Crossing The Bulgarian Border: The Man In Black

I needed some sign, any sign.  The gas station I had started at was deserted, so after chugging my Red Bulls I quickly abandoned the idea of hitching a ride from there and walked the kilometer into tiny Dragoman.  I choose a spot next to another small gas station that was directly on the highway and held up my 'Serbia' sign.

Thirty minutes later I was still standing there.  Things weren't going well and the sun continued getting lower in the sky.  I had just moved to another spot on the highway when I saw my omen.  A man dressed in black.

No, he wasn't the reincarnation of Johnny Cash, but a Bulgarian Orthodox monk.  He was standing in a small roadside parking lot and had a look of complete serenity despite wearing head to toe, all-black garb in the heat of the afternoon.  I would have expected to find him in a monastery and not standing on the side of a lonely highway.  Why was he there?

The same reason as I was.  He had a suitcase and was waiting beside a parked car.  I hoped he might pass his mystical hitchhiking powers on to me, so I approached him with a wave and a "Dober Den."  I knew he wouldn't speak English, and indeed he answered with a Bulgarian response and a question which I didn't understand.  I grinned like an idiot and asked, "Serbia?"  He pointed down the highway and responded, "Autobus."  I hadn't received his magical hitchhiking powers, but at least I had been blessed with an alternative route to get to Serbia.

I thanked him graciously, "Blagodarya."

I never feel comfortable saying this phrase out loud, because in English its sounds like, "Blog 'O' Diarrhea."  As follows...

"It's been great meeting you.  By the way, check out my travel website, "Blog 'O' Diarrhea."  It follows all of my horrible experiences I've had with foreign food around the world.  It has many color pictures....hey...where are you going?"

Poof! The man in black departed in a cloud of dust with the car he had hitched.  I stood there on the deserted highway wishing I had had his fortune.  He had told me of a mysterious bus, but finding it would be as difficult as gaining financial support for the "Blog 'O' Diarrhea."

I walked towards the center of the small town, while keeping my eyes open for any stray buses that could be parked on the side of the road or at random gas stations.  The sun created long purple shadows on the streets and hills of the surrounding area.  The heat and dimming light gave everything a hazy, out-of-focus quality.  Or possibly it was my fatigue.   Sunset would come soon and I was anxious.  The bus finally manifested itself.

It was sitting in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station.  I ran towards it as fast as possible and repeated my usual lost foreigner routine.  "Idem do Serbia? Serbia? Serbia?"  There were no signs nor marking on the bus to indicate it actually went towards Serbia, but the driver seemed very concerned with my predicament and tried his best to explain in Bulgarian where we were going.  I paid with my last Lev and blindly jumped on a crowded bus that for all I knew went to Romania.

After 30 minutes on the highway the bus veered off onto a small dirt road in a small village.  By this time I had gained support from practically the entire bus.  Everyone seemed surprised to find an American on the side of the highway in Dragoman and they were explaining in that - yes - indeed I was really going to the Serbian border.  I wished I could stay on the bus with the friendly locals.

We continued down the dirt road for a stretch before the bus stopped - seemingly in the middle of nowhere.  The driver waved for me to get off.  I looked around frantically at the wide open country and endless rolling hills, desperately searching for a "Serbia This Way" sign.  When I asked, "Serbia?" the entire bus shouted in unison, "SERBIA!!!"  They practically cheered for my travel heroics as I got off the bus.

I waved at the friendly Bulgarians as the bus drove away on the dirt road.  For a brief moment I felt elated from the positive vibes I had encountered on the bus...until the bus disappeared around a corner.  I looked around at the empty countryside that was devoid of any human signs.

Johnny Cash echoed in my mind as I wondered out-loud, "Where the hell am I?"

 

  

Sofia to Serbia by Hitchhiking

I'm riding a travel high now.  Its 2 in the afternoon, I've completed a 3 hour city tour of Sofia, got laid last night, and I'm convinced I can hitchhike to Nis, Serbia before the sun goes down.

