EuropfiЯ by Tihomira

Europfir N.1 November 2015

the bilingual magazine

THE EUPHORIA OF THE EASTERN EUROPEAN IN THE WESTERN WORLD

m y b u c k e t li s t

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

long time ago (maybe not THAT long), in a world far away (it might have been on the same continent) Eastern and Western Europe had some family problems. Wife East thought her husband had an affair with the much younger America. Husband West was fed up with the constant fights. Both of them were not the sort of people to stay home and do the chores. They were constantly competing who would provide better money-wise. So, like any ordinary family, they decided to get a divorce. But there was a problem. The children. Joint custody was out of the picture. After long negotiations, they reached an agreement. They would be neighbours, living in one big house but with an unbreachable fence inbetween the bedrooms. Never once did the East and West considered their children’s feelings. Mother East and Father West divided their children and did not allow them to communicate in any way. The little Easterns and Westerns did not know what it was like living in the other house. They had only heard stories. Mummy East was struggling with the single parent salary and decided that all of her children will get equal amount of pocket money. But, the smallest kids were constantly beaten by the older and cooler ones. So equality was never achieved. Daddy West, on the other hand, decided it will give his children everything and will let them compete between each other for chocolate. His method did not prove to be the better one but the Easterns were mesmerized by the amount of chocolate the Westerns could have (they did not have to que once a month and hope the marzipan won’t be out of date). After awhile, Mummy and Daddy re-discovered their love for each other and got married again. This time they decided to think of their children. They demolished the fence and whole family was once again together. The Easterns could now eat as much chocolate as they wanted to. They were happy. But another problem arose. The Westerns were jealous. They felt like the Easterns were eating all of the chocolate. They felt threatened. Someone else was competing too. 26 years later the Europes have learned to live in harmony (at least that’s how they look on the family Christmas cards). Mummy and Daddy desperately try to right their wrongs. But isn’t it too late? The Easterns want to try every new sweet on the market and the Westerns feel the need to protect what they consider theirs. But they all live under the same roof…

This is not a fairy tale. The Europes did not live happily ever after. This family is just starting to crawl towards happiness. But they are still a long way from learning to live together. The Easterns are getting comfortable in their new rooms shared with the Westerns. They are both grown-ups now, young adults who need to learn how to adopt. If you are an Easterner, read this survival kit. Go over the EUFORIA of leaving SOFIЯ and coming to Western EUROPE. Open your eyes! If you are a Westerner, read this tolerant kit. Embrace the EUFORIA of having someone from SOFIЯ coming to your EUROPE. Open your heart! Mummy and Daddy are back. It is high time for the kids to start playing together again. This is our guide on how to overcome the differences. This is our guide on how to love the EUROPFIЯ. I am an Eastern European in the Western World. More than anyone, I know the fears and hopes, the ups and downs of moving in with your step siblings… EUROPFIЯ

Contents

THE

BULGARIAN SYNDROME 12 26

122

18 MOUTH DIARRHEA 26 @COMMUNICATIONLESS 37 OVER 18’S 43 В ЦИФРИ 61 STUDENT LIFE 91 REVIEWS 114 AFTERUNILIFE 122 YOUNG ARTIST SECTION 138 Q & A

Cover story BALCANMOCRACY

9 Explaining 13 IMMIGRATION 21 ОТКРОВЕНИЯ

24LOST in NeverDeen 31 THE BILINGUAL BRAIN MINI DEBATE 34 Clubbing vs Chilling

39 Be happier

HOW TO...?

SEX, DRUGS and ROCK “n“ ROLL

48 Manage the budget HOW TO...?

51 Rent, Work, Study

THE SURVIVAL KIT

A LIFE IN SOCIAL MEDIA

93 A LANGUAGE OF CHOICE

DĒMOKRATÍA - ANCIENT GREEK FOR “RULE OF THE PEOPLE“

THE

BULGARIAN SYNDROME „Целият свят е в заговор срещу Балканите. Завиждат ни, че сме най-древни, най-талантливи, най-сексуални. Не много умно, но пък работещо оправдание да не правиш нищо със съдбата си.“ Бойко Василев

Cover story

26 years of BALCANMOCRACY “A citizen of America will cross the ocean to fight for democracy, but won’t cross thre street to vote in a national election.“ Bill Vaughan

f you experience some of these:

High blood pressure during the evening news;

Shortage of breath when taxes are increased;

Fever when a politician is arrested;

Migraines when a European project is failed.

