End piece

Penultimate page

Next stop, India...

Two ladies

Coming back from Sofia

And the last shopping experience? The flimsiest, most ridiculous teaspoon, sold to me at Sofia Airport, from a shop whose purpose was the extraction of as much otherwise useless Lev as possible from idiots like me who buckle under even the most modest and mild mannered sales techniques.

Travel back from Sofia

Again, a lack of research meant an embarrassing false start, taking what I thought was the airport bus from one side of a square to the other. At the airport I finally lost patience with a Bulgarian post office employee who I considered as being just a little too rude and hostile. Silly cow. I am, however, happy to report that the other transactions I had at Sofia Airport were far more pleasant.

Still trying to shop

I still had to wait. No problem. While I did so, I was privy to the halting conversation between stallholder and his then patrons, which struggled, as English clearly wasn’t anyone’s first language. The chat was illuminating and dismal; the stallholder made noises about being on a good thing and not needing to discuss finances, let alone run a market stall in the Sofia drizzle, but going on, nonetheless, about how he bought and sold gold and silver in Thessaloniki. His customers - a rather joyless looking couple in European kagouls - seemed interested in in this ruddy nonsense. All this time, the pens I was coveting were locked in a cabinet. Eventually, after a bored impasse, the couple moved on. I asked to see the pens with a view to coolly snaffling one or both Pelikans.

‘How much?’ I asked, nonchalantly picking up a green marbled pen after a few pregnant pauses, as if I was doing the stallholder a huge favour. The pens were grubby but in reasonable shape. I decided to do the deal, hopefully for less than 40 Lev (around £20) and leave with a spring in my step and still not leave the dealer particularly fleeced.

“One hundred and eighty,” I was told in a bored aggressive tone.

“And this one?” I croaked, trying not to give anything away and holding up the most battered looking pen of the bunch - a second, far more ragged Pelikan. I was already planning an honourable retreat, but still wanted to do so after having visibly considered, possibly bartered and adopting a slightly disappointed air. I wanted a happy sense of having engaged, which was achievable if I could persuade the stallholder there was a chance I might come close to a low end evaluation. Which, for this tatty specimen, and even with the 180 Lev quoted for the earlier pen, I reckoned at around the 30 Lev mark.

“One hundred.”

“Oh,” I said.

“How much do you want to pay?”

The stallholder looked the kind who might flip into a random act of extreme hostility. Instead, of answering the question, I employed a hastily composed, just about acceptable sign off of ‘oh; I was just looking’ - before turning on my heels, making one last sneer at the Nazi memorabilia and scarpering. If nothing else, the whole excursion reinforced my long held view that me and shopping just don’t get on.

More shopping

Again, in Belgrade, I came across a cd shop quite near my hotel, which had a nice feel but incredibly ordinary stock (ok jazz, but not that good) and pretty steep prices. Other than that, shops provided little interest, with cursory peeks in clothing stores around the main shopping streets (in Sofia, too) suggesting bargains being few and far between.

Sofia, I’d say, is a slightly more promising shopping prospect than Belgrade, but then maybe because it’s smaller. The centre has a similarly swanky shopping area, although shabbier, more interesting shops - including a couple of decent bookshops - are close at hand.

What, though, of rustic tat as remodelled and re-priced by cynical profiteers down at the tourist market? Having decided the Thomas Cook Miniguide was dreadful, I took a deep breath and decided to give it a last chance with what was described as the “unmissable” market to the north of the Alexander Nevsky church. There was a promise of ‘not very good art’, tacky religious icons and Russian dolls. I should’ve given the area a swerve, but given that Russian Dolls are one of my five-year-old niece’s favourites, decided to have a look.

Somewhat predictably, Cook and the street market both let me down. The market existed with a few stalls opening well after the time indicated by the rotten guidebook. And yes, there was a reasonable smattering of ‘not very good art’ and tacky religious icons. No Russian Dolls though. The best on offer - at first glance - were a few random and deeply undesirable looking 1950s LPs and a few crappy street signs (I usually like this sort of thing, but these looked homemade). Somewhat more disturbing was the Nazi memorabilia - enough to make me wonder if the damned stuff isn’t still being produced for maudlin, nationalist customers.

My shopping interest was piqued, however, by one particular line of goods. Fountain pens. One stallholder had a grubby collection, most of which looked as if they’d never worked, let alone stand any likelihood of doing so in the future. I steered away, although the stallholder’s persistence and the fact he wasn’t selling Nazi wares prompted me to ask how much a rather dilapidated pen cost. Not much. I was half tempted when he described it as ‘Bulgarian’, but decided to go back a different stall I’d just drifted away from on account of the stallholder being busy. It had a far more promising collection of Parkers and Pelikans.

