Ticket for National Ethnographic Museum, Sofia

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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

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Sofia tram system

Inside the Rila Hotel, Sofia

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Rila Hotel

Sofia the Matyr; creep up #1

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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.

Sofia

My initial view of Sofia was sullied by the failure of my internal compass and by the T Cook guide book talking about Latin versus Cyrillic street sign confusion, but doing absolutely nothing to untangle it. Where the guidebook map used Latin, the street signs were in Cyrillic. And vice versa. I ended up lost, drizzled and sorely tempted to throw Thos Cook’s useless little book under a tram.

Once I found my bearings, I had to flee from a committed lady beggar on Vitosha Boulevard.  After which I huddled, continental style, in a windswept London-themed coffee concession called Hendricks, where I had a London-themed cup of coffee. Which was ok. A bit strong, but okay. Leaving Hendricks proved something of a problem, as attracting the waitress took some doing. She should have taken a lesson from the lady beggar.

My room in the Rila Hotel was on the eighth of eight floors. Rila is very central and a notch or two up from the kind of dive I usually stay in. Nothing swish or swank you understand, but infintely more pleasant than the horrors of Slavija.

I spent my time in Sofia feeling wet and exhausted. Loathe as I am to admit it, I trumped my visit to Hendricks the next day, when I ummed, ahhed, then tore across a Costa Coffee threshold and thoroughly enjoyed an Americano. A brownie too. Coffee and cake were both thoroughly enjoyed, as was my fellow customers’ propensity to sit and stare into space without doing very much. All of which made me feel a little guilty, until I compared Thomas Cook with a street map - a street map, mark you, which was far more useful - and realised there wasn’t much more to see and that I should concentrate on the fact of being in a far-flung city and not try and get too wound up by the fact I might be missing out on something, or somewhere, or both.

Belgrade to Sofia train, continued

And again, I kicked myself for not taking a couchette in the bleary morning, with everything outside wet, dark green and heavy over hugely swollen rivers. Light came slowly. I’d been drifting in and out of sleep but at some point noticed a more prolonged stillness and the muffles of police rumbling a chap who’d crawled on board at some point and sat just behind me. This bloke had a coarse cut plastic check laundry bag full of kilogram bags of sugar. How did I know this? The noise was a clue. With the train stopped and all power turned off, and with the still - very still - countryside only just waking up around us, the noise of dozens and scores of bags of sugar being cut open and having their contents poured into a handy sized receptacle which the Bulgarian border officials apparently just ‘happened to have’ with them will stay with me.

Only after every bag of sugar was emptied was the man finally taken off. We crawled off again. The few people travelling with me looked tired and resigned by the whole bags of sugar affair.

The arrival into Sofia was - like the train - underwhelming. I was red eyed and jangling and Sofia station enhanced this. Where Italian stations had been clean and modern; Bar functional and Belgrade unnecessarily grand, Sofia was architecturally brutal and falling to pieces. Pools of water stood everywhere and access from the platforms to the main building was down stairs which ran into a filthy darkness, next to escalators which no longer made it all the way up to the platform, but which twisted angrily up from the bowels of the earth. Walking through subways, in and out of the rain from the station to the city centre was accomplished by skipping as delicately as I could past ragged retail units and over broken paving and cobbles. Things improved the closer I got to the city centre to the extent that, by the time my internal navigation broke down, I was able to gather my bearings and complete some emergency ablutions in a distinctly plush and posh ‘western’ style arcade.

The Belgrade to Sofia “express” - no glamour

The non-sleeping carriage on the diminutive Belgrade to Sofia train was a flippin’ nightmare. It looked as if a hick’s chicken house had been gutted and someone had carelessly thrown in some old Thameslink seats without any consideration of tables, antimacassars, carpets or any other comfort, or the fact that the train was about to embark on a ten hour journey.

