A fairy tale called Lamu

Tina Boyadjieva January 29, 2017

I have travelled around the world, but no place has ever felt as close to a fairy tale, as Lamu Island on the border between Kenya and Somalia. As the boat taxi was taking us from the roughly patched dock of the airport terminal towards the town of Shela, Lamu town emerged like a image from a different century. Rasta turbans, swahili women in colorful kukois, Muslim tall hats and long kaftans were blending with the background of colorful buildings, herds of donkeys crowding on the waterfront and dhows loaded with timber parked at the port.

Our luggage was dropped off on the white-sand beach in front of the colonial Peponi hotel. From there, past the magnolia trees, around the corner from the botega with the shy Swahili ladies, after the kukoi store with the muslim lady covered in black and beside the Muslim house with the lady doing laundry in the street, was our spectacular open-air vacation house which made it tempting to stay at home instead of exploring the amazing world outside.

Shela is the quiet town on Lamu, where European tourists and celebrities escape the world and paparazzi and submerge themselves into another cultural dimension. You could sip drinks at the terrace in Peponi among elderly Brits, Americans and South Africans in perfectly ironed linen shirts all day long, people watching the beach scene of donkeys carrying sand, dhows with white families thoroughly covered in sunscreen. Or, you could explore the backstreets of the town, swing by the boys Muslim school, next to the Swahili food joint, by the corner where the Rasta man and only IT expert on the island hangs out all day under the shade, and end up on the other side of the port where the French art galleries and shops line the street above the Maasai beads market.

If you really want to feel in another time, you could take a boat taxi or a donkey ride to Lamu town and get lost in the tiny streets full of women carrying baskets on their heads, men with tall hats drinking tea and gossiping, market ladies in burkhas selling mangoes on the street corners, not far from the cages of live chickens for sale. The fruit market is basically a tight path covered on both sides with colorful fruits and large ladies in equally colorful wraps. The meat and fish market is a slightly smelly and bloody space where you can find any part of the goat and cow for sale. You also find the dark burkha Muslim women, along side the Swahili mamas carrying their babies in a sack on their back.

No one came rushing to beg for money from me, however I did get stopped and very politely asked to respect the local laws and cover my legs (silly me showed up in shorts). I did gather a few looks even after covering my legs, but most people greeted me with a friendly “Jambo” (“Hello” in Swahili) and a smile, and found it entertaining to watch me photograph everything around me, while staying out of the way of the donkeys.

The beaches in Shela are kilometers long, with pure white sand and turquoise water. The princess of Monaco has a house on the beach, together with a Japanese lady and an Italian royalty. Maasai warriors guard the houses gates more for looks than out of need. On one of my hours long walks down the beach I found no people, but I did meet a beautiful herd of cows. They found me just as interesting as I found them fascinating and stared intensely at me while I was snapping pictures of their long twisted horns, curved hooves and clean patterned skins, shining in the sun.

If you take a boat and cross over to Manda, there is the only pizza place on the island, with teak chaises and umbrellas right on the beach. In the early afternoon you can see hundreds of goats prancing down the beach, lined up for the boat delivery of water, right in front of European tourists sipping on their beers. The goats posed quite nicely in front of the baobab trees, some of them even ventured out to smell my camera.

If you have patience gliding down the sea in an ancient sail boat which tilts almost vertically, depending on the wind, take a dhow. It takes you past the mangrove trees and off to snorkel at Manda Bay, the private island with bungalows accessible only to the rich and famous. If you however, don’t want to get stuck on the water in pitch darkness immediately after the 10 min sunset, take a motor boat.

The island side, opposite from Shela, is the home of a fishing village where dhows are made from scratch for centuries. Further down the coast you can spot white storks with long red legs walking proudly on the beach in front of the beach shacks. I had only seen storks in Bulgaria, usually in the Spring time when they come back from Africa and nest on top of lamp poles and church bells. It was almost cathartic to actually find the place were the storks I grew up with chasing, spend their winters.

I don’t know what I miss most about Lamu. If it is the “Samosa” man with his white top hat who appears out of nowhere offering you “fresh” fish samosas just made by his mother and/or wife; the Rasta man singing out of tune “I can’t help falling in love with you” in the morning, as he is shaving on the edge of his boat; the donkeys trotting with loads of bricks, trash or sand on their backs; the Maasai with their miraculous outfits and happy smiles; the Muslim boys dressed up in their kaftans, chirping their way to the mosque at 5 pm; Mr. Lucas, our Swahili chef, who spoiled me with delicious food and jokes we shared in his kitchen; the dark-skinned “vacation boys” in the beach, throwing complements at you in Italian, making sure you know their occupation; the mesmerizing sunrises and equally beautiful sunsets; the thousands of sparrows in the sky at night; the gossip stories of the town; the women’s colorful bhurkas blowing in the wind; the kids yelling “Jambo" on top of their lungs… or maybe simply being in a place where different races, religions and cultural backgrounds have lived peacefully together for centuries and coexist in mutual respect and agreement.

My friends the Maasai

Tina Boyadjieva January 29, 2017

“How is you?” was the question that awaited me every morning when I walked by the Maasai market at Shela. You can spot from a distance the tall skinny men, wrapped in red and blue with shiny black skin, bright white teeth and colorful beads covering their heads, arms, wrists and ankles. The first time I saw them I was stupefied by their body wraps, accessories, the giant machete hanging off their waists, the shoes made from car tires. I took extra long looking through the beads on the tables, trying to find the right opportunity to strike a conversation. Instead they did for me - “Why did you Americans vote for Trump?” I had finally succeeded to disconnect from the madness at home by not reading FB, news or instagram, but obviously even the Maasai who live in the bush in a third world country can’t believe who the leader of the developed world is.

The Maasai were from Amboseli National Park, a “2-day walking” trip from Lamu Island. Their village is on the border with Tanzania and you can see mount Kilimanjaro from there. They are herds men, they live from their cows, migrating with them in search of pastures and water. They eat milk, meat and drink blood. They make their houses from cow dung, which insulates againstthe cold during the winter and keeps the house cool during the summer. For most sicknesses, they use plants, tree berries and roots remedies. The hospital is only for very serious cases. They mix“he” and “she”, as there is no gender in their language. They wash themselves with homemade butter, but do not have any BO even after hours in the burning sun. When a woman in the village gives birth, all of the women gather around her to help her physically and morally. They might look like they are from another century, but they all have cell phones, Facebook, WhatsApp and some even buy solar panels to charge batteries at home. The women make beads, bracelets, head pieces, anklets, phone pockets etc. and the men go to tourist locations to sell them. And that is how our paths crossed on the island of Lamu.