Beer and book shops

You can’t buy beer here. Not at this time.

After the huge meal on Svetog Save, I tried to buy beer from a food shop. I’d been looking for a bar that was not too bright, but which had a decent reading light, no noise and zero chat, but had only come across some unsavoury looking places, one of which, in near darkness and apparent desertion, blasted Queen into a quiet side street. “Don’t stop me now - I’m having such a good time….” Not true, even if the heavy smokers, a number of whom, on approaching the establishment, could be seen hanging round the patio heaters, were giving it their all.

After giving up on finding a decent drinking spot, I found a late night food shop and put a couple of Sick Nicks in my basket to enjoy in the solitary splendour of the Hotel Slavija, before being told, with utmost courtesy, that I’d missed Belgrade’s 10pm deadline for buying alcohol. I felt immediately undone at this cultural faux pas. Things weren’t improved when I was advised I could buy some alcohol free fizz. I got out sharpish, trying, in vain, to appear ‘bemused’ and ‘eccentric’.

More shops
Away from food? I could have shopped on the Bar to Belgrade train. I had the chance not only to buy hot drinks from a broken man with a tiny tray, but also some toys from a similarly dishevelled entrepreneur. On both occasions, I resisted.

The Evro Giunti bookshop in Belgrade was half decent and had some interesting looking Serbian novels in translation, one of which I picked up. It was written by the daughter of a diplomat. For some reason - envy?, inadequacy? - this made me feel resentful. Was the book published because of who the author is/was? Happily, I snapped out of this funk in reasonable time (having endured no lasting damage) and resumed strolling. There was, however, a grumpy residue and futility which hung over me until the end of the trip.

Other links - contemporary Serbian literature in translation

Various mushroom tagliatelle

The Various Mushroom Tagliatelle concocted by the excellent fellow in the Italian restaurant on Svetog Save, near to Hotel Slavija in Belgrade, was intensely substantial. The food was stodgy, but extremely welcome, even if the novelty of trying to make it disappear soon wore off. I felt bad nodding assent but not taking up and having no intention to take up the elaborately expressed invitation to dine again the following night, given the restaurateur's pride in giving me food which, as he boasted, “didn’t have killing”. The combination of dining alone and feeling like a saturated puffball weren’t entirely unpleasant, but dissuaded me from returning.

Food and dining

Sick Nick - Montenegrin lager - palatable. Comfortably superior to the appalling rubber taste of Delhaize Premium (see below).

Delhaize Premium - on my first night in Sofia, I settled into the hotel with a self-catered meal and a couple of Delhaize Premiums, a pernicious Belgian pils which tastes of rubber. (The prevalent theme on Delhaize’s write ups on the ‘Ratebeer’ website is of cardboard; things must have taken an even worse turn in the factory since then, as mine were definitely ‘rubbery’). Opening a can of Delhaize Premium leads to loads of froth. Oddly, and somewhat worryingly, this frothing pauses. I thought it had stopped - it had stopped - but after sitting for a while, it started frothing again.

Šopska Salata - pulses will hardly be set alight by a conical pile of tomato and cucumber topped with grated traditional Bulgarian cheese, but in one of my three restaurant visits, this was actually pretty good. Enjoyed in a TexMex in Sofia.

Serbian drinking yoghurt - top marks; it may have looked wholly unappetising dumped in a steel jug at the Hotel Slavija, but it was great. Unsweetened and a good consistency. Hardly a ‘shoe in’ for gastronomic awards, but by some distance the best food I encountered in the Balkans.

Balkan dining

My first Adriatic meal was taken in a pleasant enough themed eatery in Bar called Las Ramblas, with steaks and cocktails named after famous landmarks in Barcelona; Steak Parc Guell, Cakey Familia and Pickpocket Risotto especially eye-catching. Las Ramblas also gave me the first hint of a music policy not solely focused on high octane, high drama disco. Well, so I thought, munching away on Roast Espanyols to the accompaniment of L Reed’s Perfect Day. I wondered if one of Lou’s edgier moments might be aired later or whether, as a Las Ramblas customer, I might even be treated to one of Lou’s accomplices or contemporaries, or perhaps a spiritual successor of some description. Hopes were dashed, however, when Reed was dumped in favour of the earnest squawking and tinny condensed evaporating drums of some unwelcome summertime smash.

