the cream of heartless England cheer, the carnival is over

To say that I was impaled by a Bulgarian woman’s 5 inch heels last night would be funnier if it were metaphorical; I think I need an X-ray. However, the pain has enabled me to snap out of whatever malaise or general reluctance to acknowledge my tour of the Bulgarian eastern coast.

Zhas and I accomplished a lot the day before, after we met with her Bulgarian friend Martina for lunch in St Katharine’s Docks. (Cool place.) I sort of credit myself with accidentally discovering that the chalga party was even happening (VODITSA.) but Marti pretty much got us there and everywhere last night. The place itself was this really weird lounge called Agenda, in the midst of what London might deem a business park. Lots of people smoking outside and not too many people inside, and the cover charge was still £20. Foreboding.

I won’t lie and say I don’t have social anxiety– usually I grin and bear it and suffer in silence. But. This was different. The dynamic of Bulgarians-in-London and Bulgarians-in-Bulgaria was mind-blowingly different. They were louder, flashier, and their outfits… It’s all about being conspicuous, except some of the clothes looked like my dot-com era dance costumes (i.e.- lycra dresses with vintage prints, anything with butterflies on it, one particularly offensive red polyester jumpsuit with rhinestone detail.) Like a groom approaching his wedding day, I knew immediately I could not face this with any sense of sobriety.

I made a beeline for the bar to be told multiple times that the guys were ordering a bottle of whiskey. So I drank their whiskey and wanted my own. The bartender remembered either my face or my incredible awkwardness, thereby allowing me to elbow my way through a bunch of guys in too-tight T-shirts. I ordered  a double Jameson and coke, which cost me MORE FUCKING MONEY THAN ANY DRINK I HAVE EVER BOUGHT. EVER. Did I stress that? EVER. TOO MUCH MONEY. I didn’t realize he said £12,20 or I would’ve told him to take it back. After that, I ordered two more jack-and-cokes, which I didn’t have enough money for by the end. I tried giving him my debit card, but it didn’t work because it doesn’t have the UK security chip to dip the card. He looks at me, looks at the bartender next to him, and shouts in my ear that I can pay him back later. I threw all my change I had on my person onto the bar (~£3,20) which he pocketed as I quickly retreated.
Any sober or sane person would’ve been like “Cool, just got a pass for a free drink because bank cards are utterly retarded.”
1) I wasn’t sober and
2) We were sitting next to the Bulgaria mafia.
Literally.

Our seats before the “show” were in the ‘upper lounge/diner’ area, whereas there were some serious-looking men waving their arms and carressing their oiled ponytails. I had thought them generally inoffensive– if a bit wealthy– since a lot of their buttcracks were hanging out on the leather couches. During the dancing/music, Zhas, Marti and I sort of creep-danced our way down the stairs into their territory… Until Zhas told me not to get too close because they were the mafia. Given what horrified look must’ve been on my face, she said “Well, they’re probably the owners of the place.”
“So… They’re the mafia. Same thing,” I said.
She shrugged in agreement.

All told, the three drinks came to the equivalent of $51. I AM FEELING MURDEROUS about my own laxity, but as a consolation prize, I didn’t get murdered by the mafia for short-changing.

Moving on, there was a REASON why we were at Agenda in the first place- one of the hottest chalga stars of Bulgaria, Preslava, was singing. Google her, and form your own judgements. The music party was actually fun, because she was standing 5ft away from me before wandering into the crowd to take awkward MySpace photos with her fans. From what I saw, it was more about hanging out with/touching Preslava, because it certainly wasn’t about hearing her lipsync all night. I didn’t know the songs, but it’s mostly about dancing with who you came with… Or not. It was at this point when a woman smashed her heel into my right foot. This strangely didn’t stop me from leading one of the chalga line-dances around the club. WEE.

After the club closed and we decided not to go the afterparty, I waited at the bus stop for the N21. I waited with a bursting bladder for over FORTY MINUTES, because the BUS FROM HELL didn’t arrive until 4:10am. It was very crowded, as it turns out, with dickhead racist chauvinists. This isn’t even me getting my feminist hackles up– there were literally four young black men terrorizing the women on the bus while a bunch of Arabic men watched. One of the Arabic men was nice enough to give me his seat, but I found myself at the disadvantage of being at crotch level with one of the dickheads eating his KFC out of a bag. And then, after enduring 45 minutes of incendiary sexist remarks, I proceeded to get in what I would call a bus fight, which I timed to end where I would get off.
One made a comment asking after who was worth having sex with on the bus. Another, wearing sunglasses at 5am, looked at me and the girls in front of me and said “Definitely no one here.”
It wasn’t even about the object or target of the remark. I stress that, but I’ll be damned if I get abused on a moving vehicle. This, plus an entire night of blowing all my money and being the most Michelin Man-looking woman at the club, I was PISSED.
As I stepped off, I enquired as to whether they felt that the size of their genitals might be affecting their chances of going home alone on a bus, gave them both versions of the finger, and walked away. Whether their proceeded to attack my character after I left is irrelevant– hopefully they at least had the decency to shut up first for 30 seconds. I didn’t feel threatened in terms of my personal safety, because the only things they’d be waving around were, forgive me, their dicks or their chicken fingers.  It wasn’t particularly clever, but I hardly expected any witty repartee and I felt better after saying something, anything.

Because this is London and not Bulgaria, all of this still seems like nothing compared to last Monday. Which you shall read about in an installment. I recognize that I have yet to write about Amsterdam as well, but maybe it’s for the best. Okay, actually it’s a little bit retarded because I never wrote about Amsterdam from two years ago BUT there are things that don’t need to be on the internet. However, I did take some notes to be shared later.

On another note, I just discovered that the door to my room does, in fact, lock with an old-lookin’ skeleton key.
So I can’t come out until I finish this or run out of Nescafe. Either one.