You might want to book an appointment with your GP as you have contracted a disease called Balcanmocracy. It has been a quarter of a century since the first time this cancerous disease was recognised as a serious condition. Since then it has been spreading and killing young visionaries with the speed of Ebola. Balcanmocracy in its essence is the wrongly understood democracy within former socialist countries under the influence of SSSR. This syndrome infects both your body and your brain and shuts down every system. Diagnosed patients have proved to be unable to recognise their rights or find a reasonable way to fight crimes against society. Ironically, democracy emerges in Ancient Greece and most of the contaminated countries are in fact near Greece. Yet, there is not a single working democracy in Eastern Europe. We will take a closer look at Bulgaria and its 26 years of transition from socialism to democracy. Bulgarians love complaining. It is in their nature (due to the Bulgarian syndrome) to complain about everything but not to act upon making it right.

Bulgaria is a parliamentary representative democracy. This means that people there need to choose representatives in the Parliament who will make the decisions for the whole nation. Yet, the turnout in general elections is alarmingly low. Out of 7 084 868 Bulgarians only 48.66% decided it would be a good idea to forget about their Sunday activities and cast their votes at the last general elections. This happened after a year full of Balcanmocracy events: it all started with national protests against Boiko Borisov’s government followed by the appointment of a caretaker government which was supposed to organise a fair and honest election. But the fair and honest election was not so transparent and a scandal about fake bulletins erupted. The Bulgarians however elected Boiko Borisov’s opposition….but only after a few months the nation was once again on the streets taking down the newly elected Oresharski’s government. They did take him down and they did choose Boiko Borisov again. And then they complained.

The metastases have infected every single cell. You are terminal…

The Bulgarian syndrome attacks your brain and kills your rationality by turning the good cells responsible for taking adequate decisions into bad cells. This is why Balcanmocracy is such a deadly disease.

The Balcanmocracy changes people’s perceptions of everything. People stop caring. A simple but powerful thought invades their thought: “There is nothing I can change.”

It is quite phenomenal actually. When you feel fed up with the non-working country, you enter a closed circle of actions which are bound to end with the death of the society. It starts by shutting down your sensors of what is right and what is wrong. Then your brain stops distinguishing peaceful from violent demonstration. You become a “democratic animal” – seeking true democracy where it cannot be found because it has never been established. And then comes the utter disgust with the country, the nation and democracy itself. You feel disappointed and gutted, your brain can only detect this attempt to understand the philosophy of democracy as a failure. You give up.

This is it! The final metastasis has infected the last good cell. The brain is dead…

And the Balcanmocracy has invaded your whole brain.

But maybe there is still some light left shimmering at the end of the tunnel. In 2015 Bulgaria had a referendum on e-voting. One might think that this could have been THE PILL that will attack the cancerous cells. One has been wrong. The turnout did not even reach the required 50% for it to be legal. The one time Bulgarians had the option to take the pill and they just threw it away. Interestingly enough, the situation is even worse with emigrants in the Western world. One might think that those Bulgarians will be taking an example from the Western politics to cast their votes. But once again one will be wrong. Aberdeen is the second biggest Bulgarian community in Scotland and there are a few hundred Bulgarians living here. Yet, only 95 found voting worth it.

Balcanmocracy is as much a mental illness as an illness that affects the body. Nations suffering from it have the same problem in common: an immense potential which is not acknowledged. Those countries are shattered by political games. The battle for a parliamentary seat resembles that from “Game of thrones” but instead of beheaded bodies the suffering countries are left with stupid scandals, enormous loans to the EU and utterly disappointed citizens. Having nothing left to do in their own motherland, they fly the country leaving behind their national identity.

