Transcript
Ingrid Johnson (0:15)
Chim chimney chim chimney chim chim kali I'll pick the cards to show your destiny Chim chim chim chim chim chim cheroo there's no turning back cause there's naught you can do so run till your mom see and we'll catch her too. You forced all the spilt in it stay too Craig here pays too much for business wireless so he sublet half.
Craig (0:59)
His real estate office to a pet shop.
Ingrid Johnson (1:04)
There's a smarter way to save Comcast business mobile. You can save up to an incredible 70% on your wireless bill so you don't have to compromise powering smarter savings powering possibilities. Switch to Comcast business Internet and mobile.
Christine (1:18)
And find out how to get the new Samsung Galaxy S25 plus on us for the qualifying trading wait call click.
Ingrid Johnson (1:24)
Or visit an Xfinity store today.
Craig (1:35)
Late.
Ingrid Johnson (1:36)
Friday, I get off the bar train. In the bad old days, downtown Oakland near City hall is deserted. Nothing but boarded up windows, locked doors, and with the four women, three guys, friends walking huddled close for safety, head on a swivel, don't want no funny business. And then, like from a fairy story, we hear the peals of a bagpipe. Why? Who knows, Maybe there's some underground Scottish thing going on. Let's maybe check it out. This music Pied pipers us along. And there, between two dark buildings, warm light spills onto the sidewalk. An open door, and there are people, old people, young people, mothers holding babies, men hugging old friends laughing, shouting, singing grandmothers dancing to the backpiper, throwing back tiny glasses of something that looks alcoholic. In the window a small handwritten sign reads Bulgaria at night. We peek in like wild eyed refugees and we're greeted with smiles, with slaps on the back. Hey man, what's going on with the bagpipes? Is there some kind of Scottish? There are bagpipes, Our Bulgarians don't you know. Scott stole the bagpipe from Bulgaria. It's our national instrument. Then he's pressing the cups of something called raka into our hands. One sip and I almost go blind. Some kind of crazy Balkan moonshine. They laugh as I stagger pour another. There's food. Thick blood red sausages. A woman shoves spiced beef into my mouth, cabbage rolls and cubes of cheese that don't come from a cow. In the corner, couple sing operatic accompaniment to the bagpiper. A guy hands me a baby to hold while he dances more moonshine. Hey, tell a story. Alcohol gives me courage. My tail makes him laugh and pour More moonshine at a table. An old man slams my buddy's wrist down at arm wrestling. Everybody else is dancing, dancing, dancing, eating, dancing, dancing, laughing, drinking, dancing, spinning. We finally stagger away from Eastern Europe, back onto the streets of Oakland. Four in the morning. Smiles on our faces, songs in our heart. 50 brand new best friends. And I know exactly where I'm spending every weekend for the rest of my life. With my people, the Bulgarians. When I return the next night, there's no warm light, no sign, no bagpipes, nothing. And I know it was right here. I know it. My friends. Over days we keep search empty. I even look online. Bulgaria at night. Scarce brief mentions, a few broken links. What? And this was years ago. Every once in a while I see one of us who walked into the light that night. One of us who was there. We looked at each other in the eyes. That happened, right? We were there, right? Right. Here's the thing. Every once in a while, I still go by that spot. I'm still looking for that sign. Believe me, this time if I hear bagpipes, I don't know if I'm coming back. Spook. Stop now. Magic doors. Magic doors. Sometimes it feels like the universe is having a laugh. Ingrid Johnson. She just escaped a bad marriage. She's broke. She needs every bit of rest so she can get on to take care of herself and her baby boy. So Ingrid's really, really relieved to get into a brand new apartment. Spooked.
