Excavation, Part II

I am leaving Sozopol today.  I am taking the 1pm bus out to Sofia.  I stay with Alex for two nights and leave the city on Monday, July16^th.  I cannot fully explain my time here. It is quite something to have an imagined world come real.  It is a very special thing to uncover a community; to have it revealed.  I now understand the ego of some archaeologists. Greeks and Thracians in Apollonia are known because of some Herodotus, Strabo, Pliny, and a few other long dead authors and (most) importantly the real earnest work of a team of scholars.  That is pretty awesome.  I cannot deny it.  But it is really not for me.  I don’t care that much.  I am interested and I want to finish and work and teach and publish but I don’t need to do this.  Maybe just because I had yet another birthday yesterday (unfortunately, I think I am going to have one every year!) but, much like a wearied homicide detective in every other film, “I’m getting too old for this shit!” If I am outside, I want to swim and work on getting darker. This is all I ever wish to do. 

And if my academic life means being indoors, then I want an expansive library and coffee and a comfortable chair and consistent internet.  This is the better life for me.  I also learned what kind of dissertation I want to write.  I spent the year relearning and recommitting to respecting archaeologists and their work.  I have a greater appreciation and good solid contacts and dear lovely friends who are involved in archaeology.  But I am in no real position to fake my way through an archaeological analysis and I don’t think I have to.  I am working on the peer polity interaction analysis and this struggle seems incredibly fruitful and if I can make it work, truly significant.

Generally speaking Sozopol is a great coastal town.  It is smaller than Burgas. There are only Bulgarians here.  In Burgas, Sunny Beach, the whole world is there.  I went up to Burgas for a few days. It was chaotic.  Not as bad as Istanbul but still crowded.  Everyone speaks English.  Here, not so much.  That little stomach thing turned into something a bit more complicated.  And I had to get one of the people here to take me to the pharmacy.  Then, I seriously damaged my little toe on some rocks in the sea and the doctor just wrote a long letter to give to someone to translate.  I did not break my little toe. I fractured it and there isn’t anything to be done either way.  It may heal crooked but it is a crooked little toe anyway.  Its right twin is a little fat crooked thing, so I can’t imagine it will look so out of place.  But the point of this is to stress the non-English here versus at Sunny Beach.

Because of the population of Sozopol, I remained a rara avis here too. This is exhausting. I am excited to get back to the States just for the ability to blend. I just can’t be stared at any more. I am not answering what are you doing here anymore. Part of me wishes I were in Sunny Beach. Nicholas has no patience for staring and is braver than I.  He came here and spoke his mind. I envy his courage and sense of place. I say oh but such and such waiter is so nice to me and Nicholas will ask if I always pay the bill? This is not kindness and anything less when you are paying the bill, is unacceptable.  I can’t be this hard. 

But… I will make a general plea.  This is in the same vein as the teeth. Don’t say Whitney… like Whitney Houston.  Not only is she now dead but it was never a cool thing to say to me when she was alive and successful and happy and beautiful.  Not only do I owe my friend Peter, tons of money because I bet him that when she died, no one would say that to me anymore but also, I never know how to respond.  I forgive every European who has said it- but I don’t forget. I love Strati and Alex and they both say it all the time. That has to end.  But Americans get no pass and I will be courageous about that.  Peter says I should say No No like the museum; not at all like the singer. Crack is Whack! Maybe something like this but I will no longer smile and chuckle while I shake my head.  I will no longer entertain questions about whether I can sing like her.  At the very least, I will walk away.  And anyone who reads this and is in the proximity of such an encounter, please remind me to walk away. If I am too old to excavate, I am way too old to be involved in such a ridiculous exchange. Peter is never asked is his name Peter… like Peter Cetera, Peter Gabriel, Peter Gallagher or any of the other hundreds of famous White guys named Peter.  And I don’t think I am going to accept it by anyone, even when attempting to get a job next year.  I like this stand. It is small but significant and I like who that make me. I have some courage.