Although at first sight, the men are skinny and some of them short, each one has to kill a lion in order to be accepted into “men hood”. They go in the bush in a group of 8 with their spears and machetes and stay there until the man who is being inaugurated finds and kills the lion. The strategy is to follow the lion long enough until he/she is tired, then attack it with the spears and once on the ground finish it off with the machete. The man who kills it gets to keep the skin and comes back to the village with it, only to be…. circumcised. Women getcircumcised as well, but only after they are married. It is believed that it will protect them from cheating their husbands who sometimes are away for months.

The Maasai are Christian and celebrate the same holidays as us, the difference being they kill a cow instead of roasting lamb or eating Panetone. They are proud of their age, but do not celebrate birthdays. Family is very important to them. Finding a wife and bringing children up is considered a privilege. One man can have several wives, depending on how many cows he has. The average “offering” for a wife is 10 cows. Usually it is the parents who find the wife for their son, however most of the single men I met at the market told me that they are not in a rush to get married and they would rather wait and find the right woman themselves.

Maasai are very open to sharing their culture, and unlike others on the islands, were happy to take as many photos as I wanted and furthermore, dressed me up in a Maasai woman dress and beads. Being curvy to their taste is considered a good thing, so I had to take it as a complement when I got told I had a “big butt”.

Being courted by a Maasai is a beautiful experience - almost one those of us who live in NYC have forgotten ever existed. There is no space for doubt if a Maasai man likes you, not only because he is upfront about it, and escorts you everywhere. Unlike Western men with commitment issues, you know very quickly exactly how many cows he can afford to offer for you and how many children he would like to have with you. His house, his money and time is yours, and he likes you just the way you are, no changes required. Time, space or distance is not a problem - he is willing to wait for you even if it means it might be a year before you see each other again. And at the end, when your boat leaves the island to take you back to “civilization”, he stands on the dock leaning onto his wood stick, his red cloth waiving in the wind, making it ever so difficult to leave this world where life is pure and love so simple.

The place of a thousand dragonflies

Tina Boyadjieva January 27, 2017

My father is convinced that I choose my travel destinations based on political, government and social unrest. Every time I announced an upcoming trip he would bombard me with news articles about the landslides, kidnappings and disease spread in the region. Things have improved somewhat, but it sure was not to his pleasure t that I was headed to visit my friend Michelle in Uganda. Contrary to his anxiety, and with a great dose of excitement I got on a plane from Johannesburg to Entebbe, via Rwanda, and on to an amazing experience.

Uganda greeted me with bunches of dressed-for-prom men and women taking selfies as they were waiting for family and friends to arrive at the airport. Michelle and her beautiful 2 year old daughter stood out from the crowd of “cebos” (“sir” in Ugandan) and madams, dark faces looking with a great dose of curiosity at my torn jeans and covered shoes. I remember being a little girl in communist Bulgaria, staring at the few (non-Russian) foreigners I got to see in the streets of Sofia, wondering who were they, and what were they doing in my unusual destination country. 35 years later I find myself as an American photographer, being one of those foreigners in an unusual destination, peaking interest in the deep brown eyes of kids, the large market ladies, and the proud boda-boda drivers spread comfortably on their seats roasting in the sun. Maybe it is exactly because of my childhood spent in panel blocks, schools without much color but with lots of propaganda slogans, wearing the same clothes and shoes as my classmates, where bananas were on the market only for Christmas and Barbies were dolls of your dreams, that I can look beyond the poor infrastructure, the dirt, the poverty and into the faces and souls of the people who make up this beautiful place.

Uganda is the place of the shortest sunrise and sunset, little boys and girls walking barefoot in the red soil yelling at the cars with “mzungos” (gringos), Matatu vans overpacked with people with colorful signs on the windshield reading anything from “Jesus is Good” to “Mashallah” and “Alla akbar” and unattended giant horn cows grazing on the side of the road. It is also the place where Russian pilots, American military, South Africans and Europeans can hang around the pool at the luxury hotel in town one day, and shoot at each other in the jungle the next day.

We packed a lot in the week I was there. We took a boat at sunset on Lake Victoria. We photographed and interviewed 60 kids who aspire to be boxers and train with no facilities but with great passion. We got quite a few market ladies angry because of my camera at the Kitoro Tuesday market. We ventured out to a beach bar where up until a few years ago you could buy a beer, a tank or a kilo of cocaine and now it is the hang out of Ecuadorian mercenaries who if you ask what they do for a living will tell you they kill people in the jungle, others are afraid to.

Yet, there is so much I didn’t get to do and so many photos I didn’t get to take - the giant African sun setting between two hills with the winding road in between the silhouettes of plantain trees; the kids playing with rubber tires and a stick in the red dust; the moms dressed in colorful outfits carrying their babies in a sack on their backs; the shiny patterned dresses blowing in the wind of the women walking on the side of the road; the street food markets at sunset with the cooking ladies wearing white aprons and tall bonnets; the village houses with clay splashed half way up to the roof as the colors have bled into the wall from the rain; the shades of green in the tea plantations making the hills look like large blocks of puzzles; the large dry fish the fishermen sell at the edge of the lake; the boda-bodas covered with green plantains, pineapples or sugar cane; the mushroom shaped trees covered with orange blossoms; the endless varieties of head-buns and scarves… I didn’t drink enough Ugandan coffee, didn’t get called “mzungo" enough, didn’t spend enough time in the back streets of the neighborhoods where you find the beautiful and the ugly of Ugandan reality with the open fire pots, the timber, the chickens, the cows, the pregnant women, the barber shops with purple walls and photos of hair braids under a barely lit tungsten lightbulb, the sounds of music, the kids playing under a half broken hotel sign, the candles inside the homes, the stray dogs, the smiling faces, the sad faces, the angry faces…

The evening we took a boat on the lake, summed up what Uganda left in me. Our guide’s first name was Rogers. He did not let go of his huge smile with a space between his front teeth, not even for a minute. His long wood boat had been around for awhile, it didn’t have a motor, just ores. There was a “God is great” written with white paint on one of the benches. Rogers rowed us along, as we glided by papyrus, rare birds and moss with the sounds of the city hills in the far distance.

