Apartment Generations

My mom told me that my grandma (her mother-in-law) had a bad taste. Perhaps she said that because of my grandma's choice of furniture, or perhaps because grandma disliked Mom.

My Dad's Mom passed away when I was one-year-old out of heart attack. Her husband had died three years before that out of heart attack. To be honest I never knew for sure what they did for living. Perhaps I should have been more curious and trying to somehow safeguard the family history. Whatever the case was, I was told by my Dad and his friends that my grandparents were pretty well off, having good places under the Communist party wing. I vaguely know that my grandma had something to do with chemistry (perhaps a teacher), and grandpa according to my Mom had something to do with the secret services, and apparently he spoke fluently 5 Western languages.Whatever the case was, they were crème of the crop, and at early age were the pride and glory of the Communist party.

The young couple ended up buying a 2 bedroom in a central location in Sofia (the capital of Bulgaria). At the time, the five floor walk-up was the highest building in this central neighborhood. The living room window overlooks the busy street of the major Vitosha Boulevard, where cabs and street trams run 24/7. The neighborhood consisted of family houses with small vegetable gardens, and an obligatory dog and a doghouse.

Now, along the boulevard, an everyday epic battle for parking space occurs. When my grandparents first moved in their home, they owned one of two cars in the neighborhood. In fact, their car, a brand new at the time Ford, was quite the sensation - a big, black, elegant, respect-demanding machine. My mom told me a film crew at the time rented it for a week to use it in a movie.

Dad was a studious child with addictive personality. Pushed by his parents he gets a civil engineer degree, when what he actually wants to do is write novels. He often abuses alcohol, and as a fairly well-to-do heir of my grandparents, spends couple of years doing very little but drinking. And this is when Mom comes in.

I never got to hear my Dad's version of he story, but according to Mom when she first laid eyes on him "he was drunk as usually". Mom and several of her college classmates went on a ski trip (to this day Mom doesn't know how to ski). The big mountain hotel they were staying had a night time disco club, where the youth gathered to dance to the disproved by the Communist party Beetles. The youngsters repeated the lyrics to the Beetles songs, without knowing precisely what they mean, but feeling rebellious and outspoken. Mom spotted Dad leaning on the bar. He was one of the few young people who could stand on his feet and not dance. My mom decided that this has to end at once, so she invited my Dad to a slow dance. Mom says he stepped on her feet a lot, but he was adorable in his drunken ways, sincerely apologizing after every step. From then on the story is kind of vague - it involves some really happy, crazy summers, drunken fights, jealousy, separation, more happy moments, and me.

My grandparents had two sons, with 10 years difference between. When my grandma passed away, my uncle became an 18 year old orphan. At the time my father, a man of 28 was married to Mom and had a little pooping, non-stop crying machine - me. He tries to stand behind his young brother in the hour of pain, but somehow the family loss gets them even further apart. With no control or supervision, my uncle barely finishes high school and takes up odd jobs (like painting, and construction building) with no plans for college. As an heir, he got half of my grandparents fast disappearing savings - including half of the three bedroom apartment. Mom and Dad were residing in one bedroom, my uncle, their roommate had the second bedroom.

Things started to get complicated. Mom, longing to have a real home for her family, disproved of living with her brother-in-law. My uncle, at his prime, was living the vida loca, breaking heart after heart. In his early 20's, he would make just enough to pay for his dates, who he would bring to the apartment. Other times he would not make enough and have his dates pay for him. The dates would not last long. My uncle's disregard of sleeping hours, and cleaning the apartment drove Mom off the wall.

Unfortunately little could be done. No lecturing could change my uncle’s ways. This situation continued until I was 14 years old, when Mom finally collected enough money and got my uncle to sell his half of the apartment to her. My uncle was reluctant at first, but the living situation was becoming unbearable, and somebody had to move. Up until then I was taking turns with Mom sleeping on the pull out sofa or on the bed. I just loved the pull out sofa. It felt like camping, and late at night, when Mom and Dad where sleeping, I would turn on the TV (which I was forbidden after certain hour). At 14, when uncle moved out, I finally got my own room.