Shopping

First, to declare my interests. I don’t like shopping. Never have. Not very much, anyway. I can while away a little time in music shops and a little more in bookshops, though these visits are few and far between. Shopping, however, is a necessity on a self-catering budget jape, and with other amusements thin on the ground and with the joy of the unknown in previously unchartered and what I hoped would be ‘excellent supermarkets’ it was an activity I was keener on than usual. So, rather than sulk, I entered places of procurement with a steady gaze and honourable intentions.

Food

Food was my main shopping item, rather unsurprisingly. In Bari, I went for convenience at the ferry terminal and ended up paying over the odds for a flat, warm sandwich (or ‘panini’), a bag of crisps, a beer and a near total invasion of my personal space by the food concession manager’s chums (left luggage, senior newsagent, crappy shop holder and other assorted semi-official, loud port people).

In Bar, Belgrade and Sofia I frequented ok-ish supermarkets. Nothing in any of the countries’ guidebooks suggested memorable cuisine, especially for vegetarians, although I humbly offer the following observations and recommendations:

Dried bread and perma-cheese roll - holidays don’t start until I’ve assembled one of these horrors from hurriedly bought convenience ingredients. In Bar, my moisture-free lunch attracted one of a number of stray dogs hanging out near the promenade between the main drag and shoreline. I was able, however, to exit without attracting excessive canine interest.

Receipts

Steam locomotives

Trains from top right to bottom right; then the green one bottom left and than middle left:

Locomotive FS 740, Pescara
Tito's Blue Train locomotive, Belgrade
47.05 tank engine, Sofia
"Sutorman", Borsig 7610/1910, Bar

More tourism

Sofia doesn’t appear to have quite the same recent historical turbulence, but neither city has packaged an identity for selling on; neither, therefore, feels ‘touristy’. In the UK, we’ve had centuries of political and social consensus allowing national and cultural obsessions to develop and inform the navel gazing which has spawned a collective narcissism and pop culture, and a hothouse for attractions to erupt with all manner of trivial themes. So there. In ‘not so well off’ economies and in cities recovering from purges and invasions, tourism struggles or simply doesn’t exist.

A city without tourism is easier to imagine than to experience. Belgrade’s fort is spectacular, but the Tesla Museum comes closest to being a bona fide ‘tourist attraction’, complete with interactive exhibits and Tesla groupies (once the tour finished, the Museum’s four smallish rooms were assailed by a lone snapper, swooping display cases with tablet rigidly held out like a pillow ready to tackle a bloodless, tough old relative threatening to re-write their will). But it seems very odd in this accommodating and communicative stance.

The other odd thing about the Tesla Museum? It’s located in Belgrade for no other reason than Tesla was, by birth, Serbian. The inventor’s effects (including, somewhat mawkishly, his ashes) have been brought back to the city, and, err, that’s it. He apparently visited Belgrade once, but did none of his sciencey magic here, or anything else remembered by the museum or biographies. Until the museum was erected in rememberance.

Examples of tourism in Belgrade and Sofia:

(Bar actually may have a tourist winner in Stari Bar - its old town. I didn’t visit…. I did, however, visit Café Mozart - very nice too - though the only thing I could find linking Mozart and Montenegro was another Café Mozart, up the coast in Budva).

Belgrade has a fair few attractions, though most of these - including the Contemporary Art Gallery and National Museum - were closed.

Tourism

Generally speaking, “tourism” receives a bad press. It’s similar to being a Goth or voting Tory; a fair few do it, but usually do so with a sense of shame. I suppose the stereotype tourist is a brain-wiped member a descending crowd of Japanese or Americans with waddling, pastel coloured clothing, bum bags and noisy cameras consuming everything in its path.

Money extracting traps are, quite understandably, set for this type of person. As a result, and because of the ‘tourist’ stigma, those who see themselves as more esoteric or spiritual travellers are often reticent about activities which, however shabby and clichéd might, nonetheless, lead to learning about places they visit. But if ‘tourism’ includes visiting museums, historical sites, galleries, churches and the like, I’m “in”. Scorning the tatty obtrusive elements of overbearing tourism is one thing, but losing all its context and benefits seems reckless.