Fishermen in tiny boats were throwing their nets or spearing through the papyrus catching crabs. Birds with long red legs and beaks were walking between water lilies. Kingfishers with colorful bodies stood out on the backdrop of the deep green papyrus. As the sunset progressed, the birds and fishermen boats turned into black silhouettes on the backdrop of a melting prism of purple, pink, orange and blue. Approaching the shore our boat was absorbed into a cloud of a thousand dragonflies, flipping their wings and pointing their tales in every direction. You couldn’t tell where they came from or where they were going, but they covered the sky and everything around us, leaving us in dismay. And that’s just it- Uganda is a place of raw, simple and unexpected beautyjust like a thousand dragonflies.

"Busoga Boxing Club", much more than a gym

Tina Boyadjieva January 26, 2017

It has been a tough few months in the U.S. of A. In order to manage my thoughts and emotions from the events of the last few weeks, I force myself to think about what saves the day, life and the planet. For me that thing is doing good, and we each as individuals choose to give, do, be or not to wherever in the planet we might be located. With the backdrop of so much ugliness, I choose to focus on a cause my two friends and expats in Uganda, Michelle and Troy Conrey, whom I visited over the holidays, have started out of their own goodwill and I aim to do my part in supporting them in doing good.

Michelle and Troy, for the lack of a boxing gym in Entebbe, found Gilbert, a local boxing coach, leased a space and started their own. Originally only Troy and a couple of other young boys known to the coach used the gym to train, however in only a few months it has evolved into the training space, home and source of inspiration for over 30 young boys and girls from the ages of 4 to 25. For most of these kids, coming to the gym gives them energy and a place where they learn about famous boxers, symbols of success and realization, who they aspire to and dream to become themselves one day. Training however is not just for fun, the gym formed its own team in various age and weight categories which competes on a regional and ultimately national level. It scored 16th out of 43 teams in the last national championship.

I never knew this about Uganda, but boxing is identified with national pride. It is as important if not more than soccer. A good boxer needs to have long arms and a thin body, which apparently are features of the Ugandan DNA and the country has produced a number of talented fighters over the years.

Thanks to coach Gilbert, the “Busoga Boxing Club” quickly spread into satellite "clubs" in 10 other villages within the Busoga county, now training at least another 60 kids. Since there are no facilities, and most of these villages are 4 - 5 hours drive from Entebbe, each location has a designated captain, responsible not only for the daily training sessions but in the overall care and encouragement for the kids of his club.

Michelle and I visited one of these locations outside of Jinja, an improvised training space using tree trunks for a frame and burlap sacks filled with sand instead of boxing bags. Since the kids don't have boxing gloves, they wrap their hands and wrists with T-shirts or cloth, while they box in clouds of red dust. One of the boys from this area, fought in the regional championship with a broken arm because he wanted to prove to the coach and Troy, his sponsor, that the investment in his village was worthwhile. He actually won the fight.

Regardless of the conditions, each little girl and boy who I had the privilege to photograph and interview over the course of the day, told me the same story - boxing makes them feel "free", "powerful", "proud", "it is in their heart", it is something to "dream" about. What they didn't tell me, but I learned from Gilbert, is that it keeps them off the streets, off of drugs, or joining a military group and inspires them to have a goal in life.

My mission is to help find second-hand gear and boxing gloves for these kids, even if it is only a couple of pairs. What is considered "used up" in our gyms and thrown out is luxury for them. It doesn't take much to bring meaning to a young life, make a difference and who knows, maybe supporting a future olympic boxer for Uganda. If you have anything you would like to donate, please contact me for an address in the US where the gear can be shipped and then forwarded to Uganda. Thank you for reading and supporting #gotgloves?

Grazie Sicilia

Tina Boyadjieva June 13, 2016

Sometimes I wonder if I am crazy to be taking planes, buses, trains, cars and ferries (sometimes donkeys) to get to far away places and photograph and speak to total strangers. Logging my camera bag, computer and a few female belongings, I have flown, driven and sailed for years. Sometimes I am lucky and travel in style, other times I have to search for the positive in getting salmonella, being sea sick, home sick, chased by dogs or being stuck on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific because my bank shut down my cards. Fortunately, it seems that the moment I question my sanity, destiny brings me to a place, person or experience which somehow helps make perfect sense of my endless search of adventures.

A year ago someone showed me a picture of “Mario”, a fisherman from Stromboli. I spent 30 minutes not letting go of the poor man’s phone, staring at the expressive face, the white long beard, the deep wrinkles, the uncombed hair, and most of all the infinite depth of his stare. I was on the neighboring island of Panarea and immediately checked for the next ferry to Stromboli. I did find him, told him I had come specifically to shoot him and with a smirk he said “No problem, see you around!”.. Over a few days of stories, pictures and walks around the island, I was let into his world of a fisherman/artist/volcanic explorer. The experience remained with me and I knew I would be back for more.

A year later, I was on a bumpy ferry ride for the 3-hour route Milazzo - Stromboli, which by now was becoming familiar. There are 8 islands in the archipelago, and as the ferry was docking and leaving each one, and my breakfast was raising inside me, I couldn’t help but question my sanity. All I had as a way to reach out to Mario was his street name. I had sent him a letter in the mail with a few pics I had printed from our photoshoot the previous summer, and told him I would be back in May. I had no way of knowing he would be there, that he and his brothers would be available, that they would remember me or at least recognize me. This family gets photographed by people from around the world almost every day and we only saw each other for 3 days a year ago. I had devoted my time, spent money and my stomach was in a turmoil for nothing more than a total uncertainty. The sinking feeling was becoming stronger as the cone of the Stromboli profile appeared in the distance. Maybe I was crazy…

30 mins later Mario gave me a huge hug at the port where his usual spot is, and we were walking on via Roma, rushing to leave my bag at home so I could go out at sea with his brother Gaetano, about to make his afternoon fishing run. And so I felt normal again…

Round two of Tina’s visit to Stromboli was exponentially amazing and rewarding. Not only they all remembered me, by the second morning they were waiting for me to come to the beach and photograph their morning catch. I would sit on the edge of the boat and shoot, watch, listen to their endless stories and jokes … and try to sell fish to the tourists and restaurant owners myself.