EUROPFI r

“I’m so happy I got this debilitating illness so I can stay in bed for the rest of my life instead of participating in society and making a difference.“ SomeEEcards The Bulgarian syndrome causes, indeed, a lot of damage to the brain. It shuts down all engines responsible for generating an actual democratic opinion and political views. The Bulgarian syndrome does not kill the intention to help the nation but it kills any desire to act. And this is the terminal part of the illness. Because it is one thing for a person not to be able to think properly but it is a whole other thing for them to be able to think but not to have the desire to do it. In the first case, the person could be thought to think and take up a citizen’s stand but with the second situation there is no teaching. The desire has to come from the inside and not from the outside. You cannot force your ideas on another human being. After all, we do live in a democratic society. If we imagined a situation where a British and a Bulgarian have gone out for a pint, their “date” would most probably go like this: Firstly, they enter a small traditional pub where the bartender is welcoming and smiling. If this was in Bulgaria, the small traditional pub would be more of a house of one of the villagers who had made too much rakia this year. He would have put two tables and a few chairs in his living room in a desperate attempt to sell some of his magical opium and save up money for at least one month of heating during the winter season. Because, you know, Bulgarian pensions are under the living standards. Bottom line, the “bartender” would be an old wrinkled man, exhausted of living who is making everything in his power to barely survive. But back to the nice and tidy British pub where the British orders a pint and tells the Bulgarian that he can order whatever he wants as it is his treat. Having heard that, the Bulgarian instantly orders two pints of the most expensive beer on draft. (There is this common principle in former socialist countries that the more expensive the product is, the better its quality is.)

The two gentlemen (they have both dressed up nicely: the British has put on one of his casual suits and a brand new bowler while the Bulgarian has tried to find a shirt that has not been too visibly eaten by the malts and a bowler which he has been wearing since the army.) start their conversation with the EU and its demands towards their two countries. The British tries to explain the unfairness with which the UK is being treated. But, frustrated, the Bulgarian interrupts his friend and starts rambling about the yet another loan which has not reached the ordinary people and had been lost somewhere on the way. Their economically-tied talks continue with the grotesquely different living standards and of course the British hurries up to express his compassion about his friend’s life. (The key part here is that the British is not familiar with the condition of his Bulgarian friend and does not know anything about the deadly Balcanmocracy.) A few hours have passed and the two men are drinking a glass of whiskey like true gentlemen – of course, the British is sticking with his favourite 12-year-old bourbon and the Bulgarian once again has chosen the almost poisonously smelly 15-year-old whiskey (it was after all the most expensive one!) After having discussed the political agenda of both countries, the two gentlemen move on to discussing football. But Bulgarians have a very true anecdote: their nation is an expert in two things – football and politics. That is why their football is non-existent and their motherland is throwing out its own children. But the British once again does not know about the syndrome his friend has to live with so he listens to the Bulgarian’s lecture with real interest.

“We became fourth in the world in 1994! Fourth! Can you believe it?” The British (who comes from a country with quite good football history) asks the Bulgarian: “What about now? Are you playing the finals?” “Oh, no. we are a tragedy now. They all steal and no money is left for sport. They steal everything. We don’t see a penny! Bartender, another one of this delicious whiskey. My generous friend here is buying!” The Bulgarian says drunkenly. And this is the time when the British realises that his friend from Eastern Europe might be mentally sick. His bowler is torn apart but he orders a quality whiskey one after another. The Bulgarian can barely say something good about his country but he is being proud of it highlighting the best moments (they have already covered the rich and fearless Bulgarian history and have picked Bulgaria as the older country between the two). The British cannot help but think about all the actions the Bulgarian might be taking but instead he is drinking free whiskey and only complaining about his problems. The British feels sorry for his friend. He buys him another small whiskey on the rocks and leaves him for the night. They will meet tomorrow to finish their conversation. But the same thing will be said and no actions will be taken. Because the British has now found out about his friend’s terminal illness. This was just an illustration of the deadly cancer-like Ebola virus called Balcanmocracy which spreads across countries and infects the newborns every minute. The pill has been discovered but no one likes it. It is too simple. Too cheap. The pill which kills Balcanmocracy is Democracy. But someone needs to explain it to the already infected ones.

EUROPFIr

EUROPFI r

immigration Are we really such a burden? “When immigration is too high, when the pace of change is too fast, it’s impossible to build a cohesive society.“ Theresa May

remember how a few years ago in one of my Philosophy classes my teacher had decided to provoke us by opening our eyes to national stereotypes. She showed us a few European maps published by the art designer Yanko Tsvetkov. The Bulgarian artist had called his compilation with the straight-forward name “Prejudice” in attempt to show us all that, maybe, the European family is not as tolerant and loving as it is supposed to be, illustrating the ironic labels we have unconsciously put next to other neighbouring nations.

After all, it is politicians who set the stereotypical agenda of the day. I cannot say that Bulgaria is gypsy-free or we do not clean toilets (we do try to keep our hygiene!) but this should not describe us a nation. We immigrate because we want a better life for ourselves, better education, and better options. The bare existence of the European Union is to ensure free movement of people.