Serbia is to blame for my hitchhiking addiction.  I did my first hitch there 2 years ago and it quickly became my normal way to get around the country for both short and long distances.  My Serbian friends have hitchhiked distances which scare most average people: Serbia to Latvia, Serbia to Belgium, Serbia to Iran, etc...etc...etc...   I don't know if I will ever cover those distances, but I can damn well try.

View Larger Map

After gazing at Alexander Nevski Cathedral for a while, I went with my Brazilian girls, Thor and a few more tourists for a final Bulgarian banista lunch.  We shared future travel plans and hollow promises to see each other again in some other part of the world.  Possibly we will meet again.  Stranger things do happen.

While the other tourists continued wandering around the city, I made a beeline for Hostel Mostel where my backpack and guitar were waiting at the front desk.  I drilled the receptionist for hitchhiking advice to get to Serbia.  With a skeptical tone in his voice, he outlined the quickest route for me to cross the Bulgarian/Serbian border to Nis:

 Lyulin ==> Dragoman ==> Dimitrovgrad ==> Pirot ==> Bela Palanka ==> Nis
  
I had him write the city names in Cyrillic in case I would need to show them to any non-Roman reading citizens.  I would.

"I recommend you take tram first to Zaharna Fabrika. Then another bus to Lyulin where there is bus very cheap to Dragoman."

"And after Dragoman should I hitchhike?"

"Yes.  There is no bus there."

The price he quoted was very cheap and I wanted to get rid of my Bulgarian Lev anyway. There was only one more bus that day going towards Dragoman.  It was leaving in less than an hour.  I factored in the time I would lose wandering around trying to find unmarked stops while asking directions from people who don't speak English...  The calculations made me break a sweat.  Time to haul ass.

With the sun already low in the sky, I hauled ass the few blocks to the tram stop.  There was sign but it was in Cyrillic so I had to refer to my notes to "translate."  All this thinking added to the incredible sweat I was producing due to the heat that day.  Even if I made the tram, I still had to make 2 transfers to arrive at the bus that would take me to Dragoman.  The transportation service here is as reliable as anywhere else in Eastern Europe; which is say not reliable at all.

Sweat. Sweat.  Where the hell is the tram?  More sweat.

I heard it almost before I saw it.  The contact of steel wheels on steel tracks created a piercing whine as a small orange cluster of metal boxes creeped around the corner.  It moved slowly but the driver seemed unaware of my presence since I was the only one at the stop.  I waved frantically, practically throwing myself in front of the little tram.  The driver came out of his stupor and the orange boxes screeched to a halt.  I showed the guy my Cyrillic notes while yelling 'Zaharna Fabrika, Zaharna Fabrika!"  He nodded and indicated that I should sit next to him, so he could tell me when to get off.

We rolled along at a snail's pace.  I feared missing my next 2 transfers.  I was sweating bullets and the curious looks I received from the other passengers only aggravated my tension.  After a seemingly endless time, the driver waved for me to get off and pointed me towards a bridge that crossed over the road.  Through a series of (polite) hand gestures and jumbled Slovak/Serbian/Polish gibberish I figured out that the next bus was in front of a restaurant on the other side of the bridge.

I went under the bridge and saw several buses in a dirt parking lot parked in no particular order.  Time to start the search process again.  "Dragoman? Dragoman? Dragoman?,"  I repeated parrot-like to each bus I passed.  Finally a driver nodded his head left and right, "Da."

Did I mention that Bulgarians nod their head left and right to indicate the affirmative?

The next transfer was far easier. Instead of a random parking lot, I was dropped off at an actual bus stop located in front of a shopping complex.  The sign was still in Bulgarian and my ability to read Bulgarian had not improved despite staring at Cyrillic signs intensely for the past hour.  I looked around for help.

I am very biased when seeking help from people in a country where I don't speak the language.  I look for younger people, since there's a better chance they've either studied English or been exposed to it, thanks to television, internet and the general globalization of USA culture.  God bless America: Hollywood, Facebook, Microsoft, McDonalds, etc.

As luck would have it, the youngest person at the stop was a cute 20-something university co-ed who was studying in Sofia and heading back home for the week.  Or possibly I just wanted to talk to the girl.  She spoke English better than anyone else and she was able to explain where I had to get off the bus in order to hitchhike to the Serbian border.

