It was a long time. Summer, heat, garages, a bunch of brutal bearded cyclists, semi-dissolved motorcycles, smoke mangal. In front of the guys, the square is dealt, the welding is sparkly, matyugs are delivered. There is no stone flower in them, they go to the bikers:"Children, there will be no Bulgarians?" All such:"No, no, no". And here I am such in a pink dress, with tails, my-my-my:"Eyee, I have it!" I open the trunk of my baby and get a Bulgarian. The expressions of their faces keep me gently in my heart until now.