I do love coffee but I would not call myself lazy. I am sunny and loud. I consider myself a tolerant person and more of an Atheist rather than a Christian, although I have been baptised. I do work more than 21 days a year and I am smart. Still, some Bulgarians may be living all those stereotypes. But so may some British. Labels are supposed to be broken not fed on.

We are not so bad. We have invented stuff – the pepper roaster, for example! And we have written stuff (we almost received a Nobel Prize for Literature).

I can still recall how gutted I felt about all the stereotypical and biased words Bulgaria (part of the UNION OF SUBSIDIZED FARMERS according to the 2009 map) was described as: “CHEAP BOOZE” by Russia, “EUROPOOR DU SUD” by Switzerland, “TOILET CLEANERS” by Spain, “RETARDS” by Greece, the USA did not even acknowledge us as a different country from Romania and we were part of “DRACULA”, “KLEPTOMANIACS, GYPSIES AND PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER HEARD ABOUT US” was how Luxembourg thought of all of Eastern Europe, “IMMIGRANTS” by Britain and “UNEMPLOYED BAGGERS” by the British Tories.

We have also stolen and raped and killed. But who hasn’t?

An evolved country like the UK should know better than believing we, immigrants (regardless of nationality), are unable to build up a concise society while standing by your side.

So it really did not come as a surprise to me when Theresa May spoke to her fellow party peers on the topic of immigration:

„Even if we manage all the consequences of mass immigration, Britain does not need net migration in the hundreds of thousands every year. Of course, immigrants fill skills shortages and it’s right that we should try to attract the best talent in the world, but not every person coming to Britain right now is a skilled electrician, engineer or doctor.“

Theresa May

Bulgaria might not be the most economically developed country or the best example of a working democracy but we are not just “unemployed baggers”. We have qualities, too. But after hearing Theresa May’s speech on immigration, I thought of Yanko Tsvetkov who had frustrated me so much a few years before that. Indeed, some of his prejudices proved out to be true and they have found their place on Britain’s political agenda for some time now. So, naturally, I checked some of Yanko Tsvetkov’s new satirical works in which he had torn Europe apart. According to him, we are “EUPHORIC”, “CLASSICAL”, “TRADITIONAL”, “SUNNY”, and “LOUD”. But he also admits that our nation is “SEXUALLY REPRESSED” and rather “POOR” as is the rest of “NEW EUROPE”. We might be “LAZY” and only “WORK 21 DAYS PER YEAR” but we also “CAN FIX THE SINK”. We are part of the continent THAT “EAT WHILE SITTING”, have “GOOD CUISINE” and would prefer “TOMATO”, “WINE”, “OLIVE OIL” and “COFFEE”. “HOMOPHOBIC”, “ORTHODOX” and “RELIGIOUS” also found their places under the section Bulgaria.

#БезBorders

“These days, it feels to me like you make a devil’s pact when you walk into this country. You hand over your passport at the check-in, you get stamped, you want to make a little money , get yourself started... but you mean to go back! Who would want to stay? Cold, wet, miserable; terrible food, dreadful newspapers - who would want to stay? In a place where you are never welcomed, only tolerated. Just tolerated. Like you are an animal finally house-trained.” Zadie smith, White Teeth

Word Diarrhea

“Both my kindness and generocity have their limits - only when I want them to be limited.” Boiko Borisov

ато малка мечтаех да стана учител. Исках да образовам децата, да ги възпитавам на морални ценности, да събудя у тях чувството за добро и зло, да им помогна да стигнат пълния си потенциал. Не станах учител. Открих различните начини да помагаш. Реших, че моят начин е да казвам истината. Плени ме журналистиката - истината, цялата истина и само истината. След време преоткривах отново света. Установих, че хората не се интересуват от истината. Голямата истина, която исках да предам на живо във вечерния новинарски блок, беше твърде болезнена. Хората могат и знаят много само на думи. Всички сме си купили по една фалшива диплома от Университета на Живота, изкарали сме изпитите с необходимия минимум и сме се превърнали в Хора. Обаче хора на думи. Когато стане време за действие, оказва се, че нашите фалшиви дипломи не покриват разхода на енергия.

