Vulgarian Christmas (4 of 8)

By: Jeanette Bergman

Birthday Boy Dave gets brought up on stage and serenaded by the leopard-skin-clad singer ï¿½ courtesy of Ms. Ski Bunny herself.

26 December

Chestita Rozchenden David!

It’s getting warmer each day, and the snow that was here is melting! Drill Sergeant ensures we make breakfast, and she even makes the walking tour! In fact, she leads the pack most of the way, even if it is contrary to the ski instructor’s directives!

As we ascend, there’s enough snow for the kids to finally make use of their toboggans, and for me to have a bit of a near-knee-damaging shoe-ski, but it’s mostly grass as we descend. So, unintentionally, I “grass ski,” this time with the help from Malaysian boy, “Thiru,” for want of an easier expression of his polysyllabic name. I scale the last mountain with so much gusto the rest of the gang is in disbelief. Ah, that’s the only way to tackle it: power up, then breathe once you reach the top. This fresh, mountain air is fabulous.

Back at the hotel, I sit by the fire, sip coffees, read and begin this journal. When a girl sitting beside me overhears my accent as I chat with Geoff, she introduces herself ï¿½ “Julie” ï¿½ then reveals that she’s here with another Australian: Louise. (”Oh, as in Paul’s sister,” I internalise, though refrain from airing Sunday night’s laundry!) Until Julie mentions, “Oh and she’s got a brother, God, what’s his name, I think it’s Robert, but I kept calling him James!” Oh really? And here I was feeling bad for thinking it was Paul! We chat for ages. Birthday boy FINALLY surfaces ï¿½ see what happens once you hit three-o! We all go for pizza in the ninth-floor restaurant in a nearby hotel, as to enjoy the view of, erm, fogged-up windows trickling with rain. Just like Dublin. Oh, except it’s bloody snowing in Dublin, isn’t it! We return to the hotel and declare this another non-day. All feel very queasy.

I retire to my room for a while and opt to have a night in. Dave plays doctor (”No,” I insist, “that does NOT mean I’ll play nurse!”) and force-feeds me Alka-Seltzer which, while tasting completely foul, temporarily sorts my tummy complaint. By dinner, I suspect I have more than just the DTs as I can hardly hold my spoon, but I tremble through, oddly, alphabet soup (it doesn’t really evoke the excitement it did to a 5-year-old?), and slowly work through some salad and chips. Julie invites me bowling, while Louise prefers, “Come out with the girls ï¿½ drinking. Of course!” Dave orders another bottle of red, which I insist he keeps out of my reach. I successfully embarrass him by getting the foxy singer (hotpants, FMBs and leopard-skin-coat-clad!) to sing “Happy Birthday” to him and get a great Kodak moment when she obliges! As his face flushes to a slight crimson, I secretly think he loves every minute of it! It then backfires, as she insists Dave and I dance together!

Fortunately, we barely touch the second bottle of wine (so much for keeping it out of reach of small children or, in this case, pisshead Australians lacking willpower!) and head to, well, The Usual, for Karaoke Night. Now, if my singing-partner-in-crime, Karaoke-Queen-KTed was with me, she’d have us up there in a flash ï¿½ but not tonight for this little ski bunny. I walk in, receive my greeting from the lads, then Nicky, with song list, pen and paper says, “What are you singing tonight?” Defensively I react, “I need (at the very least) beer first!”

I turn to Dave and jest, “Clearly he wants me!” We are soon joined by Louise and Joanne who, for the sake of trying somewhere new, drag us to an assortment of bars, all of which are either quiet, crap, completely shite, or themes and variations thereof. The crï¿½me-de-la-creme of such would have to be BJs (which I’m later informed is an affectionately ï¿½ and aptly ï¿½ colloquial acronym for Blow Jobs), an Anglicised meatmarket, which illustrates this point by employing stupid drinking competitions and “show us ya tits”-type antics. Thanks, but no. One beer and I want (to get) the hell out. And promptly do. Back to Dak’s. Sure, it’s as Irishicised as BJs is Anglicised, but way more tasteful. Honest. It’s nothing to do with a certain member of staff! They’re ALL really friendly, and the music kicks arse. They even play traditional Bulgarian music because loads of locals choose to drink here, which can only be a good sign.

As I walk in and de-jacket, I hear a playful “grroowal,” and as I take my seat, Nicky’s colleagues take a step back, accompanied by a “here she is” gesture for him to serve me. Ah. I could get used to this personal service.

I sit quietly. Nicky comes over, leans across the bar (I’m lovin’ the way he does this!), puts out his hand and says, “Are you okay?” Ah. “Yeah,” I respond, “Fine, just waiting for my friends to come back from BJs ï¿½ it’s so crap.”

As we proceed to discuss the merits of Dak’s, I cheekily add, “not to mention the fabulous service.” I finish a pint, and Nicky insists I buy both of us a drink! Oh really?! Vodka and red bull it is. “Nazdrave!” we say, clinking glasses and, as requested, I “keep one eye on his drink,” and well, we know what my other eye’s on!

I’m acquainted with a Dutchman sitting next to me, who buys me a drink, but I then tell Nicky “I need something more interesting.” Sadly, I’m still only referring to the beverage menu, so I again elect for my cocktail, which Nicky accompanies with the recipe so I can make them when I get home. I don’t stay much longer, but bid him farewell and get my kisses on each cheek. Shame this man works such, as Dave puts it, “unsociable hours”! I wander home. And fall into bed. Again.