While every culture has a history, it doesn’t follow that every country or culture has an appetite for, or expertise in telling its stories. Or, indeed, in selling or ramming them down visitors’ throats. The UK is brazenly adept at wringing every last penny out of such opportunities. The same could be said for most Western Europe countries. In Blighty, we promote and people flock to such unpromising places as Madame Tussauds and Tower Bridge to have their wallets lightened and pictures taken next to cheerfully sanitised, blatantly odd icons. Making very little go an extremely long way seems to be the modus operandi behind the successes of contemporary phenomena like the Harry Potter Experience, or, from further afield, other novel attractions like museums dedicated to quilts (York), chips (Bruges) or barbed wire (Kansas).

At the time of visiting, neither Belgrade nor Sofia seemed geared up for tourists. Belgrade is still recovering from multiple invasions; it’s telling that among the city’s biggest draws are NATO’s 1999 bomb ruins, which look eerie in an otherwise slightly bland but perfectly pleasant part of the city.

View from Rila Hotel, Sofia May 2014

Sofia Alexander Nevsky Orthodox Church

Sofia Alexander Nevsky Orthodox Church - looks impressive. Is impressive. Though, like St Sava in Belgrade, it’s underwhelming. In St Sava’s case, this was because the building was unfinished, whereas the Alexander Nevsky doesn’t appear to have ANY FURNITURE. As a result, and despite both buildings’ oniony glory, neither whiff of the “real deal”, with their prized positions in their respective city’s list of attractions deserved only because of a lack of competition.

I visited the Alexander Nevsky Church early in the morning. It was cold, though I was forced into wearing sandals rather than my antisocial desert boots, which had oversoaked and, after a night’s relative heat and bacteria, were now deeply offensive and unstable. Wearing sandals gave me a moment’s pause on the church threshold as I had no idea if wearing them inside a holy place would be considered offensive. I didn’t fancy an English/Bulgarian/semaphore discussion, or resorting to trying to justify my footwear by miming Christ wearing similar footwear. I entered with a sense of extreme trepidation, as I’m hardly one to ignore social niceties or casually offer disrespect. Which couldn’t be said for other less considerate tourists, who’d breezed past numerous crimes against sartorialism and happily snapping (some of them) in full sight of ‘no camera’ signs. And using a flash.

Lack of furniture and respect aside, Alexander Nevsky church is impressive - if a little gloomy - and certainly worth a visit. It’s an excellent place to experience, appreciate and squirm out the squeak of rubber sandal on marble.

Outside, in a blowy scene recalling Buňuel, a tall, athletic Orthodox holy man who’d been tensely consulting with church officials inside the Alexander Nevsky church only moments earlier, brushed aside the attentions of a skilful, persistent beggar and swirled, cassocks and crucifixes, into a waiting limousine which whisked him to a place where presumably, he could better serve the Lord.

Desert boots

The first part of the next day was spent mournfully poking my desert boots which still looked, smelled dead. I decided to either leave them or despatch them in the same ceremonial fashion I’d respectfully employed for a pair in the late 1980s which were delivered into the sea from a cross-Channel ferry. The 2014 dezzies eventually came back to life after ventilating for a day and a bit. But even then, as it drizzled on the way back to Orlov Most Square, where I caught the airport transfer, I had to contort to keep the damn things dry and from re-erupting into a throat-catching, fearsome stench. They ended up, nonetheless, fused to my feet.

Boris' Garden

Boris’ Garden is more than just the location for the national stadium. Levski Sofia also have a slightly smaller stadium there, only a stone’s throw away. Seems a bit “stadium overkill”, but there we go. There are also very pleasant, picturesque walkways and gardens which, in more hospitable weather, would have been a pleasure to have spent a little time in.

After idling round Levski Sofia and worrying about being taken for an autograph hunter, I took in more of Boris’ Garden, then walked up past the University and back into the city centre. Sofia, I decided, is prettier than Belgrade, which seems more impressive and - what with the rivers and fort - more beautiful. Sofia’s squares and palatial buildings give it an almost Viennese feel, with touches of Western commerce I experienced nowhere more so than at night-time, when patrons in a club on the same square as the Rila Hotel periodically took to the streets and made a celebratory racket, waking me on more than one occasion.

Still, some solace, and oddly, delivered by T Cook. It turns out my hotel is named after St John of Rila, a ninth century hermit who spent time in the Rila Mountains, attracted a whole load of devotees, had a monastery named after him and has since become the patron saint of Bulgaria.

National Palace of Culture art gallery, continued

No. It turned out she was wielding a small printed card. A business card, no less, with a reproduction of one of the paintings I’d just been admiring. One of the better ones. Slowly, the penny dropped.

“Are you the - err…. Are these your paintings?”

“Yes,” the security lady artist answered.