Фалшивите дипломи не покриват необходимия минимум за демокрация. Като малка мечтаех също и да бъда археолог като Лара Крофт. Може би, ако бях преследвала тази своя мечта, сега щях да съм насред Средиземно море, в търсене на отдавна изчезналия храм на Демокрацията и написаната от Древните гърци Книга на Демокрацията. Лара Крофт спасява света многократно, може би и аз можеше да го спася от апатията на „демократа“.

Не станах археолог. Не открих Демокрацията и не преборих апатията. Реших да стана журналист, за да предавам истината. Истината е, че ние като народ забравихме думите на хан Кубрат (в наша защита самите му синове ги забравиха). Истината е, че ние като народ забравихме що е това демокрация. Стори ни се по-трудно да отидем да подадем вота си, отколкото да си напазаруваме в мола. Истината е, че винаги всичко можем и знаем, но не смеем да си признаем, че всички сме с фалшиви дипломи.

the radioactive democracy

Но реших да бъда журналист, да пиша за истината. Това и направих. Написах болезнената истина, която никой не иска да чуе и никой канал няма да излъчи. Защото сме демократи и най обичаме да ни казват какви сме. Ето я моята истина, готова за следващия новинарски блок:

Протестираме само когато има сандвичи. Негодуваме само когато любимият ни сандвич е свършил. Референд-уваме само когато сандвичът е изстинал. През останалото време живеем простия си живот, с фалшивите си дипломи и тежкия махмурлук. Не, не сме изпили двеста грама ракия снощи, просто заговорихме за участие в управлението. А това ни дава махмурлук. Най-тежкият от 89‘ насам. Не се тревожете, идват и президентски избори.

Следващият маратон на демокрацията наближава. Този път отсечката ще е по-дълга. Изморително е, знам, но бягането е полезно за здравето. (Или поне така казват на Запад, където не чакат кебапчета в изборния ден.) Може би трябваше да стана учител по физкултура. Щях да науча децата как да бягат към демокрацията, а не от нея. Сблъсъкът с топката е болезнен само първият път, казваше моята госпожа. Може би трябваше да стана Лара Крофт. Щях да намеря Книгата на Демокрацията. Щях да затворя Кутията на Апатията и открия Люлката на Демокрацията.

7-те милиона българи за пореден път решиха да останат в домовете си, за да изгледат поредния епизод на поредното безсмислено риалити в неделния ден. За пореден 7-милионното стадо реши, че някой друг ще ги поведе и ще им покаже коя тревичка е най-вкусна за пасене. До утре. Когато ще се окаже, че новото пасище е радиоактивно. По предварителни данни ще са нужни почти тридесет години, за да може мястото да се изчисти от радиацията. Имаме екипи на място, които ще следят за развитие по темата.

ОТКРОВЕНИЯ

EUROPFIr

Lost in

NeverDeen

EUROPFI r

“Бяла спретната къщурка, две липи отпред. Тука майчина милувка сетих най-напред.”

Тука, под липите стари не веднъж играх; тука с весели другари скачах и се смях... Къщичке на дните злати, кът свиден и мил! И за царските палати не бих те сменил! Ран Босилек

EUROPFI r

@communicationless “Нека говорят....“ Росен Петров

oing to university in another country may be the best time of your life but it also may be the biggest challenge of your life. But we are here to make a system for you to follow and organize your first month at university.

Last but not least, you need to make friends! There is nothing worse than spending those four years as the creepy stranger in the corner of the lecture hall. But making friends is the hardest part of being a student. You can always ask your mum about the softener and you can always drink more coffee but it is not that simple to go and talk to people.

First, one needs to become familiar with the basic chores. Do you know how hard it is to figure out how much of the unnecessary expensive fabric softener you need to put in the washing machine or make out the exact time your mum used to boil your eggs for so that they are perfect – not too raw or over boiled at the same time? Making out if you need to change your bed sheets or not is quite cheeky as well – one never seems to remember whether it has been a week or two.

Finding the courage to talk to people is step one. Yet, it is the hardest step you might ever have to make. Think of it as the first time you have to use the hot and cold water. You just need to find th courage to do it.

Secondly, managing your time is almost impossible. Enormous quantities of caffeine (I bet this is unhealthy) need to be transfused into your blood if you want to meet a deadline. Thirdly, getting used to the hot and cold water is tricky. My advice there is to suck it in and jjust go through with it already!

Step two is finding a common topic. You might be lucky and find the perfect friends who match your personalities. There is, however, another option as well. They might be too different from you and you will have to adjust. Don’t worry! I can teach you how to be a social animal in no time: 1.

