Vulgarian Christmas (3 of 8)

By: Jeanette Bergman

As Jeanette’s family reunion in Australia was brought forward by the sudden death of her mum in October, she stops into this church to spare a few thoughts on Christmas Day.

25 December

Xmas Schismas!

Suffice to say, most of Monday is a write-off. We missed breakfast (See, Drill Sergeant does have a place in this world!), groaned a lot, and endured one of the warmest Christmas Day’s this hemisphere’s ever experienced! OH NO! And, apparently, it’s SNOWING (properly) in Ireland! What’s that about?!

I eventually dragged myself out of bed, into the shower and down to the local for breakfast. And when I say breakfast, I mean mid-afternoon resuscitation. Marianna recognises me, calls out, “Jeanette!” and gives me a huge old-friend-like hug.
Having learnt how to say “Merry Christmas” in Bulgarian (courtesy of the said sexy barman), I respond, with hopeful accuracy, “Marianna! Chestita Koleda!”

Post-devouring a very delisch mushroom omelette and fabulous cappuccino, I’m perspiring all the toxins out of my system, so I grab the attention of the nowhere near as wonderful as Marianna waitress so I can pay and get the hell out into the fresh air before I pass out! I then skedaddle back to the hotel for my afternoon nap. Lady of leisure, me? I vege, watch a sappy Christmas film (the only programme in English, and only slightly less-irritating than the repetitious BBC News bulletins saturating us with sickening footage of ski reports in Western Europe!), take a painkiller I figure my knees won’t be needing anyway (any excuse!), which relieves my headache and wipes me out for a while.

On waking, I decide not to let the whole day escape without acknowledging that a) it is actually Christmas Day and b) the ever-present absence of my mum (she passed away in October ï¿½ hence reason for earlier, said sudden visit to Oz). So, shuffling my headspace, followed by my feet, I strolled up to the beautiful dome church. As my knowledge of the Eastern Orthodox religion, and therefore appropriate protocol, is, erm, nonexistent, I communicate as best I can with the non-English-speaking guy behind the “candle counter” and after some broken linguistics, enter. I’m also not the most religious amongst us, so I light a candle, project a few thoughts/prayers/hellos/Merry Christmas wishes to Mum, and leave. The situation forces me to realise I miss her, am a bit angry and still in whatever phase of the grieving process. I sob all the way home. It had to be acknowledged though. Dave takes one look at me, gives me the HEEEE-UUUUUGEST hug, which makes those big, bad, questionable aspects of Life that little bit more bearable.

But…

So what goes better with this dress? Ski boots, or barmen?

Soon it was time to get ready for the oddly entitled (porn-themed?), “Adult Gala Dinner”! And out came the yet-to-be-worn slinky black dress, purple feather boa, long satin gloves and strappy silver shoes! But, in case everyone else is dressed casually, I lose the boa and gloves, and opt for the frock alone. When I walk in to see most people, erm, dressed casually, I’m glad I did!

We can’t figure the seating plan, so join two strangers, Geoff and Dermot (who’re hysterically funny ï¿½ or are people just funnier when they have the maddest, quirkiest Northern accents I’ve heard in a while!) for dinner, which consists of loads of starters of salads and veggie options and some sort of “Christmas turkey” mixed with a cabbage main course. And, not surprisingly, it isn’t only the non-carnivores who poke at it questioningly, then decline.

Feeling slightly awkward about the night before with the Aussie boy, and given that he’s staying in the same hotel for the week, I dread the inevitable run-in. And whaddyaknow, in they walk, and conveniently sit adjacent to our table! I’m not sure what to say, so I avoid eye contact. I do notice, however, how VERY attractive he is (yes, even for a sandy-ish-browney-blonde ï¿½ see, justifying that I couldn’t possibly have kissed a blonde!!), and oh my, “Look at those hands!” Yum! (Heterosexual) women will understand the significance of that… It’s like “shoes”… Man-hands and good shoes maketh a happy woman! Again, shallow, I know, but skiing holidays aren’t exactly renowned for finding one’s true soulmate, now are they?! Mating, perhaps ï¿½ soulmating, no. I suddenly regret my previous night’s drunkenness!

He and I do eventually cross paths ï¿½ er, well, rather, I’m dragged up with the Bulgarian entertainers and thereby swing right by him. I think I’m one of those people that has a sign on their forehead that says, “Humiliate me, go on!” Louise calls out, “Hi Jeanette!” which is something of an ice-breaker. Inevitably, like all good friends, Dave proceeds to take the proverbial for the duration.

I say nothing. Dave strategically leaves me alone to get our coats, and as no communication is made on either of our parts, I leave. We go to Dak’s again.

I have a beer from the delightful Nicky, whose name I discover, as his nametag’s (appropriately) attached to his (fabulous) arse. He makes me a fantastic San Francisco, which seems to be taking over my Sex on the Beach obsession (at least the beverage variety). I tell myself to be “good” tonight, so that’s to be my last drink. Nicky has other ideas, and asks what my next drink is to be. I decline. He rests “my” cocktail menu next to “my” leaning post. He pats it, winks at me (grrrr), and delivers a smirk, mixed with equal parts charming coercion and downright sex appeal: “Just in case you change your mind.” Sexy barmen being cheeky ï¿½ I love it! But I leave. I fall into bed. Again.