For some time before departure, the service’s three carriages sat in darkness, looking as if were on day release but given up, waiting for nurse to wheel them back to the sidings. Eventually, lights begrudgingly came on, people were let on board and the damned thing acquired an engine. And we were off, crawling into the early hours with passengers including an icy cool photography man, a happy iPod man listening to what may have been Santana, and a woman opposite reading a kids’ version of Gulliver’s Travels. I decided to sleep on my belongings in order not to have them stolen, and because they were more comfortable than the seat itself and wondered what on earth possessed me not to have paid the extra ten euros for a couchette. And why the hell such a stupid, dramatic night train formed the only train, direct or otherwise, between neighbouring capital cities.

We plodded through the darkness of Stalać, Niš and Dragoman, and subjected to security checks and frequent, prolonged stops. My senses were appeased with my iPod and the odd can of Sick Nick, but jangled by stinking wafts from an “aim in the dark” no-water water closet at the end of the carriage, which didn’t so much carry the cross channel whiff of ammonia and old farts, as assailed the senses with a burning stench.

Karamela and Caravelle

Akademinjka 28, Slavija receipt

Going out in Belgrade

Monday, I decided, was Belgrade’s ‘big going out’ night. Belgrade begged to differ. This, and my decision against venturing anywhere near the city’s famed disco boats, set me off in the wrong direction.

Instead, I headed for the promising ‘O.U.R. Bar’, which was written up as a home of live jazz and a “mature” audience. It looked ideal. My trip up from Slavija was far more complicated and lengthy than the map in the guidebook suggested and involved doubling back, giving a prostitute directions (or more accurately, trying to tell her I didn’t know where she was going)*, then hopping on a tram under a sky which didn’t look too clever.

By the time I eventually arrived, I was looking forward to some hard bop or - I don’t know - a little Mr Pickwick freestyle, or even a spot of off-kilter revisionist swing. Instead, O.U.R. was firmly lost up its own backside, getting by on a Monday, reasonably enough, by cosying up to a few well heeled customers with casually distributed bar snacks. No live music in sight; no sax, sousaphone, trumpet or clarinet. Nothing. I was grateful, however, for the plate glass frontage enabling me to take an informed decision before turning on my heels and heading off.

I ended up, both on that evening, and on my last en route to Sofia, in a perfectly decent theatre bar. Akademija 28 is a little effete and not somewhere you’d frequent for long, but it was comfortable and unobtrusive. It featured decent upholstery, table lamps and E Piaf, E Presley and M Monroe. That sort of place. A bit camp to be honest.

*Frankly, the prostitute conversation could have been quite different and was a little more nuanced than written. This was a lady who may not have been a lady. Certainly, s/he looked feminine, save for one or giveaways (man-face, man-voice, Adam’s apple). Very tall, incredibly glamorous, with hot pants and unfeasibly long legs. S/he looked like s/he needed directions, though s/he didn’t speak English. And s/he seemed, too, to be on her way somewhere, so was almost certainly NOT soliciting. Besides, I’d like to think I don’t look like someone looking for business.

Visiting art (Belgrade)

Dulović didn’t suggest there was much art to look at in Belgrade. Perhaps he wasn’t interested; internet searches throw up a number of galleries, although in all honesty, I wasn’t overly inspired.

The numerous galleries in the city’s main commercial centre looked the sort of places whose sole purpose is to sell. What right thinking people call “shops”. The one shining light which might have provided a relaxing half-day’s meditative mooch was the Museum of Contemporary Art, although my lackadaisical preparation allowed me to overlook the fact it had been closed for repairs since 2007. Around it, the rampant commercialism of Novi (New) Belgrade felt crass - especially the UŠĆE Shopping Centre - though again, having not got off the bus on my way through, I can’t claim to have explored the area. Either way, on the plus side, all the crap western outlets concentrated here weren’t scattered downtown as they might otherwise have been.

So, Belgrade scored roughly ‘nil points’ for art. I did however, muse on Dragoslav Arambašić’s The Awakening, a sculpted nude curiously surrounded by a retinue of sculptured pigeons vomiting at her feet outside the Cvijeta Zuzoric Art Pavilion, which, unlike most places in and around the Fortress, opened on Mondays. I wasn’t, however, lured in, as works in the entrance weren’t particularly arresting, nor was there any information about the pieces or the artists. Nor was there anyone to welcome or sell tickets. I nipped out and got a coffee instead.