Don’t read books, they are bad for you. They make you think and thinking is as bad for you as Iraq is for the USA.

Don’t read the news. No one needs them. Why do you care if someone died on the other side of the World? You are ok, that is what matters.

Learn the street language. Learn how to make small talks. You don’t need big words. They are way too boring.

You need to smoke. Smoking is socialising.

Go out irresponsibly – get smashed and then tell all about it to strangers.

Don’t say what you want to say.

Don’t think what you want to think.

Be like the others. No one likes the different.

Instead of water, drink beer.

10. Listen to Taylor Swift. Now you are ready to conquer the world!

EUROPFI r

Човекът не е остров.

“The future rewards those who press on. I don’t have to feel sorry for myself. I don’t have time to complain. I’m going to press on.“ Barack Obama

Just Keep Goin’

#Young artists’ pages

The 11

Floor

Tihomira Doncheva

turned the door knob slightly. My hands are still shaking after climbing 11 floors. Do you know how many stairs that is? Let me tell you, for a person who does not go to the gym every other day it is a lot! That is 88 steps not including the final one on every floor. If I had an app on my phone for calories, I guess I would have hit a new record. Well, of course I could have used the elevator but then I would be like any other tourist who books a room in an expensive hotel, then drinks brandy in the stone-covered lobby (yeah, what is this mania of always decorating hotel lobbies with the finest stone and leather couches?) and then take the glass elevator to the 11th floor. The problem is not only the fact that this is typical and popular and I hate the typical stuff (do not ask please why my body is actually present in an expensive hotel, it is another story for another time) but the glass elevator always brings up this uncertainty in me. It is transparent glass, when you look down you see nothing. I’m not afraid of heights, I am afraid of the fucking nothing! Anyways, I did not take the elevator, I had to climb nearly a hundred stairs and thus my whole body is still shaking. So I open the golden knob. It had to be golden, right? For an expensive hotel, only the golden colour is good enough. People might die if the colour was…blue for example.

Anyways, I open the door and the smell of vanilla and chocolate is attacks me. I can smell it, feel it on my skin, on my tongue and it was kind of stuck to my brain within 5 seconds. Normally, I love chocolate. Every person loves chocolate, it is just a normal hormonal reaction. Chocolate makes us happy. When you are sad, you eat chocolate. When you are happy, you eat chocolate. It is like the penicillin of the 21st century! But this time I did not like the chocolate smell. The chocolate had found itself in this weird battle with vanilla, both of them fighting for dominance, making me choose. Now, I have never liked vanilla, but at this point I started hating it. The vanilla is ruining the chocolate for me. Ok, imagine the scenario: you like someone, like this really hot dude, like Ian Sommerholder hot dude, so you like him. But then there is this “casual friend” of his, you have never been a big fan of her but the moment you realise she has been screwing Ian, you start hating her. So when the vanilla is sleeping with the chocolate, you just start hating the vanilla. Normal jealousy sign.

Back to the smell of vanilla and chocolate in the room. I think the cleaning lady had made an honest mistake here. She put some vanilla candles and then she put some chocolate candles as well. She might have thought they would go nice together. Well, they don’t. They are fighting for my attention and I don’t like it! No! The vanilla is too sweet. The chocolate is enough by itself. You don’t need another smell. Now you have to choose between the vanilla and chocolate. You need to choose between the Ian and the other bitch after they have broken up. Because you are in their group of friends. And now the time for taking sides has come. But which one do you choose? You don’t like Ian anymore and the bitch (your former friend) apologises to you. So what do you do? Which side do you choose? The battle is in its final seconds. Probably the cleaning lady thought she can stay friends with both of them, but in this life you just can’t have everything. You can’t have a Ferrero candy and an ice cream and you simply can’t put chocolate and vanilla candles in one room.

EUROPFI r

Anyways, let’s just assume that this was an honest mistake. I can give this fancy hotel another chance. I did climb 11 floors of stairs after all. So I look around. I look around myself and see that all the finest hotels have the same white walls and white furniture. It’s all so white… the white walls have been “decorated” with this big red spot. It is a million dollar picture. But it is just a red spot worth a million dollars, not a masterpiece but more of a joke to the white walls. I thought the white colour was to imitate cleanliness but then we have this giant red spot.. Sorry, this giant a million dollars red spot which looks like someone was shot against the wall. No, not only one person. There was a whole massacre here. The human nature died. Inbetween those clean walls, the whole human nature died when they tried to pretend everything is clean and nice and mud-free. And the human nature died even more when the hotel paid one million dollars to display this mass murder of culture and belief and kindness.

