A Birthday for a Kmiet

1

Kmiet is the Bulgarian word for Mayor and even though we have been on good terms with the mayor who presides over the village my family owns a house in, we often refer to him as Mayor/Kmiet more than his given name. That being the case I will refer to him as Kmiet. We have known Kmiet for several years already since our six years of owning our house in Bulgaria. We have spent many a times having dinner, BBQs, and drinks in both formal and non-formal occasions but ever since the death of his beloved wife and the diagnosis of his cancer, he has become a lonely man, who even though he protests to invitations to dinner, he always happily accepts and can spend hours talking about times of the past as well as his sons and grandchildren. That is enough for his brief introduction however, I will talk about and elaborate on Kmiet and his life in the later, but for now I will discuss the night my father and I spent at his party celebrating his 78th birthday.

Before I elaborate on the night however, I will explain that my father and I had spent three days driving from Gdansk, in the North of Poland, all the way down to the village of Tsarevets where we have owned a house for six years (at the time of writing this chapter). We drove through the whole of Poland, part of the Czech Republic, a cross section of Hungary and Serbia and then into Bulgaria. This was in the February of 2015. With the favor of the gods, old and new, we made it through some harsh weather and long hours of coffee fueled driving and terrible GPS navigation, just on the day of Kmiet's Birthday.

Upon our arrival around 5 in the afternoon, he gives us a hug and proclaims that our arrival is the best birthday gift he was to receive. The smile on his face being proof enough of his statement. Within minutes of our coming Kmiet offers us with a warming swig of Rakia. Rakia is the Bulgarian equivalent of moonshine. It is a common tradition throughout the Balkan region and is extremely predominant in all occasions of Bulgarian life. The alcoholic beverage is made from several sources, be it plum, pear, cherry, walnut or even the very thin sheet that is within the walnut. Despite the source, almost every person In our village has their own personal distillery system and own recipes for their own family made, organic Rakia. It is a custom of the land, and when in Rome…

We drank to refuel ourselves and to recover from the cold, mind you we drove in the dead of winter, and arriving in Bulgaria it was already below zero. After exchanging pleasantries, and describing the various stories of our drive down to Bulgaria we receded into the kitchen where I ended up cooking various kinds of meat slabs and slicing bread for dinner. Kmiet, although a capable man, left the majority of his house work to his wife. Since her passing, the state of his house has slowly become increasingly messy, cups and plates with their contents have been known to stay in one spot for extended periods of time but unfortunately such is the life of a lonely man. 

My father and I ended up spending the night at Kmiet;s house, because our house at that time had no source of heating and when the temperature drops below minus 14 C in the middle of the night, you did not want to be caught in the cold without some source of heat. In this case, we were heated by roaring flames from a fire place and a wood burning stove. After several tries to mater the quantity of wood in the fires we finally went to sleep, waking up several times in the night to stoke the fire.

By 5 in the morning we were woken up by Kmiet, who says he had a very tough time sleeping because he feared that he did left the chimney closed and so we might have died by smoke inhalation. To his and our satisfaction the chimney was open and we survived the night. After that night, he gave us one of his own wood burning stoves to help us heat out house and it worked like magic. Although I had slight internal objections to having to constantly burn wood, being the environmentalist I am, but when it came to freezing to death in minus temperatures or burning wood, I quickly decided that wood is the better sacrifice. However that is enough of the back story for now.

Even though we arrived on his birthday in February, he had informed us that he had planned a family get together to celebrate days later on the 14^th of February, and of course we had no choice but to accept. The 14^th of February is of course valentines for most of the world, but for a great majority of Bulgaria, it is celebration of wine on the day of St. Trifon Zarezan who has become the patron saint of wine, the equivalent to the Greek Dionysius. On this day one would expect mass amounts of wine to be consumed but instead, the tradition for many is to visit the graves of their dead relatives and in fact leave real food and pour actual wine onto their graves so that they can feast in the afterlife. There is definitely much more to this tradition but it is not the subject of my writings at the moment.

On this fateful Saturday on which we were to meet Kmiet and his family for his birthday, my father and I had arranged to take a shower at a friend's house. Keep in mind that our Bulgarian house had not been used all winter, and this was our third day there and we had yet to restore running water to the house, for fear of frozen and busted pipes. So we cleaned ourselves up in the house of a good friend from England. On the same day a couple of hours later, we ended up restoring running water to our house but had no chance to connect the boiler to establish hot water for our shower, which required about an hour's work of taking pails of water out of our well to turn knobs to adjust water pressures for our pump. Regardless, we were cleaned up and ready to party.

We picked up Kmiet from his house, which was only a Bulgarian block or two from our own. We had visited him earlier in the day and he complained out abdominal pain, most likely due to his medication used for his cancer. He was pale and bed ridden, but he was able to perk himself up by the time we came to pick him up, my father was elected as the designated driver. The two of them joked that my dad was the security for the mayor and so had to always be at his side. We drove him from his village house to his house in the nearby city of Mezdra. His house in the city is occupied by one of his sons and his wife. His son took over the family business that cut stones and marble in the region, the region being famous in Bulgaria for its high quality stone work and masonry. Arriving in the house we waited for about an hour with Kmiet and his son, waiting for his son's wife to return from picking up her parents who were also invited to this party. Obviously no in-law rivalry here.

Kmiet himself had a low fever and was required by his daughter in-law to take half a pill of some sort of medication, the name and function of which was lost in translation. Mind you they spent a good 20 minutes arguing about the size of the pill he had to take and why he was required to take it. On the other side of the table the mother in law was boasting how she never cared for medication and never needed it. This woman was the very meaning of young hearted. She was over 80 but had more spirit in her step than I at 20. She would often raise her voice and fling her arms in various directions, proclaiming one thing or another. Despite her outward energy, she was a short and hunched over woman, the result of decades of working on farms. Of which she had perfected to an artistry that could rival Picasso's brush strokes. Her husband was an almost equally energetic man with teeth that could put to shame a rabbit, half of which were already metallic replacements.