There are five brothers in the Cusolito family: Bartolo, Mario, Roberto, Gaetano and Salvatore. Mario "my model" is the fisherman/painter who has been filmed by famous movie makers, shot numerous times for National Geographic and his pictures have won photography contests. He has met Madonna, Dolce & Gabana and played a role in all movies shot on the island - “Stromboli” with Ingrid Bergman, “All of my women” with Zingarelli and many more. Gaetano, aka “Radio Kiss Kiss” because he doesn’t stop talking, goes out at sea every day. He was married to a French and then to a German lady who both unfortunately went back to their respective countries. He lives alone with his nets in the family’s old house which is never to be sold. Roberto is the lucky one because his son lives on the island and helps him out with the boats. Although he is camera shy, he is happy to talk and teach you all about the fish - especially the stingrays which glow in the dark. Bartolo is 82 so he only comes to the beach sometimes, but he is the only one with short hair and no beard. I did not meet Salvatore because he owns the bakery, works at night and doesn’t come to the beach. There is also the “Viking”, a non-Cusolito brother but with an equally long, curly hair and beard and with eyes of steel blue. He is the expert net maker.

I had the privilege to be shown around into the Cusolito family house, with rooms full of family pictures, toys, fishermen tools, statues of saints and heart-shaped stones. All five brothers were borne in a room above the kitchen. Outside, there is still the old well and bucket their mom used to give them baths. The old sink where she did laundry is now used to marinate fish, and the stump ground where their father made wine, now contains water for the garden. Their grandfather Bartolo, immigrated to New York and died in Brooklyn in the 30s. The family received the passport and some remaining items in a box from New York, but don’t know anything about what he did and how he died. Naturally, my next mission is to find out his story and grave in New York. The stories were endless, and the days would finish on the terrace with chipping paint and stunning views of the beach and Strombolicchio (later renamed to "Tina’s belvedere"). They would cook fresh fish and salad, which Gaetano picked up straight from the garden where a barbie doll marked the potatoes.

The next day treated me with meeting Nino, the owner of "Ai Gechi", probably the best restaurant on the island. After I joking tried to sell him 3 fish for 50 euro, Nino in a typical Sicilian hospitality invited me and the fisherman to have dinner at his restaurant. He later told me he had been inviting them for five years but they never wanted to go until I decided to join. To say that it was a gourmet treat, would not be enough. Dishes with home spoked tuna, fresh made pasta with rock shrimp, mussels caught that morning, octopus from Ginostra (the next village over) were accompanied by a solid bottle of Sicilian Grillo and a generous doze of fascinating stories from his years on a naval ship in the Gibraltar. He was most proud to tell me about his life as a fisherman and teach me that tuna should only be eaten in May, swordfish in the first weeks of June and branzino in July because those are the seasons the fish come back to surface, cleansed after the winter. The evening ended with a label-less bottle of Malvasia, naturally home made by a fisherman in Salina, which made the stories, tastes and sounds from the dinner a blissful melange.

Mario at the steps of the Custolito house

I was supposed to stay for only two nights and then continue to Filicudi and Alicudi, but the May seas were too high and kept me there for two more days, solidifying my bond with the island and the Cusolitos. Mario’s two great grand children, a boy and a girl borne 3 days apart were getting baptized that weekend and I invited myself as a photographer. The family was filling up the cathedral while I was snapping away various combinations of parents, babies, uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins and friends. There were 4 generations of “Strombolani" before me, some being the chatty kids under the colorful saints and others those in their 90s falling asleep in the pews. The grand finale had the two babies being lifted high in the air as a welcome to Christianity and then there was the family celebration. It was impossible for me to remember whose cousin, aunt or sibling everyone was, and I definitely did not want to impose on the occasion with my presence of a foreign woman/their grandfather’s photographer. From my seemingly hidden corner I was observing the women talking about recipes, the chubby little girl trying to sneak a third cannolo from the table, the babies feeding, the men smoking, all with the constant supply of arancini, calzone and pizza, replaced by cakes, cannoli, and a dozen of other sweets. I could barely breathe when I left. In my effort not to be rude I accepted every plate which was brought my way. But most of all I was full of the excitement of having witnessed something so rare and special.

The last day sent me off with a bang: I gave Roberto "a headache” with my “constant clicking” while he was smoking his cigarette on top of a bucket; Mario introduced me to another hidden neighborhood for pictures, where the colors of the ginostra (yellow colored bushes), stand out on the black sand background of the schiara, while the sky blends with the sea; and Gaetano took me out with the boat for his sunset nets throw, naturally chatting to himself the whole time. I don’t know what was more magical to witness: the view of Stromboli under the light illuminating through the clouds, the orange nets with the backdrop of the navy blue sea, Gaetano’s hair and beard blowing in the wind as a live version of the “Old man and the sea” for which even Hemingway would envy me. Later in the evening, over my send off of fresh fish dinner on "Tina’s belvedere" sipping Grillo, I was reflecting back to a year ago when I was a sitting in a clean corporate office, working with financial models and not seeing any purpose to life. I just couldn’t help but feel the grandness and beauty of life.

Gratitude is what I was full of the day after as I was walking towards the port with Mario, about to embark on the same 3 hour bumpy ride back to Milazzo. I felt "in the family", in a home, where no-one judges or expects anything, they just are and let you be. I did spot a tear between the wrinkles and white curles waving in the wind, while I was barely holding mine back. He told me to be safe and to come back. Then instead of staying at the port until the ferry drops off the next load of tourists, as per his usual duty, Mario turned and headed to the beach where Gaetano was getting his boat and nets ready mumbling away non stop. I already could not wait to be back.

The pictures from my amazing days with the Cusolito brothers will be in exhibit at Palazzo Santo Stefano in Taormina from 20 August until 4 September. I hope my models themselves can make an appearance and see the result of what was causing some of them headaches, and others having to take a skinny foreign girl in their boat and disturb the regular cycle of their day. THANK YOU Mario and brothers, Grazie Sicilia, thank you my Canon 60D for never breaking down on me even under a little bit of salt water. I am loving life because of you.

Neverending story

Tina Boyadjieva March 23, 2016

When I was a little girl, my grandparents read to me many fairy tales. Actually, I can’t count how many times the poor people had to re-read to me over and over again “Pippi the long stocking”, “Tom Sayer and Huckleberry Fin”, “Marco Polo”, “Sinbad the sailor” etc. Not sure to what extent this played a role, but throughout my life my imagination always ran wild and I was in a constant search for adventures. As often life surprises you, I actually ended up spending most of my 30s stuck to an office desk, staring at excel spreadsheets and analyzing numbers, whose color formatting was much more exciting to me than their quantitative meaning. I was doing a job I went to business school for, offering safety and a big paycheck, but that never felt fulfilling or meaningful. With time I was questioning whose life I was living, and deep inside I knew there must be more to life than this. I always kept an inspirational card on my desk or someone’s travel blog on one of my screens. One of my favorite cards said “Create a life you don’t want to take a vacation from”. One day after re-reading it for the hundredth time, I quit my job and got on a plane to Italy.

