worked, neither for real women, nor for the Grand Prospect Hall, but the effort is so endearing, you have to love the young spirit that still lives in the outdated body.

My nephews sang beautifully, their voices massaging my bruises and cracking open my wrinkled bag of feelings. I peeled off from the audience as soon as they finished and followed curiously a pack of wildly kicking arms and legs into the main ballroom, where a long horo line was forming. Horo is a dance of connection and unity, you hold hands with other dancers to form a large circle. The electrifying touch of strangers made me disappear within the the repetitive pattern of hops and soft steps. I felt part of something familiar, where noone asked questions about my wounds and accepted my hand willingly instead. More dances followed, some were violently loud and cheerful, others weaved around me like a serpent. The mood erupted, movements of all performance styles and dimensions were accepted. I kept telling myself - “just 5 more minutes and I’ll go home”, becoming exhilarated beyond my physical pain with every passing minute. Before I knew it, I was flapping arms and shimmy-shimmying shoulders, testing joyfully the limits of the bandages hidden beneath my knitted layers. I left feeling energized, alive, light, painfree, convinced I have to get involved behind the scenes of the festival.

This year I’m part of the decoration team and we transform all stages into Balkan sanctuaries, cosied under original hand-made Serbian and Bulgarian carpets and blankets. Some of those are over 100 years old. Others are so heavy that 3 of us are needed to lift them. All the items have been carried to the US as early as the 1960s by admirers of the Balkan culture. My team works carefully with the precious textures, using safety pins, cords, closed pins, copper wire to spread the beauty of the patterns onto the walls.

Creating a carpet line in the Choir Room

The event is a huge undertaking. Over 200 volunteers help put it together. There are cooks, ticket sellers, sound checkers, signs makers, hosts… While sharing a slice of pizza, we exchange stories, get to know our connection to the festival. Many are locals, who don't have any links to the Balkans but love the music. It warms my heart to hear how many are drawn to the culture I was born in. For me it is a big deal because I’m part of the “brain drain”, the “lost generation” that left Bulgaria at the first opportunity. So many like me were feeling lost at the time, convinced we are born at the end of the world, at a place everyone tries to condone or escape. The layer of bitterness had made me forget all the immensely beautiful things born from the pain of the Balkans, among them the music...

Volunteers during pizza break

Saturday night is in full swing. We are sold out. About 3000 people come to the second day of the festival - from 6 months old babies, dangling on the shoulders of their parents, to elderly pushing walkers. It doesn't matter who you are or where you were from. I see a girl in a wheelchair possess the dance floor and a 80 year old American lady lead an intricate Bulgarian horo dance. A Korean boy asks me to teach him some of the steps, as I watch the rooms fill with the cheers of people of all means, clothing, ethnicity. Swaying with the memories of last year, of how the music transformed my body, I melt and embrace the crowd. And it really hit me at this moment - the Balkans to me is one of the most divided places on Earth. Since the beginning of time we've fought for identity and re-definition of who we are. We live with inherited pain of battles our ancestors have fought and we continue to revisit unforgivingly. Yet the energy and love we pour into our music has the power to bring so many people of different origin, beliefs and age together.

The New York Crimean Tatar Ensemble performing a traditional dance

I can't describe the love and heart I saw everyone show during those 2 days. You have to see it for yourself. It's magic that the event is based on 600+ musicians, who performed for free, and 260 volunteers, who work over the span of one year to put it together. It’s magic that 3000 enthusiasts of so many ethnicities fill the halls with laughter and sweat, who break the boundaries of language to cry and sing the words of countless Balkan songs that have travelled through the centuries.

I wish I could somehow store this feeling in a bottle, pack it in my suitcase and bring it across the ocean to the lands of my foremothers and forefathers. I wish I could show them how strong their heritage is so they stop feeling like a small and insignificant part of the world. I wish they could realize what a treasure their sad and restless hearts have created.

For now I can at least tell them:

“Благодаря • Eυχαριστώ • Hvala • Multumesc • Faleminderit • Teşekkür”
(Thank You)

A view from the balcony into the ballroom, while Slavic Soul Party! is warming up the crowd

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

The Old Photographs

- “What’s with this fascination to look for old pictures?”

- “I don’t know… Тhey tell a story. They speak about change, progress, the fact that everything passes through time…. People often forget about it and waste their given time.

Photographs remind me that one day I’ll be gone too and there won’t be much left - maybe a shirt with the smell of my perfume, and a worn-out photograph with my face glued to the piece of glossy paper.