When I say her English was better than anyone else on the bus, I mean she understood, "Hello, can you help me?"  When we got to explaining directions she stared blankly and drew a map:

"Here is gas station.  Go there.  Then go to Serbia."

Simple enough.  She drew a gas station, the highway and "Serbia" with a large arrow pointing down the highway.  She also drew two stick figures holding hands, a ring and a question mark.

  ...Am I married, darling?

I was at the gas station.  I bid yet another beautiful Balkan lady goodbye and got off the bus.  My exhaustion was incredible so I walked into the gas station to buy a few million Red Bulls (see, isn't globalization great?)  Time to hitchhike.







  

Ancient Subway Tour of Sofia

Many of Sofia's Metro lines date back to the 3rd Century B.C.  Justinian The Great would use it to voyage through his northern territories.  It is said that even Jesus found some of his earliest converts during his morning daily commute on the Blue Line...

Seriously the Metro is recent, but while it was being constructed many ancient ruins were discovered underneath the city grounds.  Rather than cover the ruins, the designers decided to incorporate the ancient walls and buildings into the metro construction.  We saw parts of the old underground during the free Hostel Mostel city tour we took of Sofia the day after the pub crawl.

Justinian the Great frequently commuted on the Red Line

I had arrived alone, but was now touring the city with my Brazilian lady, a friend of hers and another American nicked-named 'Thor' due to his resemblance to the character from the movie which was currently out in theaters.  I cannot for the life of me remember his real name, but this is one of the sad things about backpacking.  Like Maria from the Lviv train, I meet a million people in my travels, and its impossible to hold on to all of them.  Names fade while memories remain.

Here again is a point where if my notebook hadn't been stolen, I could've given you many minute, interesting details of the tour.  For now I can simply recommend this Hostel Mostel tour and tell you that our wonderful tour guide (whose name I also don't remember) was spectacular and full of humor and information about a city which is not frequently touristed.

We began on the stairs of the central Court House and headed to Sveta Nedalia Square.  Here you can find Sveta Nedalia Church, one of the largest Orthodox Churches I have seen so far.  It dates back to the 10th century and has been frequently reconstructed due to many attacks.  It was wood for a large part of its history until people realized that wood burns very easily.

Speaking of burning... 

The sun was brutal that day and our tour guide noticed.  She diverted our group underground to the caverns to explain the subway history and keep us from burning up.  When we emerged from the underground we were in front of a Muslim mosque.  The Banya Bashi Mosque is Sofia's only functioning mosque.  It's located over thermal springs and there is a charming story about it regarding the Muslim population and the Orthodox folks.  Additionally, it contrasts pleasantly with the McDonald's located across the street.

We were in the heart of Sofia, and it seemed every street was lined with verdant trees and large historic buildings.  We wound our way through one of the large parks until we were in front of the Ivan Vazov National Theater.  Our tour guide went on a long explanation of the importance of Ivan Vazov, Bulgaria's 'national poet' and one of the countries most important literary figures.  In addition to literature, he also was a political figure and played an important role in the revolt against the Ottoman Empire.  She finished his story by stating with a giggle that his death was probably not due to natural causes...  Indeed, as a great poet he was popular with the ladies and at the ripe age of 71 was reported dead by his 20-something mistress, most likely due to an exhausting night with her.  We should all be so lucky.

We were near the end of the tour.  We walked up the wide Tsar Osvoboditel Boulevard to Sofia's crown jewel, the Alexander Nevski Cathedral, our final stop on the trip.  The massive cathedral glistened in the bright sun and I pulled out my camera in anticipation of the event.  When I turned it on, it flashed a low battery sign then instantly went dead.

I am no professional travel writer.  If you really want pictures, they're all over Google Images. 

I'm quite used to anticlimaxes and never expect the best moments to happen during guided tours anyway.  My travels are marked by wild, unforgettable stories and not by historically significant buildings and pretty scenery that's recommended in Lonely Planet.  The country of Serbia still awaits and based on my past experiences there, it will eclipse anything I've done so far in my travels.   I was ready to see if I could a set a new hitchhiking record: Nis, Serbia before sunset.

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