“I like them,” I managed to say back, perfectly clearly. Which was very big and bold of me. And heartfelt. A shame I ruined it by adding a haplessly lame “they’re nice.”

I left there and then, not wanting to nudge my new acquaintance into any kind of wasted sales pitch. The artist, I suspect, went back round to the other side of her desk, turned the lights off, radio up and waited for the next visitor.

(NOTE - turns out the artist wasn't the Security Guard after all..... More here).

National Palace of Culture art gallery

National Palace of Culture (NDK) Art Gallery - my strangest art gallery visit to date. And not just on this trip. My route to the NDK passed the Monument to the Bulgarian State, a decrepit and bizarre 1981 structure which was erected in a huge hurry and which started falling apart a few years later. Today, it looks like a horrifically infected tooth which should have been removed a long time ago. Bulgaria, it turns out, has a number of such former Communist monuments and buildings, including possibly most dramatically, Buzludzha, a congressional concrete UFO-shaped building which, like the Monument to the Bulgarian State, is falling to pieces. These rotting piles elicit differing emotions among Bulgarians; some view them wistfully, while others see them as unwelcome reminders of a dark past.

Anyway, back to Sofia. Thos Cook roundly sneers at the NDK, but does so unfairly; yes, the inappropriately, comically named ‘palace’ has more than a hint of the grotesque, but the brutal layout and vast, internal spaces are uncannily like the Barbican, which until relatively recently, was derided for being a boxy, noxious carbuncle. Besides, online sources (err, Wikipedia) praise the excellence of NDK’s theatre and concert spaces’ design and acoustics.

The Art Gallery was signposted from NDK’s front entrance, around the side and beyond into the gloom of an indoor market and through a dark cloakroom space, which again, felt very ‘Barbican’. At the back of the building was a staircase penetrating deeper into the gloom, from the ground floor into the bowels of the building. As I got to the bottom, I wondered whether or not the gallery was open. Everything was dark; both the gallery to the left and toilets to the right. In the time I took to pause at an unhysterical, diagrammatic ‘no guns’ sign, a well attired, well equipped security woman emerged, turned on the gallery lights and beckoned me.

The works were all by the same artist and good, if a little ‘samey’. The gallery wasn’t the biggest, so I was done fairly quickly and wondering where to go and what to do next. Was it raining outside? While standing, mulling these questions over and gaping at the last of the artworks, I became conscious of the security woman who’d crept and was standing very close to me. And, worse, she was fiddling around with her belt. Did she have a gun?

National Palace of Culture, Sofia

Links
National Palace of Culture
1300 years of Bulgaria monument

Sofia City Art Gallery

Sofia City Art Gallery turned out to be close to my hotel. I’d put off visiting a couple of times before finally crossing the threshold. The Cook Miniguide promised free admission (it wasn’t) and that it was more likely to inspire than the National (it didn’t). It wasn’t terrible, understand, but fairly uninspiring. Having said that, there was some information about the paintings and artist and something approaching a crowd milling around.

The exhibition was Greddy Assa’s Through the Desert. To be honest, I’d have preferred ‘through the dessert’. There were some interesting aspects - the colours and scale for example and, from what I could see, some nods towards primitivism (though who the hell am I to throw such labels around, huh?). Nothing there to keep my interest really glued, or to follow up.

National Art Gallery, Sofia (continued)

The lady behind the second door was much more welcoming. I took some joy from this and from the fact I’d chanced upon the correct establishment, although the gallery’s pictures, sadly, weren’t especially memorable. The main point I took away was the predominance of the number ‘three’; many of the artworks featured three of a particular subject, or were split into three areas, or otherwise were a bit triangulary. Or “trio-ish”.

Did I mention that the building and decor were magnificent? They became more so once it became apparent that, outside, rain was absolutely pelting onto and bouncing up off Battenberg. I poked my head outside, saw drains and gutters buckling and members of the ceremonial Battenberg guard being fairly washed away, down towards the Alexander Nevsky Church. I took stock, peered down at my already ‘atmospheric’ STINKING desert boots, and suddenly felt inspired to look round the Ethnographic Museum.

Once I had the correct ticket, my welcome to ‘Ethnographeee, Ethnographeee’ dramatically improved, even if my feet were squeaking. The exhibits were everyday and stuck on the dull side on the interesting/boring continuum; lots of smocks, tools, bad toys, dyes, things made from wood, hair and teeth. That sort of thing.

