Hostel Mostel Bulgar Backpacker

Last minute plans gone to hell.

I arrived at Sofia early in the morning, completely clueless about where I would rest my head that night.  Fortunately the train station was filled with many Bulgarian touts who were more than happy to help me with my lodging problem.  They lay in wait at the station and attack upon sight of large backpacks, spoken English, wayward guitars and lost Western looks.  I mingled with several unseasoned, Lonely Planet-crutch wielding backpackers as we engaged in a song-and-dance with the touts.

I would feign interest in their shitty hotel/hostel and write down the name, the map location and the amenities.  Of course they never mentioned the price until I would ask them.  Even if it was a decent price, I would quickly walk away.  It pissed off the touts, but surprisingly it bothered the Lonely Planet backpacker noobs more.

"That's a good price...with a taxi.  Them seem like nice people, but its not in Lonely Planet."

"Shame. I'll keep looking. Nice to meet you. Bye."  

I didn't make any new friends at the station.

I walked out of the station with a long list of lodging...and a dazed look.  If nothing else surfaced, I would go with the least sketchy option.  I had searched Couchsurfing before for a place, but it hadn't yielded any success.  Appropriately the first people I meet when I left the Sofia train station were Couchsurfers.  I approached then because they looked 'Western' and sure enough they were from Brussels, Belgium.  They were already surfing with someone else, so they directed me to Hostel Mostel for the night.

Hostel Mostel is a highly recommended, well-known chain of Bulgarian hostels that organize several daytrips as well as nighttime pub crawls.  None of the touts had mentioned it and it wasn't on my list. It looked nice.  Twelve hours on an uncomfortable, dingy train had left me delirious (and possibly poisoned from the Chicken Cordon Very Blue) so I took the next bed available.

They handed me a key, a 'Hostel Mostel' Sofia Map and a token for a free drink at a bar they had a partnership with.  They informed me to be ready for free pasta dinner at 7pm, free breakfast in the morning, followed by a free tour at 11am and..."You look tired.  We can store your bags for free."

 Wow.  Serious shit.

Bulgarian Banitsa

I stored my bags, showered, then hit the town in search of a banista lunch.  My Bulgarian artist friend, Kosta Tonev, had told me to try it when I was in his country.  What he had described sounded like Bosnian/Serbian burek, one of my personal favorites.  Sure enough, when I said " banitsa" at nearby cafeteria, the server gave me a plate of phylo dough filled with cheese and spinach and a side of sour yoghourt. I happily devoured everything, bought some Burgasko beers for the evening, then returned to the hostel to go comatose for a few hours.


I woke up in time to watch the sun set, then joined the crowd of backpackers who were waiting for the first-come-first-serve free pasta.  I grabbed my portion then joined a table with a pair of Brazilian ladies to practice my bad Portuguese.  The Portuguese didn't get very far, but we continued chatting.  The good food (and several Burgasko beers) encouraged the social atmosphere.  I brought my guitar and played a few Brazilian tunes.  By the end of dinner we were winding up for a Sofia pub crawl.  It started at the Hostel Mostel bar with our free drink tokens.


Around 11pm our international group walked next door to the Hostel Mostel Bar.  The bar was on the second story and we were greeted with smiles by the bartenders who asked for our HM Tokens.  They knew we were going to have more than just one free shot.  In exchange for the token, we received some strange electric blue mixture which supposedly had rakia in it.  I don't question free booze, so I slammed the shot with the other backpackers, then quickly ordered beers for myself and the Brazilians.  Budget be damned.

A perfect example of "That Guy"

The night went as with many nights out I've had with hostel guests.  First establish where everyone is from and then find out where they've been.  After that it turns into a bragging rights contest to see who has been to the most places or who has the most outlandish, daring travel stories.  If there are Americans present, someone will usually introduce the other nationalities to our drinking games.  A round of Circle of Death was already in progress by the time I had my second beer.  I took it all in stride while chatting up the Brazilians. 

A Bulgarian guy who claimed to be a local said he would take us foreigners on an all-night pub crawl of the best bars of city.  After having our share at the HM Bar, a group of us spilled out onto Makedonia Boulvard in search of the next pub.  The 'local' walked us all around the city to various cool bars - none of which he could find.  We grew tired of wandering with our ignorant 'expert,' and stepped into the nearest place.  It was called Lipstick and it was way too posh for a group of backpackers.  It didn't matter much to me, since by that point one of the Brazilians and I were getting along very well.  We vanished to the second floor of the bar to find some place more private...

Somewhere close to morning we wandered back to the hostel.  Although I paid for my bed that night, I didn't sleep in it.  The 'hostel sex rules' state that you should never do it if you are on the top bunk, because you piss off other roommates from all the rocking noises.  Well, I was leaving the following morning, so I had no need to make any new friends.  The Portuguese lessons were well worth it.  Obrigado e boa noite, Sofia.

A Pub Crawl with no pubs

 

I Missed Romania.

The Ukraine is behind me.  My last image of this country is this sleeping man behind the exchange counter.  I woke him from his slumber, got some new currency, then got on the old train to Romania.  My sleeping car was dark and had a strange odor inside.  There was one lone, strange man in the bunk above me.  He didn't look like anyone I wanted to be friends with. 

I could give you a detailed route on how to travel from Lviv, Ukraine to world-famous Brasov, Romania.  But that was before 2 Costa Rican convicts jumped off a motorcycle and robbed me at knife-point right outside Castle Tam hostel (more on the robbery later.)

The bag they took from me included a notebook with all of my train, plane, bus and hitchhiking routes that I used to get efficiently lost around Eastern Europe.  Oh well.  For now I rely on memory and what information I can find online.  The ticket from Lviv to Sofia was around $60 and it did not matter whether I took it all the way to Sofia or got off earlier.

I wanted to get off at Ploiesti, Romania.  From there I had a half-hour to catch a train transfer to Brasov where I would get to see Brasov Castle, the source of all of the Count Dracula vampire stories.  The train left Lviv 10 minutes late, and within 2 hours the slow-moving train was already 30 minutes behind schedule and still losing more time.  I quietly resigned to continue on to Sofia, Bulgaria and leave Transylvania for next year...

What I didn't see in Romania

It was a sad situation and the dark, dreary train added to the feeling.  I made my way up to the dining car while listening to the creaking wheels.  I expected a Western tourist or two but not once did I hear English, French, German nor other "Western" languages as I wandered the long aisle.  Every car I passed was filled with bedraggled, sweaty, frowning citizens from who knew what part of Eastern Europe.  Bad, tinny (but sexy) Romanian pop music drifted out of many of the small rooms.

The dining car complimented the depressing train.  Four small, yellowed tables were crammed into one side of the car.  One of the tables had two large, heaving men who were well into their forth glasses of vodka and showing it.  The waiter/cook looked annoyed by nothing in particular.  He tossed me a menu which was in Ukrainian and something that looked like English, but not enough so that I actually understood it.  After waving my hands and spluttering out random Slavic mongrol phrases at the cook, I procured some kind of Chicken Cordon Blue - with emphasis on the Blue.  Its most notable feature was its dryness.

There's a reason I always order alcohol when I eat on trains. 

On the plus side, skipping Romania meant I was not so rushed to fit a million things into a limited time schedule.  It also freed up my canceled credit card-strapped budget.  I choked down my Chicken Cordon Dry then returned to my cabin to sleep away the remainder of the trip.  I didn't miss anything.