| Article Index |
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| Chapter Three |
| Extracts & Extras |
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Chapter 3
The Square-bearded Canadian; My Early French Lessons; A Little bit about my Grandparents and the Communist Revolution plus a Heartfelt Gift from Bulgaria.
French is the language of love like Polish, and because this story is not just a story about Bulgaria, maya tricks, delights, and delusions, but also about me and the love in my life, I’m eager to tell you all about the French-speaking square-bearded Canadian whose karma intervened in everything that happened to me ever since I was born, believe it or not.
In order to meet and fall in love with a French-speaking Canadian, you have to speak French. My grooming for the task started when I was around four years of age in our neighborhood kindergarten, all instruction in French carried out at a time when the Communist Party, our prescient Mother Protectress, was trying hard to eradicate all Western cultural influences to keep us safe from moral missteps and degradation. Nevertheless, I sang French songs and chanted out Bonjour under the nose of the Beh Kha Phe, paradoxically propped up by Her, because in Communist Bulgaria all our schooling was subsidized and practically free. Go figure. The Communists were shooting themselves in the foot, I suppose – nice maya trick. Cool.
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The capitalist free market notion used to infuriate my ex-communist boss Comrade Pishmanov and trigger his infamous anti-American cant, because Communism is rooted in reality, based on substance, bolstered by logic. No Boo-Boo and bullshit. Your individual opinion doesn’t matter. You are a minion. Together the collective knows best; the collective wisdom propped up by the Communist Party, our Mother Protectress, trumps all individual perceptions for the benefit of all people; no doubt! 