National Art Gallery, Sofia

National Art Gallery - top marks for location, namely the first floor of an old palace on Battenberg Square. That’s right, Battenberg Square. The first disappointment is that the Square outside isn’t paved pink and yellow. More puzzling, however, is the welcome to the Gallery. On entering the building, the Ethnographic Museum - the old palace’s other tenant - has a stand and a few items for sale. There’s nothing for the Art Gallery until you peer round the bottom of the staircase, where you might eventually see a sign hanging from the ceiling. “Tickets” it says in a few languages (English thankfully one of them) with an arrow pointing to the right.

And to the right, a closed door. A big, beautiful door - this is a former palace, remember - and in common with the rest of the interior and exterior architecture, the big, beautiful door is magnificent. But critically, from the ‘welcoming and drawing in punters’ point of view, it’s closed.

Once I plucked up the courage to enter, the ticket office was another beautiful, well apportioned room, sumptuously empty except for a small desk at the far end, which I approached as confidently as I could, summoning as much ‘Anton Diffring cool’ as possible so as not to look lost or shifty. My luck was in; I was sold a ticket. “Go up the stairs”, the helpful vendor directed.

And so, up the stairs. Regal stairs, straight from a period drama. At the top, a landing and three doors, all of which were predictably beautiful and predictably closed. I looked at the ceiling above each of them, but there were no signs - hanging or otherwise - or any clue which door to take. Maybe they all lead to the gallery. At any rate, the only other route away from this regal landing was the regal staircase, so if I wanted to progress, I needed to chance my luck and push on.

The door I chose was the wrong one, a fact immediately apparent as the bucolic exhibits were, err, devoutly ethnographic rather than artistic. My suspicion I was in the wrong place was confirmed by a battle-hardened attendant who rose wraith-like from a chair in the farthest corner of the room. She hovered across to me and peered at my ticket, before saying “Ethnographeee, Ethnographeee” over and over, jabbing me back onto the landing before shutting the door.

A moment’s pause in which I wondered if I’d done something wrong.

Ticket for National Ethnographic Museum, Sofia

Link
National Ethnographic Museum

Images from Sofia

Art in Sofia

Artwise, things were rosier in Sofia. I visited three galleries. Which, for me, anywhere else, would have been no mean feat; while I love a good gallery, my enjoyment is usually marred by morons, pretentious arses, youngsters and, for that matter, Philistines of all ages dragging themselves around to humour parents, precocious siblings, earnest lovers, pushy partners et cetera.

At the time I visited, two of Sofia’s galleries were devoid of people. Which was fine. Sadly, they were also devoid of information to guide me, the viewer, around what looked only ‘so-so’ artworks, and so give me clues of how better to understand and appreciate them. I can, of course, come up with my own thoughts and sentiments, although when works are less inspiring and when I’m taking extraordinary measures against inclement weather, my enthusiasm wanes a little.

Anyway, here are the galleries which, grumbles aside, gave me some pretty varied experiences:

(to be continued in tomorrow's posting)

More at the Rila

Sofia tram and receipt

Links
Sofia tram system

Inside the Rila Hotel, Sofia

Link
Rila Hotel

Sofia the Matyr; creep up #1

Links 
Sofia the Martyr
Sofia Metro

Sofia (continued)

So, somewhat against expectations, I had a pleasant time in Costa, Sofia. I had the chance to enjoy a faithful facsimilie of a coffee I would usually avoid like the plague in Luton’s Arndale. I had the chance to mull and wonder if Cold War spies were sent to Sofia. There didn’t seem much point. Belgrade’s history, strategic geography, militaristic narrative and “bomb-me” buildings seemed the epitome of the sort of place lesser Blunts, Burgesses, Philbies and Macleans might choose to “carry on,” though the cuddlier, more flitting and fleeting Sofia seems far less likely to hold the sort of secrets the CIA or British Intelligence would be interested in.

Lonely in Sofia

I felt lonely in Sofia. The rain restricted my movement, one too many of my shop experiences were dramatically, absolutely silent affairs and I had another ‘jumpy’ feeling while enjoying the dramatic view of the city and its weather from my eighth floor balcony. There didn’t seem to be much to do past wandering around and wishing I was in either Prague or Krakow.

Other things contributed to this feeling of isolation; the Cyrillic street signs, the occasional stark signs of poverty, the contrasting appearance of glitter and alienation from fancy shops and the gloomy, gloomy weather. Sofia seemed more town than city, so that while Belgrade had a Bohemian edge, Sofia felt more pleased with itself and settled in its ways. One could imagine a sleepy inertia in Bulgaria’s capital that seemed inconceivable in Serbia’s.