Mrs. Ovchareva and the surveillance state.

I’m staying in Sofia for six months. I want to focus on a book project about my grandparents’ escape from Communist Bulgaria and their refugee story, and to fuse that story with the stories of current day refugees. Editors, who might know how the hell I can do this, please send help.

Anyway, I’m staying at the apartment my late grandfather left my Dad, and today, I went out to get groceries. I walked out of the front door of the building when a voice from the skies bellowed, “Tsveti! Is that you!?” I jumped ten feet. “Tsveti!!”

It was Mrs. Ovchareva, peering over her balcony. She’d lived in the apartment below my grandfather’s for 60 years. She was once a beautiful woman. I suspect that my grandfather, who was handsome and dapper, had a thing with her, but some things are lost to history. Pushing 88, she’s still beautiful, with mountainous cheekbones that have defied the laws of gravity and time. She’s deaf as shit, but man, does she have lung capacity.

“Tsveti! Call me! We’ll have coffee!” she yelled from her balcony.

A few years ago, Mrs. Ovchareva had a major health crisis. She was 86. Her family gathered around her hospital bed to bid their farewell. But Mrs. Ovchareva kicked Death in the balls and is still at her station, surveilling the neighborhood, but not in a mean way.

***

In the past, whenever my Dad would go to Bulgaria and stay in the apartment, my parents would joke that Mrs. Ovchareva would keep him in line. He couldn’t get away with anything. She was always watching. No coming home tipsy at night. Mrs. Ovchareva would know. No bringing around women. Mrs. Ovchareva would know.

Mrs. Ovchareva knows all. I suspect there are motion sensors implanted in Mrs. Ovchareva’s phenomenal cheekbones. The FBI should hire Mrs. Ovchareva to turn informants. The NSA should hire Mrs. Ovchareva to monitor suspicious activity.

***

Apologies for my “Tana de Tocqueville” observations about life in America vs. life elsewhere. But I have to say. In my apartment complex in Brooklyn, there are no octogenarian spies. But this has its own drawbacks.

It’s a six apartment complex. The late middle-aged people who live there can tolerate small talk.

“How are you?” they ask.

“I’m good! Nice weather!” I respond.

“Yeah!” they agree, then avert their gaze lest there’s more human connection.

But, that’s the best it is. In contrast, the tenants who are my age and younger avoid all eye contact and look like they’d rather dive under a bus than have 3 seconds of small talk. I don’t even know their names. It’s lonely and sad.

I plan to have coffee with Mrs. Ovchareva. You know she has good gossip.