At the printshop in block 7, Sonya, her husband, and her mother-in-law take turns printing my drawings and articles and explaining to me how my antique Russian camera works.
I am waiting for my latest prints, and my eyes move across the molding on the ceiling and the plaster design surrounding the updated LED light fixture.
“Was this your apartment then once upon a time, Sonya?”
I had heard about when, after 1989 and the changes, before the inflation of the second half of the 90’s, people started turning their apartments into businesses. They no longer had the assurance by the government for work, so some people took things into their own hands.
“We never lived here. We live in the center.”
I look at her perplexed.
“We bought it, in 1992, when the original owners couldn’t make the payments on their loan to the country. It happened to a lot of people. We were lucky. We bought it and turned it into this.”
The entrance comes down from the original balcony with stairs covered by a bright blue awning, complimenting the gold sign they placed on the end of the block facing a main street that curves through Trakiya. The front room, which was the living room, holds the counter I am always leaning over telling them how to orient the prints I sent over in my latest email from up in my apartment across the street. There are 2 copy machine/printers, a small format scanner, and some various antique equipment. The shelves on the wall hold frames with pictures of Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt in them. Printed mugs and tshirts, featuring big red hearts and beautiful children with dark eyes, scatter the shelves. The side room, which used to be a bedroom, is a photo studio with a bright teal curtain backdrop and a basket full of toys to barter smiles from the children that sit on the steel stool.
“There is a lot of people in Trakiya. People who don’t like to leave Trakiya if they don’t have to. Our business has been much better here than it probably ever would have been in the center. We practically live here now. We know everyone. They bring their kids in every year for portraits, and we see them grow.”
I think back to all the children I’ve seen in here as I wait my turn to print. They call Sonya Auntie. Still with the perplexed look on my face I ask her,
“Would you ever live here?… In an apartment near by?”
She scoffs, and smiles,
“Never.”