I hope my story will inspire someone the way these black & white photographs inspire me, even if there are nothing more but memories from a banal existence...

Have you ever thought of everything that time sets in flames?

Have you thought of what it builds from the ashes?“

The Theater Group of Nevrokop, Bulgaria (1929)

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

Strangers

When you were a stranger to me,

you were never fully yourself,

yet you could tell me about your whole world.

When I felt like a stranger to you,

I was stripped of a name

and I didn't carry my wounds,

my incompleteness,

my shortcomings.

When we were strangers to each other,

laugh came uneasy,

we still wrapped everything we said in it

to build a bridge between us,

so you can knock on the walls of my fears,

and I can pick the locks of your emotional vaults

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

Snow & Earth

The Snow arrived like an unexpected lover,

he kissed the Earth and gave her a white dress,

she tried it on and her reflection froze in the mirror.

“Shall we dance?” she asked, while the snowflakes were falling on her lap.

And they began dancing through the quiet whisper of the wind,

messing with the hair of the trees,

knocking on crooked roofs

painting windows with frosty spiderwebs.

Tired and swept away by the adventure, the Earth fell asleep,

dropping the soft ruffles of her dress on the sleepy faces of her dwellers.

Like shy kittens, they crawled out of the houses.

Curious footsteps wrinkled the gown,

playful paws dug into the white cotton threads,

sleighs cut the silhouette in pieces,

and the Earth was naked again,

but still asleep,

she was dreaming of Snow 

and their dance together.

Picture by Ognyan Lazarov

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

January 1st

Picture by Blagovesta Markova

The 1st day of the year is always drunk on promise.

It lets hangover catch you,

and fills your wanting heart with resolutions.

Be bold when you stride towards your desires,

be kind to yourself even when you fail,

and try again.

Small steps

matter.

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

What are you looking for?

Before you ask me who I am,

ask yourself if you know who you are.

Are you chasing the crowd

that is the loudest,

or the smile that is the prettiest?

Have you come here to seek distraction

or find plenty of noise

so you hear yourself?

The View of 2 Bridges (Manhattan & Brooklyn Bridge)

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

Sunsets

Sunset upon sunset I wonder,

Why do we chase the fiery ball

till it burns out with a hissing sound beyond the horizon?

Where else do we admire the end of things so much?

The death of a day bursts into colours

and rarely do we think about the pain

the light must go through to come to this.

After giving life and purpose to so many creatures on this earth and

slowly giving itself into a sheath of dark mystery - who mourns its

farewell?

We don't relate to a sunset with pain,

but with love, yearning and mostly hope

that we will be given another day and another perfect sunset and

another tomorrow of dazzling life.

Sunset upon sunset I wonder,

If the death of a day can bring us love and hope,

when something dear to us dies

and we are drowning in sorrow -

Can we learn to see more sunsets in it?

Sunset in Rio Vermehlo, Salvador (BR)

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

My Quirky Hometown

...about a small town tucked in the mountains of Bulgaria

Right by the border with Greece, in the thick green hair of the forest, the heart of the Pirin mountain hides so much beauty. If the nature doesn’t grab you, the sad, deep Macedonian songs will. If the music doesn’t bring tears to your eyes, the taste of the local blackberries will. If your belly still doesn’t feel full, the joyous celebratory spirit of locals will fill it. 

Pirin Mountain

Sleeping comfortably in the skirts of the great mountain, forgotten by the accountants of Time, Gotse Delchev spreads comfortably among the 30.000 souls inhabiting the valley. People call it “The Town”, because for a long time it was the only town around, and for over 100 villages, tucked between the shoulders of Pirin and

My grandma at the weekly market

Rodopi mountains, it represented the most important gravitational point. That’s where the weekly fruit & vegetables market comes to life to this very day (every Monday & Friday), where you can get lost in bureaucratic errands, or eye for hours the pretty girls from one of the many cafes with extensive outside seating. Summer comes on a lavish golden chariot and loves to stay around for long. It fills the lakes with the laughter of kids, the streets with gossip & sunflower seeds peels, the shades of the vines with smoking and games of cards. The past is the favourite topic of locals. It’s where most of living happens and a date with the past always requires a sip of the homemade wine or rakia.