Anyways, I am still not running away. Honestly, I can’t imagine going down those 11 floors of stairs again. So, give the hotel the benefit of the doubt, give it the benefit of the doubt, I am telling myself. And I did. I made a few steps and reached the bed. White covers, hm, what a surprise. But the cleaning lady has left me another unpleasant surprise. I have two champagne glasses and a bottle of this bubbly liquid. And I have strawberries but the strawberries had fallen down from the bed and are now resting in peace on the white carpet, leaving a few small red spots. Looks like the bullets were shot here. After all, everyone needs a bottle of the finest alcohol and a dozen of these pinkish strawberries for a pleasant night. Well, the cleaning lady had made yet another fatal mistake. I don’t like vanilla and I definitely don’t like romantic shit. Frankly, I don’t have anyone to share the wine with. Of course, I could drink it on my own but A. I am gonna be proclaimed the next alcoholic and some rich daughter of some rich businessman is gonna take me as her volunteer project and her ticket to independent porn star career, and B: I don’t have any strawberries left. They have all fallen on the floor. Now I have to call room service and I have to tip. I don’t have a dollar. I will have to tip a fiver. Nah that is just too much effort. So I go to the French-like windows and look into town. So there was a plus to climbing all those nearly one hundred stairs after all. I can see the whole city. All the lights shimmering in different colours. All the cars buzzling around in a hurry to go back home in time for the evening episode of Geordie Shore. Do you think that Brandon and Leighla are finally gonna sleep together? Or is he gonna choose the safe option of scewing someone random in the club’s toilets.

Anyways, I am standing on the 11th floor, looking down and I can’t see a single soul. I am just too high in the sky. What is this nonstop urge of the people to always build bigger and better and larger. It is almost like trying to reach the sky just because the down-world is too dirty. That is why we decorate the lobby in stones, we think it will last forever like the pyramids. That is why we have glass elevators so the egoistic ones can laugh at us down there for being down there while they are travelling upwards towards the 11th floor. And that is why we have golden knobs and white walls. We are desperately trying to build the perfection…up there. We are not even trying to re-do the faults we have already done down there. The vanilla and the chocolate are fighting for dominance just because the hotel is so rich that the managers didn’t have to decide which of the two aromas to order. The picture costs one million dollars just because the artist died by killing himself at an exhibition just for the attention. And probably because his dealer couldn’t find him THE h. So I am looking through the window and I am thinking of this postcomunist syndrome, this capitalist ideal of dividing the world in two – the down there world and the 11th floor. But there are only a few rooms on the 11th floor. They need to be big enough so the high class customers can feel at home. Up on the 11th floor of the bigger, better and larger hotel. My eyes start to get blurry. No, I am not crying. I don’t know how to. I am used to keeping the emotions buried deep down so now I can’t find a shovel to undig them and I have officially forgotten how to cry. But my eyes are blurry. It is because of my lenses. I don’t like these new ones. Everyone said they would be better just because they are cutting edge design and are double the price of the old ones. But my vision is purely blurry. The lights down there are fading away, the walls are turning grey, the giant one million dollar red spot is attacking the whole room and is infecting the furniture like cancer. Suddenly I realise I hate the 11th floor. I hate the white walls, the cancerous tentacles which have now taken over the entire room look more realistic. I hate the strawberries and the champagne, I hate the two glasses. Isn’t it ok for a young female to be on her own?! Why did the clean lady assume I need two glasses and the smell of both vanilla and chocolate? For future references, I hate vanilla! Vanilla and chocolate can never be friends again and their friends simply need to choose a side. You just can’t have both at the same time. And I hate the golden knob. I think I might break into the hotel tomorrow and I will dye it in blue. Just because I can… With that decided I start running down the stairs. It is 11 floors of stairs, 88 steps not including the last one on every floor, this is an additional of 11 steps, almost one hundred steps that I have to go down so I can reach the lesser, the worse and the smaller. So I can reach the grey walls and the beer and the shitty food. Only one hundred steps until the smell of urine and dirt and mud. It is only 11 floors down until I can reach the reality again and start the quest of finding blue dye for that stupid door knob. 11,10,9…

Why Aberdeen? Scotland’s