When all was said and done, and Kmiet was allowed by his family to enjoy the night, we all drove to the restaurant, which was in fact a pizzeria, which to my disappointment; we did not end up having any pizza. Not that I require pizza to enjoy a night out, but going to pizzeria, one would assume to have pizza, but as my father said, assumption is the mother of all mistakes (mistakes was more than often replaced with a curse). Once we sat down in this hidden restaurant, which had fewer than 20 tables, the home made wine and Rakia started to flow. Yet despite Bulgarians being often very heavy drinkers, especially at parties, I was also rather miffed at the low quantity of alcohol that was consumed on this occasion. I mean miffed in the way that the situation did not seem normal, not that I was actually personally offended. In the whole night, less than 2 liters of wine was consumed and even less Rakia, and this is spread between nine people. Compare this to occasions where I have seen my father and Kmiet alone finish a liter bottle of Rakia in a night.

Food was semi decent at this establishment. The salad was a variation of the Bulgarian traditional Shepska- Shepard's salad. In this case it was mainly eggs, white cheese, some mushrooms, corn and little slices of peperoni that were cut into the shapes of hearts, which was awfully sweet to see. Of course my father and I, being used to our own pace of eating, finished at twice the speed as everybody else. In Bulgaria it is not uncommon to spend an hour on each portion of food, that being said, when I was finished, being the youngest adult I was "encouraged" to eat yet another salad whilst we waited for everybody else to finish their own. That being said I finished my second helping before many finished their first. So note to self and others reading this, eat slowly in Bulgaria, there is definitely no rush. Eating and talking is a long winded tradition and ritual on its own. You are there to sit and enjoy the food, not engulf it and move on.

My wine consumption for the night neared 3 glasses, if not a little more and only one shot of Rakia, whilst most others barely had one full glass. Kmiet himself had been instructed to restrict his alcoholic intake based on his use of certain medication, it visibly bummed the poor man out. Not days ago he seem vivid to get high off of alcohol with his family, but on the day, his family drank less than myself and only half of his invited family guests actually attended. Whilst still a man of pride, it was still easy to see that Kmiet was a little disappointed. Whether in himself for some reason, or in those who had failed to show up, or perhaps in the night over all. It may have just been his health on the day that brought him down and prevented him from really freely enjoying himself, but I am lead to believe he was disappointed for other reasons, which was an honest shame to see, seeing as the man really looked forward to his event and even invited my father and I when we were still packing for our trip in Poland almost a week before hand.

Along the table, stories were told, family gossip shared, most of which was lost in translation and was in reality of no relevance to others apart from those involved and the family themselves. I sat between my father and the lively fire cracker of a mother in law who, when we receive our main course ended up stabbing the meat full force with her fork in her left hand and then continued to butcher the meat with the knife in her right. It was almost as cute as it was frightening, seeing how powerfully she cut into her meat. On the opposite end of the table, we were joined by another one of Kmiet's sons, his wife and two children. The children who ended up being louder than the adults and play fought for the majority of the night. The main course, -which was not pizza- was a slab of pork that had been grilled, a few minutes too long to be honest, and served with a watery mushroom sauce that was also poured over French fries that were on the side. Over all it needed much more salt and pepper to make it desirable, but the home made flat bread made up for the short comings in the meat and so I forgive the pizzeria for their slight.

By the end of the night, my father and I had learned that Kmiet had forgotten the number to his ATM card, and try as he might for the whole day, he could not remember what it was. That being said, he was a bit strapped for cash and he whispered silently to my father, out of ear shot to all. And within a few seconds, money changed hands and my father loaned him money to help cover the cost of the meal –which he did not end up needing and gave back to us when we drove him home- regardless, it is the fact that the man had to pay for his own party that irked me. Here is a man who has worked through his life in the communist system, creating and establishing a successful business that has thrived in the transition over to the capitalistic system, a man who made connections and who came to power as a mayor in a small village. 

These are not earth shattering achievements but they are successes and should be deemed as such, successes worthy of admiration and respect by any standard. And yet, on his own birthday party, surrounded by family, sons and in-laws, Kmiet had to pay for all their dinners, and not once was there a protest or an offer otherwise. Perhaps it was a pre-arrangement, perhaps it was a family custom or it is normal for many people, but to me, as an outsider looking in, it felt a tad bit disrespectful, especially coming from living with Arabs who would argue for almost hours on who would pay for a bill.

When we finally left, and we drove Kmiet home, back to his house in the village, not so far from our own, he walked back into his home, leftover food in a doggy bag in hand and one bottle of wine given to him by one of his sons. It saddens me, not so much to see him leave my father and I, but to see him enter his home, knowing that he would now be all alone. His wife passed not two years past, but I don’t think anybody can truly get over that loneliness. Living in a house that he and his wife built together, and now having to spend your days and nights there with little other company but a dog that could be mistaken for a small bear. 

I do hope he does not feel as bad as I think he does. I hope he finds some comfort and solace in his life but if I were to project my emotions onto his life as it is, I myself would feel a great empty loss and complete loneliness. Children and grandchildren away, wife dead and being all alone in a house, in the middle of Bulgarian village, where sometimes the only sound you hear are from birds and insects. Perhaps it is just my dramatic side, but I honestly hope he does not cry himself to sleep at night. For such an honest, strong and caring man, who has helped my family and me in more ways than one, he deserves much better than to be alone at night and wallowing in sadness.