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.