No I wasn’t on an “Eat, Pray, Love” trip. On that note, I wish someone wrote a book about having to go through a devastating breakup and re-define life when they still had to: “exceed” at their 16-houra day job; sleep a max of 5 hours a day because your upstairs neighbors are having a healthy sexual life; your emotional state means nothing to the client deadline; your vacation is a long weekend to California if you are lucky; you live in the same apartment you shared with your ex because it is just too expensive to go anywhere else; your friends are too busy with their own problems; you are pushing mid 30s and everyone seems to be talking about freezing their eggs, and then there is the hot blond skinny girl, half your age, who comes late to yoga, slaps her matt on top of yours and insists you are invading her space while her cell phone keeps going off with okcupid messages throughout shivasana. Yes I was in search of an adventure, but more so on a trip to remember who Tina was.

Sicily was always one of those fascinating for me destination which gave anxiety to my dad. Yet, I didn’t know what to expect. I had already travelled extensively through Italy - Toscana, Liguria, Amalfi Coast, le Marche, Sardinia etc. and wasn’t sure anything could be all that much more impressive. After a two day trip through planes, buses, trains, ferries and a donkey which gracefully carried my luggage up the cliff, I ended up in the amazing island of Stromboli, in the middle of the Eolian archipelago. I am not sure what is the thing that makes this place amazing: whether it is the live volcano, the constant life on the edge, in a battle with nature; the fascinating personalties of the local people; the black sand on the beach; the deep calming energy which attracts the stressed people from Rome, Milan and Naples (as well as D&G who have a house there); or maybe the fact that electricity made it to one part of the island only 10 years ago. Whatever it is, I had never seen anything like it in any of the fairy tales I grew up with.

From a distance, the island looks like a scene from “Jurassic Park” - a perfect triangle of a green peak protruding from the sea, clouds of smoke coming out from the top. The volcano has its own name “Iddu”, and the local people speak to him as if he was a live being. For example: you are in a boat at midnight under a sky full of stars, floating on a sea glowing with plancton with the hope of spotting the orange lava eruption; your skipper, whom you have no right to doubt because the guy was able to navigate the boat at full speed in pitch darkness and he is your only way back to shore, starts yelling in Sicilian dialect “Come on Iddu, give us a beat to make the guests happy”. In reality, Iddu erupts quite regularly, almost every 15 minutes and you can hear him from afar. Every few years Iddu erupts massively. Three years ago there was such a strong eruption, the lava was running from the top of the peak straight into the sea for several days in a row. A bunch of National Geographic photographers were camping in boats taking pictures for a week having the time of their life, while the locals were being evacuated not only because of the ash and fumes but in addition, to avoid the tsunami, which occurs as a post-effect.

While I was there, the volcano behaved. Tourists were enjoying their frutti di mare pizza in the outskirts of the volcano witnessing small lava fireworks every few minutes. I climbed the volcano 1000 meters up, to the point where you can see the three craters from just a few hundred meters away. The fumes and heat are unbearable up there, and you have black sand grinding your feet up to the knees. Regardless, it is an amazing sight, and you really feel you are experiencing something magical.

Actually the story is not about the volcano, it is about Mario - a fisherman, artist, house builder, volcano explorer, actor and more than anything else - an amazing human being. You can spot him already from the ferry as you are approaching the small port. He looks like Santa Clause in shorts. His white hair and beard are shining in the sun and his unusually strong (for a 70 year old) body is glowing in the sun as he skillfully ties the ropes up.

Mario has four brothers, all of them fishermen during the summers, and during the winter they do whatever there is to be done on the island: build homes, bake bread, take scientists up to the craters and back for a time embarrassingly shorter than what it takes me. When you look into his face, you are not exactly sure what you are seeing: a mix of nature, a human, the universe, primal instincts mixed with unbelievable spirituality and inner power.

I spent every morning in the beach with Mario and his brothers, as they were coming back from the sea with their freshly caught fish. They were telling me how they fix their boats, how to clean fish, how to arrange nets, which fish shines in the dark and what real corals look like. Their grandfather had gone to “America” in the 50s when families from the islands immigrated “en mass” to the US, Australia and New Zealand. Then there were the stories about all the movies, books and TV shows which came to record their unique and fascinating way of life.

I wanted to ask all sorts of questions, yet I was tongue tied and wished to be invisible around them. I didn’t want to interrupt in any way their daily rituals, the tranquility and beauty of their simple being. Mario took me to his home, where I met his wife and saw his paintings - impressive shapes, colors and interpretations of the forces of nature, the volcano, the sea and the winds. Unfortunately the paintings were not for sale, they were his own personal inspirations and belonged in his home.

I didn’t want to leave Stromboli. It was so hard for me to leave this magical world behind. It was surreal and the opposite of everything I was trying to escape from. Although I did not comprehend much of their Sicilian Italian, although I was “fresh off the corporate boat” of New York, I felt so close to them. All of a sudden everything seemed so clear and simple. The issues which you spend days, weeks and years analyzing in the big city; on which you meditate, see your shrink about, go to yoga, suffer through acupuncture, do juice cleanses, you measure and question… even tough you have money, an apartment, you don’t live under the constant threat of an erupting volcano, your running water is not delivered by boat every other week, the closest hospital is not 3 islands over and you can only reach it by helicopter in extreme cases… At the end, the meaning of life is the right to be happy, to love and be loved, to feel useful, needed and respected, to create a family, to live within a community, to enjoy the simple things because sooner or later we all die and nothing is left behind.

Mario gave me a red starfish as a present which he fished from the sea that morning. It was still moving in my hand as the island was disappearing on the horizon. He told me to go back in May when the part of the volcano not covered by black sand, is covered with flowers. There are no tourists yet, hotels are cheap, you can see dolphins and sea turtles and most of all I have a reserved spot in their boat to go fishing at 5 am. I am already counting the days until I see them again. Even though I am not anymore the western girl, looking to cure herself from chronic stress, developed in closed offices over dusty desks, living a lonely life in a giant city; I am sure I will learn yet again and so much more in a different way. The same way I always found something new, as my grandfather was re-reading me the same fairy tale for the 86th time.