Aroma receipts

Tram ride

Tram ride - I did the same thing in Dresden once. Then, as now, I got on a tram to see where it would take me. How I’ve travelled. The idea was to boldly strike into some undiscovered hinterland ignored by the Dulovics, Cooks, Dorlings and Kindersleys of this world and get a flavour of the “real city”. Still, the concept of the ‘real city’ remains exactly that - a “concept”, because I don’t think I’ll ever immerse myself in a place enough to become part of it. Even in High Town in sunny Luton; there are active, visible and no doubt enriching Polish, Irish and African communities, though my interactions are restricted to half a dozen ‘cosy’ retailers and a couple of other establishments (i.e. the pub), where things are as they always have been; white former working and new clerical middle class, middle aged and male.

Anyway, enough of that. Back to Belgrade. I hopped on a tram, exasperated with how long I had left in this damp place which still suggested some promise, but which I felt I’d exhausted as far as I could. At the end of the line was a district called Banovo Brdo. There was nothing there; Dulović and chums may or may not have been there, but if they had, they were absolutely justified in not writing it up. Banovo Brdo had a nice looking park and a fairly bustling shopping street, but nothing else - no lost bohemians, muttering radicals, pop-ups, neo-fascists, Communist kitsch or destitutes. I might as well have been in Uxbridge; pleasant enough but with nothing to commend it or remember later, except a decent public transport service.

The 'beach' at Zemun

The ‘beach’ at Zemun - on the Danube, across the Sava from Belgrade proper. I wandered round, surprised at how quiet it was. Admittedly, the weather could only, at very best, be described as “mild”. It was a weekday too, but surely, I thought, there should be a few dog walkers, lunatics and evil loitering kids. Or do the good folk of Belgrade exist purely in the commercial areas of Novi Belgrade and downtown?

Zemun beach, nonetheless, turned out to be a treat, a peaceful stroll along a huge, graceful, green river. Not as picturesque as valleys or gorges I’ve been passed or been to in the past, but quite unique, in my own limited experience - it really did feel like a beach, particularly with all the ice cream kiosks and the like. The presence of the excellently named and well marketed ‘Pink Panther’ taxi firm only added to Zemun’s charm, and for the half-hour or hour I was there, the rain held off.

I was, at the time, blissfully unaware of the trouble ahead and the oncoming floods in Bosnia and Croatia which affected Belgrade and other parts of Serbia. It may have helped explain why Zemun was so quiet; people who may otherwise have been promenading may well have been loading Serbian wheelbarrows with Serbian sandbags. The Tamara cyclone caused huge flooding on the Sava and other Balkan rivers and led to huge disruption throughout Serbia, including the closure of parts of the Belgrade to Bar railway line not long after I left the country.

On reflection, and despite whinging about getting wet, I was fortunate to get out (and just get out) before this situation developed.

Belgrade Aviation Museum

While I didn’t reckon on a 40 minute bus journey from the middle of town to the Aviation Museum, I should have, given its location within the city’s airport boundaries. After the odd sensation of getting off an airport bus with no luggage and no fellow passengers carrying luggage, I headed for the museum - a striking, unmissable flying saucer shape complex obscured by various airport buildings. The walk to it involved tiptoeing along sides of roads like a cheap hijack drama, as if I was playing the role of some chump in the credits who’s zoomed early on, caught in crosshairs, then surrounded and shot by careless unshaven personnel in military jeeps.

Happily, this was not my fate. As I approached the museum, two things became evident; firstly, both the outdoor exhibits and the stairs up to the entrance were in a sorry state of repair. Second; there was no action or activity. Both feelings were further illustrated by the sad spectre of a moss and verdigris splattered JAT Caravelle hulking over assorted remains of what looked like a number of small military planes.

Despite appearances, the museum was open. The man selling tickets was surly. You couldn’t blame him. Upstairs, past the impressive-but-closed catering and shopping concessions, a friendlier lady was polishing relics and remains.

