The first woes...

One of mom's theories is that helpfulness goes hand-in-hand with intrusiveness, especially when it comes to neighbors. This was the case in Greece: mom could knock on a neighbor's door and ask for some sugar, if she had run out and the stores were closed. On the downside, the neighbors felt entitled to observe closely - and pass judgment - on mom's every single activity: what time she went out, what time she came back, who she was with, etc.

Then came Ed, our wonderful neighbor in Philadelphia who somehow combines helpfulness and discretion. Mom says that Ed is her reward for having put up with Greek neighbors for so long. Unfortunately, Ed is probably the exception to the rule.

The rule is confirmed here in Plovdiv as well. Our wonderful at first landlords are turning into ever-watching guard-dogs. First it was the non-smoking clause in the contract. Mom didn't care at the time. Then she realized that no Greek friend will visit a non-smoking home. Still, she signed a contract, so that's that.

Then there were the continuous visits to the apartment, in mom's absence. Mom told me to be cool and behave, so I let them in. They have to water the flowers, they say. Or to check the windows in case it rains. Or whatever else...After each such visit there was a comment: "you should use x for cleaning", or "put y on the couch". Ok, patience...

Then mom asked for some things, like blankets, an iron, and a chair, which, according to the website, they do provide. It turns out they only provide them to people who stay short-term in the apartments. What does this have to do with it? No idea. Patience...

Then there was the noise comment. "You should close the door when you talk on the phone or listen to music". Now, if you've seen our apartment in the pictures, you must know it's tiny. The entrance is right on the stairs, and then there are two tiny rooms. So if you are in one of the rooms, with the doors closed, you feel kinda like a rat in a cage. But so be it. We don't want to disturb anyone, so we keep the door closed.

Then today came the final blow. Mom was cooking for me. Admittedly, it is smelly food, although I must note that she bought the meat from the supermarket, which means it's for human consumption. If mom ate meat, she or anyone else might have cooked that for herself. Anyway.

Knock on the door: "please close the door". OK, door closed. 5 minutes later, another knock. Landlord barges in, an antique burner in hand, goes out on the balcony, and sets it up. Landlord's son translates: you should cook in the balcony.

Now, there are a lot of things that mom can stand, but restrictions in cooking is not one of them. COOK IN THE BALCONY? WTF??? So she told them they clearly must be kidding, laughed at the joke, and went back into the kitchen.

So, tomorrow there is a big meeting, interpreters present and all. But long story short, mom feels she's paying a fortune for a prison cell. I guess that's what you get for being a foreigner?