Taxi ride to fortune

Tina Boyadjieva January 7, 2016

You know those random acts of serendipity when destiny manifests itself in such strange ways and unimaginable places, that you wonder if it is a sign, a joke or you are going slightly mad? This is how I met Kiril, the Bulgarian opera singer.

I was standing on the most obscure corner of South Park in Sofia, where the ring road meets a cross section, late for a dinner, doing my best to avoid the stray dogs and thinking to myself there was no way I could find a cab around there. Although I wouldn’t confess it to myself, for a moment I missed the convenience of hailing a cab within 1.5 seconds in the streets of NYC. Subconsciously, I reached towards the next best thing, my uber app, and quickly slapped myself, “duh you are not in Brooklyn Tina”. I hate being late, but I would never dare get on Sofia public transportation without a ticket. As the sinking feeling of how late I was, was turning into a slight panic, I spotted a cab taking the turn. Of course, it was taken. My eyes dashed beyond it, but strangely enough, the car was coming towards me. It approached slowly and stopped directly in front of me. A couple paid and waltzed itself out of the car while me, slightly-jaw dropped, but ecstatic, jumped quickly inside.

Years in NYC inside yellow cabs have left me a bit anti-social when it comes to cabbies. I avoid eye-contact, try to limit the conversation to my destination address, I buckle up and overall mind my own business. In Bulgaria I specifically avoid conversations because I hate getting ripped off with taxi fares in my own home country, just because I pronounce some words with a modified intonation. This cabbie though was unusual - he was in his 50s, his face was intelligent, with an air of positivity and a deep calm voice. His presence was relaxing and almost therapeutic. I noticed my mouth open and it started spilling personal facts like, how I quit my finance job in NYC and now I am traveling for a few months, that my sister is getting married for the third time to the same man in Greece next month, that I shot some unbelievable fishermen in Sicily… He congratulated me on my sister’s third wedding and instead of the usual skeptical “OMG-you-walked-away from a-six-figure-job-in-NYC?!?” reaction, he said “good for you, you made the right decision, you should be happy”. Mentally my jaw dropped even more, and then he continued with his own story. He also had an economics degree and worked in a large corporation a few years back. He got laid off and took up the taxi service because of its flexible schedule. His true passion however was singing. When he was younger he used to sing in rock bands, and always thought his voice was good only for that. One day, he picked up a passenger from the opera house. One word lead to another, the passenger turned out to be a voice coach, made him sing in the car and told him he was gifted with an opera singer’s voice. Too bad they met 20 years too late, otherwise he could have been a true opera phenomena. Regardless, he invited him to train with the best opera singer coaches in the country, and eventually Kiril ended up as a soloist at one of the oldest men’s choirs in Bulgaria - “hor Gusla”. I was shocked by his story, of course sincerely happy to hear it, although I did secretly scan the car for a hidden camera. It made me feel ever so slightly less insane about taking my decision and even felt a serge of hope. We spent the next 15 mins blasting his solo in “Nessun Dorma" through the streets of Sofia, gathering plenty of inquisitive and/or annoyed looks. He was singing live, confirming the validity of his vocal chords, and I was trying not to ruin the aria with my partial out-of-tune accompaniments. I told him I would gladly shoot him and the choir, gave him my card and left the cab in a blurr… only an hour late for dinner.

Not only we connected, I ended up shooting his rehearsals as well as the choir’s performance at a festival. It was really hard to shoot the choir actually. The voices, acoustics of the church and the natural light where the concert was, were so distracting. I just wanted to listen and not worry about composition, focus and my ISO. Yet, it was the most rewarding experience standing in front of 30 elderly men, who were all secretly posing for me, chests up, big smiles, basking in the sound of each click.

Is it just me, or is it hard to imagine that an ex-consultant from New York, and an ex-economist/taxi driver from Sofia, found themselves in Dupnica sharing the vicissitude of life via photographs and singing, in their individual pursuits of happiness. At that performance, neither the past nor the future mattered, because when you love what you do, you are too busy enjoying every second of the present moment to worry about anything else. The click of my camera, and hitting the high notes, was everything either one of us were aiming to feel. Maybe I will have to work as a waitress in a couple of weeks, probably neither one of us will ever be rich and famous, but there is a giant difference between fame and fortune. Every person who gets to live life doing what they love, is already rich in more ways than imaginable.

Kiril is still driving a cab when he is not singing or rehearsing. He is one of my biggest fans when it comes to making me go for my dreams and he religiously likes every photo I post on FB. I am sure one day I will see him on a real stage, singing a spectacular Italian opera. And that day I will not be taking pictures… because I will be too busy enjoying the show and his better-late-than-never fortune.

Aphrodita's Boyfriend

Tina Boyadjieva December 30, 2015

I have a thing for old Mediterranean men. I notice them, get fascinated by their walks, hand gestures, postures, their clothes and shoes combinations and especially their old watches, often hanging on a chain in their pocket. I can stare at them all day, trying to read the stories in their calm eyes and wrinkled faces and especially like those with big smiles, who can talk for hours. Last summer we were island hopping in the Cyclades. Our boat ended up in a tiny island out of this world and into a movie-like set with airy abandoned houses, hidden corners, exposed gas meters and purple flowers. Following the “Chora” signs we ended up on a square, where the empty tables and chairs indicated the not-yet-opened town bar, a few cats stretched leisurely out in the sun and a cute pink church on the opposite side.

Adonis was sitting on a bench covered with a striped rug, having his morning coffee with his buddies under the church shade. We sat on the bench close by, but as we were three girls speaking foreign languages, it didn’t take long before our coffees were transferred to their table and we joined the spot in the shade. Adonis stood out from the company of the four old men, his eyes full of expression and his face with endless curiosity. With a smile to his ears, he proudly told us the story of his name, Adonis - the boyfriend of Aphrodite. I am no expert on Greek Mythology but I nod my head and took in each word about how powerful, beautiful and amazing Adonis was. Next followed how beautiful and smart his children were because he made them so. Of course we didn’t escape the questions of “Are you married?”, “Do you have a boyfriend?”, “Is he a good man?”, “How many kids will you have?” Being the classic New Yorker with an almost permanently single status, I usually don’t enjoy answering these questions. But with him, somehow it was natural to talk about it, at the end of the day it is a part of life. Regardless, I was not in the hot seat. In our group we had the beautiful Angiliki, recently engaged to a young Greek lad, overflowing with pride and joy. It was agreed they would get married on this island next summer and will have at least two children. Oh… and by the way “Adonis” is a really good true Greek name for a baby boy.

