Where the wild roses grow

A simple life with a long tradition. Their beloved roses and stalls with USSR antiques. Striking heat and humidity, perhaps a feeling strengthened by physical and mental fatigue. Quiet streets but lively restaurants loyally serving Bulgarian spécialités in cities revived by the curiosity of lonely travellers.

My decision to visit the East? Spontaneity and good company; Polish-born, I'd never sought to discover the roots of communist influences which shaped my country and inspired my decision to leave.

A warm Thank You to my dear friend Josey for inviting me to join this part of her travels, despite all my irritation with the (every once in a while) inconvenience and communication issues with some of the locals.

Sofia, where we cooked a fair amount of lovely breakfasts and dinners.

June 4th
My flight to Sofia gets delayed. When I arrive, I go to the bus station and the number I need isn’t supposed to be there for another 28 minutes. I wait.
I get off at some bus stop, which I assume is the one near the university, and with my printed out Google map I try to follow the way to the apartment.
I stop near a small shop but the lady doesn’t seem to know where we are on the map so I buy some ice cream and continue walking in the same direction which takes me to – I assume – a quite central location in Sofia. I figure that I’m probably going towards the wrong side of the city and decide to find a taxi stand. None seem to be around. After walking around for 15 minutes I walk up to a taxi waiting on a red light. “You busy?”, I say, clueless, probably having used too much Uber in the past. The driver's gesture suggests that I can get in and I push the map with the address marked on it into his hand.
We get to the right street, I pay him as much as the taxi from the airport would cost, and get out of the car, relieved. He drives off and I’m left on my own with a small amount of money (not sure why I thought £35 would be enough for a week), no mobile data or wifi and sweaty in my long jeans and a t-shirt. I can’t find the apartment house where I need to go. It’s like the number doesn’t exist.

Extract from my diary. Eventually, I did find the host and the apartment. There was no number. After that I had a long nap.

Plovdiv, where we ate Shopska and drank Rakia.

June 6th

We’re on the train to Plovdiv.
It feels like the journey through Sofia (and I guess Bulgaria as a whole) has been, in a way, a journey to the past. The architecture, shops, people and their habits, the simple way they live and, well, how difficult it is to get an informative response. Or gluten-free bread.

White wine at dusk, she takes another sip as the sky turns darker and more stars start glowing in the distance. The warm atmosphere of Hikers Hostel is fueled by lively chatter and stories slightly tinted by the comforting feeling of drunkenness. The observer, shielded by her sobriety, is exposed to the subtle vulnerability appearing in some of the eyes surrounding her.

Plovdiv is a magical place to me. Its encompassing nature, good company, and Bulgarian comfort food make me want to stay here longer.

Alluding to my previous post, like Spain, Bulgaria has its cat too - and it's even designed to match their bench.

This story consists of small fragments and memories, feelings and situations, following thought processes and diary scribbles. It is how I like to think about the time in Bulgaria, where I focused on less than positive feelings more than I would have wanted to; above described are the good moments and those which I thought would paint a visual picture.
Included are also fragments from a book I've mentioned a lot since discovering it, Rebecca Solnit's "A field guide to getting lost". Food for thought (mainly or in this case) on the topic of freedom of exploration.

"To travel is to live", I've heard, so here's to all the adventures yet to come.