The life of a Sofia resident in 2021

Author: Petar Ivanov

You are woken up by the bass clatter of a cango, a hammer or something similar. It's 2:15 PM, but you're used to it, you practically use it as an alarm clock. The craftsmen building the third overpass in front of the apartment building finish their coffees around this time every day and get down to their public works.

The TV, abandoned since last night, continues to broadcast some kind of briefing without sound, it seems to be presenting the new Law on Traffic in Parks. The experts (from the Traffic Police perhaps...or those from the now-formed Ministry of Civil Security) have made an effort, the volume seems to be at least three hundred pages long. You remember with rebellious pride how yesterday you had scolded a motorized policeman, roaming around Narodniy, to chase away the drug dealers and beer drinkers who dared to sit on the new sensor benches. New in a sense for Sofia, the Chinese simply gave us their old ones. The game goes to another level with a whole law, however.

A loud crash on the glass pulls you out of your thoughts. And while you spit in your bosom, you realize with relief that this is the edge of Kircho's plastic seat, rattling in the living room glass. Kircho himself is chatting with a colleague and swinging on his ropes while he glues a piece of insulation to the panel facade. Since there are no open mountains, at least climbers can join the renovation program. You've always wanted to be a mountaineer, but walking doesn't appeal to you. A picnic with beers on the Golden Mountain - max.

You need full concentration and turn off the TV, just as the new shift starts in the briefing room of the Council of Ministers. You have to remember the password for online banking - the grants should have arrived by now. 1500 leva...who gives them to you. Actually, it's clear who gives them to you, but still. Your stupid boss is blowing it, I've been screwing you for half a year with this 60/40 and no bonuses, now go get better. Six months of compensation on the stock exchange, then the European money came. Through the water supply, as Boyko says. It may be snot, you say, but he gets along with the Europeans and they let the fat one go. Credit where it's due.

The money is there and the two-step verification reminds you to check the app. This whole app thing is annoying you, for the fourth time in a row, patriotic companies are carrying out some kind of public procurement for online tracking of the sick and healthy, for which you have to download a new app again, the old one didn't work. But the cause is good, you crack open your phone and send your juicy meme with swastikas and penises, instead of a daily health report. Some would say that this infantile behavior contradicts your active civic position in favor of e-government. But you are actually doing a Q&A on the product.

The most important thing is done. All that's left is to stuff the key gear for the trip into your new handmade knitted bag. O'Neill's Hyperfreak Sunburst Boardshorts, which will wash themselves in the water while you lie down and drink a mint by the shore, your fanny wooden shoes that you bought from some Korean on Etsy, and the harman/kardon boom box to listen to Stefan Valdobrev and Bob Marley while you chill. The stupid faces and silicones will be eaten up with anger when you occupy their beaches with alternative art rhythms instead of chalga. Just for two or three days, then you're going to Gradina. After all, you promised to use your vacation vouchers to support the Kite Bar and Ork Camp, two fundamental institutions. You personally put a sticker from the "State in Support of Urban Culture" campaign on your profile.

You struggle with the somewhat eccentric clasps on your bag ("Try grandma for beauty"), lock the door, and go down the stairs at the entrance. You wave to the pensioners from the block of flats gathered on the benches, looking particularly funny with their protective masks hanging down like bibs. All that's left is to pick up Ivo Malkia from the queue in front of the employment office. He should have been there since 5:30 (directly after Mira's party), so there's at least some chance he'll be ready by now. Then, together, head to the train station. Everyone claims that the cops are more distracted there and you can get through with just the vouchers and a little bit of trickery, plus the highway checkpoint is a minimum three-hour wait, even with the new overpass... Or, no, you must have noticed on Facebook that the asphalt is wavy and they've closed it for repairs. Your hardest day since the pandemic came is looming.

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