The sun had shifted and there was almost no shade, our frappes had become a froth icy mush. I asked to take his picture. Instead of the usual shyness, Adonis pulled out a huge smile for me, posed proudly with his blue shirt and matching hat, and at the end requested a group foto with the pretty ladies. The other men got some of our attention as well and the conversation continued as if there wasn’t a 50-year gap between us. All of a sudden Adonis looked at his watch, got up, grabbed the fresh loaf of bread inside of a white plastic bag, stood up and to everyone’s surprise stated: “It is 12 o’clock, I went out to get bread and never went home. My wife will kill me!” All of us tried to persuade him to stay for one more coffee, but he started waving his index finger left and right and said “I am afraid of my wife, she is serious!”. We said our good byes and watched him walk away in a rush. A man with a Burberry knock off summer hat looked at him and said “There are certain things I don’t miss about being a widower”… and we all laughed.

Later this afternoon, on my way back to the boat, I was walking through the dirt path road, greeting the goats on the side hills and absorbing the sights and impressions of the day. As I approached the port, I heard a loud and familiar voice “Tinikulaaaaaa”. It was Adonis yelling out at me from underneath a tree. He was standing with his arms and legs apart while his wife was applying sunscreen on his knees and back. I got excited to see him and walked towards him, but quickly changed direction as I saw his wife’s scrutinizing look. It was her territory and although I didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or a laugh, I didn’t want to take any chances. I wished him a nice day and a good swim and walked away quickly. 30 seconds later, he yelled at me “Angilikulaaa???” I told him she is coming in 5 minutes and walked away even faster smiling even wider…

The living art of Florence

Tina Boyadjieva December 11, 2015

I come to Florence every year in search of magic. There is so much of it in every direction I look - the centuries of art, the creations of the Medici, the architecture, the sounds of the bell towers, the smell of coffee, truffles and the taste of finochiona, the excited “Buongiorno” echoing from all sides in the morning… But the real magic for me is the one you run into behind the green shutters and wood carved doors, in shops, homes and studios where you find people full of stories and lives as rich as the frescoes outside. One such door for me was Santo Spirito #18, which leads you though an unassuming residential corridor, to a hidden green courtyard and into the magical workshop of Giuliano Ricchi and Gianni Bricci, artisans of metal.

The two entered the industry as teenagers, at age 14 and 15. Gianni couldn’t go to school after World War II so he started as an apprentice at a jewelry maker’s shop. Giuliano instead was always in the metal works. They share two floors which serve as their work area, design space, product warehouse, sales floor and customer service department. The two have worked together for over 50 years making pins, bracelets, hearts, boxes, jewelry, key chains, ornaments and more for Christian Dior, Neiman Marcus, Saks, Bloomingdales, Farmacia Santa Maria Novella, and boutique shops in Paris, Rome, Milano and New York.

Every visitor gets a personal tour of the space and Giuliano’s demonstration of how the molding, melting and polishing works. The first floor room belongs to Gianni where using a fire torch, rough stones and an old sink, he slices stripes of metal and with surgical precision turns them into beautiful picture frames, candle holders, bottle holders or mirror boxes. The basement is where the heavy press machines, aged over 100 years are kept. Gianni still remembers the destructive flood of 1966 which flooded the basement to the top and it took eight of them three days to pump the water out, borrowing an electric cable from the now Gucci headquarters building. Out of these giant aged blocks of metal come out beautifully designed delicate flowers, engravings, etchings, fish, stars, dragon flies, shells, leaves, lady bugs, sunflowers, the Duomo, David, Ponte Vecchio, Palazzo Vecchio. To the question “What happens when the machines break?”, Gianni just shrugged his shoulders and said “Well they get fixed”. Giuliano’s wife Maria, is the one who greets you when you enter and who sends you off with a beautifully wrapped package. Being their customer is more of being their special guest at home, they welcome each person in as a unique story and if you have the time you find yourself sitting for hours talking about life, love, politics and anything else.

I asked Giuliano and Gianni if they considered their work art or just a job. Giuliano humbly responded that it is a job, art is something else, while Gianni said it is more of a skill, but not art. (I disagree with both). My euphoria of being in this magical world subsided once the subject of continuity came up. Just like many other artisan shops in Florence, this studio is on a timer. There are no apprentices interested in learning this living art, and continue the tradition. Instead of getting their hands burned and cut, the young generation prefer to type neatly on a key board and work in sterile offices for a fixed paycheck. Sometimes I wish I was a man, and that day I wished it more than ever. I could see myself leaving behind the excel spreadsheets and spending my days learning and creating with these two.

I showed up with a long list of questions the day I went to shoot and interview Giuliano and Gianni. At the end I didn’t ask a single question from the list. It was enough to just sit and watch their art and lifetime unfold in front of me, as a surreal and even therapeutic experience. Spending a morning in their company, witnessing their craftsmanship in action, listening to their humbleness and dedication to their “job”/(art) was a slice of magic for me. I think about all the days I spent walking through the New York department stores where Giuliano and Gianni’s bracelets, boxes and candle holders waited to be bought by lunch breakers seeking retail relief from the stressful work day, or glitzy couples coming out of shiny cars and onto the red carpet, or old ladies who lunch at Bergdorf, or maybe the privileged tourists excited to put their credit cards to use. I can’t help but think that all the money in the world doesn’t buy the fulfillment of creating beauty for 50 years without a sense of superiority or a drop of vanity. Giuliano and Gianni have never been to New York nor to any of the other places their creations have made it. Their door is open to whoever walks through, same as their dedication to making something beautiful for whoever their client is. And it will remain like this, until the shop stays open.

In a place of glory, Nashville, TN

Tina Boyadjieva November 8, 2014

"F.T. Walker - Pro Wrestler", is what he scribbled on the back of a cowboy boots store card on Broadway street in Nashville, Tennessee. I met him while strolling through rows of boots on a sunny fall day in the South. It was the fifth boots shop I had walked into that day, and the mountains of boots boxes and cowboy girl shirts seemed to all blend together at this point. I heard the usual "20% discount is at the back of the shop, let me know if you need any help", however this one sounded unusual. I expected to see a pretty southern girl with a sweet voice and warm blue yes, and instead it came from a buff cowboy with a long blond ponytail who seemed completely misplaced between the cowboy shirts ruffles.

