Chapter 4: The airport

 The thing about airports in Eastern European countries is, that they look well-kept, but are dirty. I sit on one of them metal chairs, which sucks up your but, and threatens to fall over, every time you move. This airport is like a zoo, and for the first time in my life, I get to get a feel for the species that is going through it. 

I have learned to tell the Bulgarians apart from the Roma and the Turks, by one simple thing. Bulgarians dress for everything as if they are going to the worldwide premiere of something. Even when they obviously don't have that much money, you can bet that they are in their best clothes at the airport. 

I notice a family go pass me with so much luggage, that I wonder if they have not taken their house with them. What nationality do you think they are? You guessed it, Bulgarian.

Now, if there are any Bulgarians reading this blog, I have to say that I find you guys great. It is just fascinating watching one person carry two bags, and tugging a suitcase on wheels behind them, that is half their size. 

Racist! - killyourself89. 

Are you surprised? He turned his nose up at the Algerians too. Saying that they would beat up someone on the drop of a hat. - dragonfly94. 

I watch, as the two ladies begin to curse my name. That is nothing new. On this blog, which is more like a chatroom, I can write anything I want. I have a membership, for which I pay 100 Euro per month...

Wait, the membership. It is under my old name, and it is going to last only until the fifth of September! What am I going to do?

We will be free of the snob soon. I hope he gets mugged. - dragonfly94. 

He doesn't know the language. Do you think that he will scream at the locals in English? I say someone will stick him in a madhouse. - killyourself89.

The two go on stating their theories about my demise, and someone sits next to me. He says something in a language that I don't know, and I figure that it is Bulgarian. 

"Do you have a cigarette?" The man asks in a broken English finally, and I hand him one cigarette from my box.

Then, the lighter. Now, you might want to judge me as the one who ruins his life with cigarettes, but the truth is that I don't smoke. I get the best life stories in exchange for cigarettes, and this man looks like he has one heck of a story, that will help me get a feel for the local flora and fauna, so to speak. 

"Thanks," he says, and lights the cigarette. After the first puff of smoke, he relaxes on the chair next to me. 

"Are you Bulgarian?" I ask. The man shakes his head.  

"Turk," he tells me, and I take a good look at him. I try to find any difference between him, and the faces of the turtle family, which packed their house and brought it to the airport.

Blue eyes, short-cropped hair, nice clothes. His nails are a bit chipped, and his beard has long since passed the stubble stage, but all in all, he looks like someone who is self-conscious. I offer him my hand. 

You are reading story When you are dead, but not at novel35.com

"Julius, I am from Germany," I say, and we shake hands. 

"Ahmed," he tells me, and I nod. Yeah, there were a couple of Turkish families in my hometown, and that name sounds familiar. 

"Say, where can I get a cheap place to stay? And a way to Germany under five hundred Euro?" I ask with a smile. 

"Take the bus," he tells me, as if it is just that simple. 

"Uhm, where is the bus station?" I ask him, and he sighs. 

"Take a taxi," wait, is he telling me to take a taxi to Germany, or to the bus station?

"What is your profession?" I decide that I need to butter him up with a small talk, before I hope to get any information out of him. 

"Farmer," he tells me, and then takes the last puff of the cigarette. He stands up, and leaves then. I am left there, wanting to know why I have been blown off. Usually, my cigarette information gathering missions are always a success. What went wrong this time? Another person sits by me. This one has caramel skin, bordering on black. Ah, a Roma. 

"Cigar?" The woman asks, and I hand her a cigarette. She begins to talk to me in Bulgarian, and reaches out for my hand. When she touches my wrist, her eyes go wide, and she scrambles out of the chair.

Then, the cacophony begins. The funny thing is that, the word vampire carried over in many languages. When I heard her screech it out the first time, I stood, and ran out of there. 

Out on the street, I found the taxis. Deciding to follow Ahmed's advices, in the logical pattern that he gave them, as in, take a taxi to the bus station, and then take the bus to Germany, I get into one of the yellow cars, and smile at the driver. 

"Bus station," I say, and the man stops eating sunflower seeds. I notice he wears Adidas workout clothes, although he is as chubby as I am. 

"I take you to bus, then Mall?" He asks, and I shake my head. 

"Just to the bus station," I say, and he nods. 

"I take you," he says, and drives off. Just in time too because a group of Roma with sticks come running out of the airport building. I smile and wave at them, and some of them throw their sticks at me.

 Lovely people. The driver spits out of the window, and then drives me into Sofia. As he does so, I type the post-apocalyptic picture that is before my eyes, for you, my dear readers.  

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