The shade of the vines

Gotse Delchev used to be called Nevrokop, it was changed to commemorate a revolutionary, who fought for the freedom of the region in the 1900s. But rarely do locals use these names. They are symbol of change, and “things don’t change around here”. The Town is forever swept away by the force of a fairy tale youth. The world keeps making its turns, but leaves unchanged the slow Sunday walks through the “Turgovska” (Market) street, the chimes of the two churches at the main square still stir the hot air. There’s a sense of stuckness for some, but for others it provides a sense of something solid and strong, a shelter from the winds and fires of life.

Playing cards on the street

Locals are warriors by heart - full tempered, stubborn and energetic, and they can deploy these qualities for the best and the worst - from complaining a whole lot to celebrating like it’s their last day. There is a delicate balance between laughter & tears, between neighbours & relatives, between old demons & new prophets. This dance at the edge of discomfort is the origin of vibrant words & images that, if captured, will disenchant the mysteries of Pirin.

Why should you visit?

Places like Gotse Delchev make you a discoverer. You have to dig. Beyond the surface of the quiet existence, there is the heart of a volcano, rhythmically beating on the lid like on a drum. If you dare to take on the adventure, grab the words, seize the images, you will discover pure & limitless passion, which will engrave Pirin in your heart forever.

Creating a yoga tree amid the beauty of Pirin

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

$2 Dollar Love

...about a call for help and a travel to no expectations

“You are entitled to your actions, but not the fruit of your actions.”

Bhagavad Gita

It’s dark and it’s late for a week day. I’ve been cycling around with Porsha (yes, that’s name I've given my bike) and now I’m anchored at a traffic light in SoHo, waiting for it to turn green. Foot on the bike pedal, chest puffed, arms crossed - I’m feeling very Rock’n’Roll. The single ear bud is blasting “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC and I’m nodding to it rhythmically. An elderly gentleman suddenly runs towards me waving his arms.

“Miss! Miss! Could you spare a quarter? I want to buy a ticket home...”

Girl on the streets of New York paining a picture

Here it is, the inevitable search for compassion that we’ve all encountered. The one that at times we would pass on and say “Sorry, man” simply because it's overwhelming by how many of these calls of desperation cross our path. It’s not difficult to see desperation's face on the streets. It’s pushing a cart full of leftovers, it’s dragging an old suitcase and a sleeping bag, it’s digging through the trash or it's waiting by the sidewalk humbly displaying an “I need a miracle” sign. More often than not, I will walk by, because I feel this heavy face leaning onto my shoulder too closely. “My quarter won’t change a thing” I will say to myself or exercise fast judgement “He will buy booze with the money, not a ticket or food”.

I find speaking or writing about this loaded topic difficult, and I hardly feel qualified to suggest any "smart" solutions. However, the gentleman’s question left a very personal impression on me. It made me realize a couple of things. First, Holy Shit, my brain is so cluttered, where did that chain of thoughts come from, I was cycling 2 minutes ago?? Second, I’ve just labeled someone desperate, without knowing anything about him or about the reasons of his inquiry. I’ve done it just because he asked me for a little bit of money. Third, I’ve also selfishly put an expectation on him - he can only receive my compassion, if he complies with what the money will be spent for. This is not a glorious moment for my philanthropy oriented, yoga infused, well read, kittens hugging side (that I think I posses for the most part, especially when overdosing on spiritual Instagram posts). 

I’m thinking about this predisposition for judgement. It’s a shield against what I consider hurtful and difficult to change in the world. But why do I need to exercise the right to say how my good deed is spent? Does it matter whether it’s food, booze or something else, as long as it grants him a little bit of happiness? And is it really pain I’m letting into my life by helping him, especially if I CAN share that quarter? (The rhetorical function of these questions has been added to spare the writer spelling out the answers). I challenge myself to take a leap tonight against this psycho wave of thoughts and just do something for a stranger, without putting expectations on him.

There’s barely anyone else passing by the lonesome SoHo alley. The light turns green, but I hold the eager Porsha still and check the contents of my wallet. It contains a single $2 dollar bill and nothing else. I pull it out and hand it over to the gentleman.

“There you go, I hope it helps, sir” I say to him.

He looks at me wide eyed and presses his hands into a prayer as he channels a full hearted “Thank you!” my way, adding a loud: “I love you, Miss!” proclamation.

I cycle off with a smile. Maybe he won’t buy a ticket home or perhaps he will. But why should I care? I set something in motion by handing my last $2 dollars, irrelevant if it will be classified as good or bad in the order of the world. Tonight it brought me an “I love you” as a sign of gratitude. And "I love you" is always good to hear, even from an absolute stranger.

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.