He asked where my accent was from. The New Yorker in me mentally rolled her eyes thinking "Oh no, not another small talk, no one knows where Bulgaria is around here anyway". Instead I heard, "I know Bulgaria". FT was a third generation wrestler. His grandfather wrestled and taught his dad and then his dad taught him. His dad used to fight with Bulgarians in his studio, they called them "the bears" because they were strong and would get really angry if someone mistook them for Russians.

FT got his knee injured badly and had to give up wrestling professionally, so he ended up in the dusty store his mom managed for a few years now. He had white baby skin, clear blue eyes, big southern smile and spoke with a calm southern accent, saying at least 5 "thanks to God" in one sentence. He was 24 years old, his wife was 28 and they had a 4 year old daughter. His wife was a professional wrestler as well and we joked about what family fights are like at their household.

He gladly accepted to model for me, sitting in a chair in front of a wood wall full of signatures left by famous and infamous passersby. I could tell taking his picture gave him back a fraction of his sense of fame, which he probably could never re-live again. His colleagues yelled out some jokes, which gave him even a bit more satisfaction, as he felt noticed and acknowledged. I was happy I could make him feel special for a few minutes with some clicks of the camera, and in return I was grateful that he let me into his world of simple gratitude and easy being. He was the perfect melange of humble simplicity, sense of God given peace and love, sincerity and goodness. Regardless that he couldn't be the pro fighter he dreamed, regardless that he was working in a dusty little store trying to sell off-price shirts and boots, there was not a drop of bitterness or regret in his face. Maybe he was young, maybe he didn't know much more than the wrestling ring, but I envied this man. Somehow in the city where I live, where you have everything and more, where anything is available to you 24/7 at a press of a computer key, I don't remember seeing someone so OK with the status quo and not worrying about the prospects of the job, the injustice of his injury, the future of his family. Is it a matter of place, or mind, is it luck, belief in God or just small mindedness? Whatever it is, I sincerely envied it and wish I had some of it myself.

On a boat, Chania, Crete

Tina Boyadjieva May 6, 2014

Meet Petra. I found her in the old port of Chania in the island of Crete. She was selling sea sponges from a bunch of baskets lined up neatly in front of a tiny white boat which had seen quite a few summers. The sponges were all colors, shapes and sizes, the kind of "organic" that Whole Foods could only dream about. They came from the depth of the Cretan seas, personally fished out by her husband Georgi. Georgi had been pulling out sponges from the sea for 40 years, just about as many as the two of them had been married and lived on their boat. Talk about living in tight spaces and getting used to share. I don't think there would have been any space for marriage counseling to straighten things out when this boat rocked. Georgi, like a proper Cretan man, was very proud of his diving and as a proof had on exhibit a number of faded, some roughly laminated and with chipping corners, pictures of himself underwater, at various ages wearing the same goggles and holding various size freshly picked sponges. He didn't speak a word of English but as long as you looked at one of his photos, his sun-burned face with Greek-macho style reflection, was there telling you all about his skill. He loved to hear the "Wows" and I was sure mentally he was beating his chest with pride.

Petra didn't speak English either, and my Greek is less than minimal, yet we had a whole conversation about their 40 years on the boat, and their three children who were all educated and now lived in Athens. Noticing I was more thrilled speaking to his wife than listening to his diving stories, Georgi retrieved to his quarters on the boat which were no bigger than an interior of a Fiat 500. I kept buying sponges just to be able to absorb more of Petra's story, trying to digest not only living with another person on this boat, but bearing and raising three children. It all came to an end when suddenly, Georgi yelled from inside... guess he was ready for dinner. I almost got annoyed as to how quickly Petra jumped back on the boat, shifting her duties from a merchant to a chef for a man in love with his diving and buckets of sponges.

The next morning I walked by on purpose, hoping to catch another glance of the tiny boat and a love story of 40 years on it. Petra was there, under the umbrella, cleaning the fasuli (green beans) to make stew for lunch. Her face was calm and beautiful even after all those years. The morning sun reflected from the turquoise water onto her face in a million little sparkling dots. And then it hit me, she was not just serving dinner for her husband and selling the fruits of his diving. She was the anchor of that boat, the stable ground to which Georgi's temper could always come home to and find peace no matter how rough the waters of the sea or life were. It was the destiny she had embraced with love and gratitude, that brought purpose to her life, and which my little Miss "Living-in-NYC-working-for-my-independence-and-money" self understood and even secretly admired.

Baba Stefanka, Troyan, Bulgaria

Tina Boyadjieva March 5, 2014

Zoom in on Bulgaria, the middle of the Balkan mountains, tiny village with 300 permanent residents, one bus service to the closest town every three days. Locals dress in old style village clothes and get by on agriculture, farming and animals they raise. Dramatic mountain views, smell of hay and sounds of bells from the herds.

Baba Stefanka has been a part of this picture forever... Her house originally built in "Turkish times" (Bulgaria was under Ottoman empire until 1878) doesn't have a door bell, you just need to shout her name and you will see her sun-burnt face pop from around the corner. She remembers the day me, my parents and probably my grandparents were borne. We used to buy fresh eggs ("fresh"= straight out of the chicken's XXX) and milk from her cow, when I was spending the summers at my grandparents country house down the dirt road from where she lives. I was the city kid fascinated by her sheep, chickens, pigs and making lame attempts to milk the cow. She speaks a dialect I often don't understand, but I always felt we communicated somehow beyond language.

She can talk for hours about the animals, the rain this season, who died last in the village, how her peppers are coming about this year and her stash of pig lard in the basement, which she is always happy to share. She has never seen a gym in her life, yet she never fails to impress with her running-up-the-hill skills as she is herding her goats, sheeps and cows. I don't remember her ever being sick or complain about anything.

She is always curious about my life in "the" America and loves getting her picture taken because it will be posted on "the" internet. Every time I see her I can't help but get recharged with a sense of grounding, gratitude and with a decent dose of shame about the vanities of life in the world where I come from. She reminds me how simple life is, yet so rich and meaningful.

I actually wonder if she has ever had a minute in her life to worry about the meaning of life, what happiness is or what your purpose on earth is. She just is, she just lives.