Turkish Words in Bulgarian

"What's up ice eagle?" beams up my old Nokia phone. A text message from Boris, an indication he is back in town. I walk twenty minutes through a snowstorm to join him. Snow, even in spring, makes me happy by default. "My heart started beating fast as I approached Heidegger's house," he recounts his Freiburg escapade as we munch poached eggs at the Starving Artist. "The feeling dissipated when I reached this residential area, rich people's houses." I am glad he is back. I wish to keep him with me, prolong the time before we disperse to our respective libraries, deeds, tasks, plans, procrastinations. We head to the counter to settle the bill. "The interac's not working," says the server, "pay next time". I write my name on a piece of paper. "How do you pronounce your name?" is the next inevitable question. Tobias (yes, our server picked that 'English' name before Arrested Development) challenges me to his Chinese name. It is something like 'Won Ch Jong'. He laughs. We are even.

Outside the snow is sedimenting. I declare the day "a day of its own accord". We walk less than a block to be reseated at a tiny coffee shop, The Holy Oak. I make a fuss about the loose leaf tea being poured into a paper tea bag. The barrista is kind, the brownies he'd made himself are delicious, the music he's playing makes me feel so mellow. Pretending to be ashamed of myself I make a list of the things I make a fuss about. Boris deems my fussiness futile. He wishes me more fulfillment in my life so that I ignored such things. Amen. The curtains of the coffee house remind me of a shabby African restaurant in Montreal. The bold patterns go well with the snow pouring down in erratic directions. I am happy.

And I extract the following from Boris, enjoy!



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