“I normally guide people,” she told me, before giving me a potted tour, which she illustrated with a whirling Serbian-version Mr Sheen and duster. I felt slightly uneasy when she started crowing about a few items upon which the Museum prided itself and was curious at her celebratory tone when alerting me to the remains of a couple of American planes brought down in the NATO bombings.

“Am I alright to take pictures?” I asked, not sure if I should pretend to be American or make it absolutely clear I wasn’t.

“Of course,” she replied.

I looked round. The museum was impressive. A bit “war”, with numerous variations of fighters and fighter bombers to the fore, but impressive all the same. I enjoyed it; and I think the same could be said for the museum’s other visitor at that time - some bloke in a heavy metal t-shirt.

Belgrade Air Ministry

A similar story to the government buildings downtown. The largely intact outer shell looks impressive. Or rather, it looks as if it was impressive before it was attacked. These days, it’s forlorn; the splendid frontage and Icarus statue remain, but past the rather tatty safety fencing there’s nothing else to look at - no crowds, guides, audio tours or memorials.

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Belgrade Airforce Command Building

What I noticed in Belgrade

Immediately outside the station, heading up towards the fort, was that run down feel typical of many areas around stations, with plenty of artsy graffiti and a pair of what looked like highly starched, rigamotised and recently vacated trousers. I took a few pictures to enhance the grit and humour of this tome and pushed off.

Over the next few days in Belgrade, some other things I noticed:

• A proliferation of slot clubs and casinos (there was one attached to the Slavija);
• Gymnasia; a number of them;
• Adverts for Manchester United credit cards, predominantly in ‘swank’ Novi Belgrade;
• Posters advertising Damon Albarn concerts. For all his excesses over the years, Albarn looks well preserved. Inexplicably, the image chosen to entice people to go see him was a strained “cheeky chap grown old, gawping into the mid-distance like a tense Leonard Cohen”. Damon looked ready to leap off his sofa at any moment, on account of not being able to remember if he turned the gas off;
• Iron Maiden. Also gigging. Albarn’s image has had the odd mini-makeover; Maiden’s ads look like every other poster or promotion they’ve ever done. A striking, deeply shit house style.

WASTEELS and food phrases for possible use in the Balkans

Food phrases for possible use in the Balkans

Montenegro - “Cooking me an omelette to order is much appreciated. Really, I shouldn’t grumble. But please, use cheese that doesn’t turn into white stinking water.”

Serbia - “Sorry, that’s not coffee. Coffee shouldn’t have swirling, burned, bad flavours. It shouldn’t necessarily be sweet either, even if it is black. One can, after all, “sweeten”; whereas without the help of chemistry, one cannot “de-sweeten”.”

WASTEELS

Pre-departure research suggested that Belgrade’s WASTEELS desk would be a real treat. Man in Seat 61 described the WASTEELS’ rep as an incredibly helpful man dispensing advice about the labyrinthine Eastern European rail networks. I fully expected either a khaki clad Empire type with a squint and stutter, or an affable trilby-wearing spiv with frothing ear and nose hair. While the WASTEELS man proved to have a bit of both, despite the best will in the world, he wasn’t helpful. Not in the slightest. This wasn’t his fault; he had no computer access, so couldn’t sell me a ticket to Sofia nor, rather disappointingly, could he confirm the departure time, or even the price of the ticket. I was directed, instead, to the main ticket office and was deprived the opportunity to bandy and bluster with some unofficial bloke in a station with quasi-coded useful local intelligence. Imagine.

The service at the main ticket desk was fine. Belgrade station is grand, with a hugely impressive frontage, but you don’t need to look too closely to discover that Tito’s big blue loco needs a decent wash, while inside, there’s no roof, very few trains and a surfeit of aimless looking people. It’s not a bad place, nor is it intimidating; indeed, the bar proved a decent place before setting off for Sofia. It’s just that, taken as a whole, the station looks as if it’s forlornly awaiting modernisation before its exhausted infrastructure and rolling stock rot into the ground. Much like St Pancras, Marylebone and numerous other London termini used to be.

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