I am not happy that there are no tourists on the Bulgarian sea. Glee has never brought me pleasure. For the same reason, I hate the literary punching bag, Mr. Ganyo, but this text will be scandalous enough without this cultural grenade.
So, I chose not to live on the Bulgarian sea, but on the Croatian one, because of one simple truth: there is no happiness without social justice.
This was noted on "Facebook" Silvia Antipova.
Let me explain.
The town I live in is expensive. There are sunbeds for 110 euros a day. Michelin restaurants where dinner costs 250 euros per person, without wine. Yachts for millions, dresses for thousands, hotels for hundreds of euros a night.
But, also, no one will say anything to you if you spread your towel wherever you find a place, completely free of charge.
I have seen toothless grandmothers ordering grande macchiatos at the marina, right in front of yachts for millions. And the waiters treat them with the same attention and respect as they treat millionaires.
Because they have been in the tourism business for centuries and know that every customer is important. People have dignity, whether they are old or young. And the best customer is the one who returns.
The season here lasts 10 months, even though there is no sand on the beaches. It starts in March and April, when they celebrate both Easters and all spring holidays in Europe. People with children and dogs are welcome and will most likely be served in their own language. The waiters speak at least 4 languages.
Then it flows into May, when advertisers from all over the world traditionally come to Rovinj for Communication Days. We move on to June and the salsa festival, which lasts about 10 days and everyone dances and drinks until they drop. At the end of June we prepare ourselves mentally and physically for the avalanche of tourists that will flood us in July and August. It's scary. We work without breaks and long hours, but with a smile, because the employees know that the entire town will close in January and February.
But I'm in a hurry. Before we officially close the shutters on January 6th, we have September and October, when the city is taken over by people without children. Gay couples and elderly couples hold hands and marvel at the beauty of the local architecture, which the people here truly cherish.
November is free of tourists. The season for locals begins. On December 6th, the Christmas market opens in the square. Children's choirs and dance groups take turns on stage with a variety show from the Sots era and Italian hits. Burgers, burgers and mulled wine are eaten until January 6th, when Rovinj plunges into darkness. 2-3 restaurants and pizzerias remain open. There is no one on the streets, except for a few street cats and me. Until March, when preparations for the next season begin.
I've been watching this cycle for the second year now, and, you know, it doesn't seem to me to have come about by chance.
Many city leaders – chosen and spoiled - they thought about how to make it good for everyone.
For everyone. Because when someone is not well, no one is well.
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Someday I will tell you about the people in wheelchairs who everyone greets, about the cats that lie on the thick walls undisturbed, about the children who fish next to the expensive yachts, sitting on the helipad, about the mounds of birds, the likes of which I have never seen in my life, about the 4 trees around which the most expensive hotel in the city is built...
There is room for everyone here, including me.
Has the time come for us on the Bulgarian sea to start thinking about everyone, and not just ourselves?
The photo is from my balcony, at dusk.