Why Is It All So Tiny?

     Whenever I meet people, their poor faces get clearly flooded with terror, as I set about pronouncing my name. Sometimes I feel like a nicked pot of gold, which is searched by the FBI; You'd love to own it, but you'd rather avoid getting anywhere near it. ''Why is that?'' you may ask. Well you see, most people can't be bothered to spell and pronounce my name as it is, hence Dimiter, and say it as Dimitri...which makes everybody think that I am Russian.
     But then, what is it that is so terrifying about the Russians? Do I look like a KGB agent in a red blazer, chasing some dissidents with a machete, while heading for Berlin in a UAZ? I highly doubt so. Nor do I have blue eyes and blond hair...Or the accent...Or the drinking manners, and I am sorry, but I am also not excessively attracted to the concept of painting every single body panel of my car in black. But really, the top of the cherry splashed with a bang on the creamy cake of misconception, when some imbecile asked me if Yugoslavia was a city in Russia. The last time someone was that wrong, he was standing beside an airplane at Croydon airport in 1938 waving a piece of paper around. So instead of my brain ordering my hand muscles to contract and dislodge that bloke's teeth from his stupid mouth, I used it to contract my facial muscles, smile and politely tell him that he may find the atlas to be quite a useful reference tool.
     I met the chap in question in a hotel lobby last summer while I was waiting for Lina and some other kids that I had to escort home.. It was a lovely day, and I did not mind waiting for a little longer. Next to me there was a person who was obviously waiting for the same group of kids, and he decided to tie a conversation with me. He went on to inform me that he was from Spain, but was married to a Bulgarian woman, because Bulgarian females are the prettiest there are.  I then found out that he has been living in Bulgaria for more than five years, and that explained why the heck was his Bulgarian that good. I just could not understand why would someone leave Spain and come to live in Bulgaria. That is a bit like telling Gordon Ramsay that you'd prefer a raw bratwurst with mustard, instead of prawn salad.
     But Mr. Faustino also found some aspects of Bulgaria to be quite baffling. -Why is everything so tiny?- He kept asking. -The inner streets are small, people park on the curbs, and the highways are clogged like a gypsy drainage pipe.

     And to be honest, I couldn't agree with him more. You try and walk on an inner city curb, and I promise you that you'd find the activity of breathing in vacuum to be a more achievable one. Some streets cause your car to feel like a rock tumbling down a hill, and the traffic congestion looks beautiful only in pictures.
     Does that mean that I liked Mr.Faustino very much? No not at all! I'd still derive great pleasure from flicking his ears for an hour, and then punching him, because he is unaware that the country he lives in, was in the past a neighbour to what he thinks is a city in Russia.