Bulgaria
At the home of poet revolutionary Peyo Yavorov, his wife shot herself in a fit of jealous rage, unable to endure the thought of his previous paramours. In turn, Yavorov tried to kill himself, failed, then eventually succeeded, with a blood-stained pillow serving as morbid proof. A recent play enacted their tragic story, with guests seated at midnight in the front yard of the house museum in downtown Sofia, wearing headphones to relive the tragic moments inside that took place long ago.
Bulgaria is rich with such quirky experiences that recount its woeful past, trapped between Turkish and Russian aggression. A visit to Batak in the south reveals the church where villagers hid against invading “bashibozouks.” Hitmen threw bee hives lit with fire to send their captives fleeing. The ensuing trauma to their skulls has been collected in display cases within the bleak, bullet-hole ridden sanctuary.
On a more cheerful note, there’s Sofia’s new metro system, where if you’re lucky you might come across a Roma with a button accordion. At the Hadzhi Dimitar stop, street art adorns the sides of Soviet-style tenements, with the elderly gathering chestnuts below. At Druzhba there’s Block 67-68, with the backs of apartments stitched in place to prevent them from crumbling. And the Putin pietà by Stanislav Belovski can be seen in all its graffitied glory at the corner of Vasil Levski and Graf Ignatiev near the Patriarh Evtimiy station (behind the old notary building on the John Lennon peace wall).
The art scene exists, but it’s small and tentative. Most intriguing is The Swimming Pool gallery, perched at the top of a building still owned by the family of the museum’s director. At Photosynthesis, I tried three times to tear myself away from the riveting life’s work of Vladimir Vasilev, each time returning to the gallery. He’s got the rawness of Bulgaria down pat.
For a completely different artistic endeavor, there’s Staro Zhelezare, where a professor from Poznan brings his students each summer to add a fresh coat of paint to the fronts of villagers’ homes. On the walls, political bigwigs mix with cartoon characters and peasants for an absurdly wonderful experience. A “babba” (the endearing term for grandmother) might even invite you into her home to tell her life’s story.
Bulgaria shines best in its fearsome southern mountains, where I chose the Pirins to tackle rather than the Rilas or Rhodopes. Trekking poles and an experienced guide (such as Hazel Ellis) are a must, lest you become a statistic of the lost. In autumn, caught between summer and the ski season, the steep and rocky trails are mostly solitary, and you can usually top your bottle with delicious water from a mineral spring. If you’re daring, opt for the terrifying Soviet-era chairlift to the Bezbog hut, which serves as a rickety gateway to the unrivaled beauty of Alpine lakes. But for a gentler hike, take the path in Dobarsko Valley to the village’s church, where frescoes of Jesus and the saints are depicted against a rocket ship and other-worldly cities in a display of religious iconography gone mad.
There are hot springs as well, and in Banya three generations are right next to each other: the Regnum Banya Thermal, an ancient Turkish bath, and last century’s decaying bathhouse, where locals soap each other’s backs after a naked soak together. The splendid narrow-gauge train, with its steam engine puffing away, offers a long, slow journey with local Muslim villagers. Upon reaching Velingrad, a day pass at the Maxi Spa offers every conceivable pool, jacuzzi, and sauna experience imaginable, from a dry Finnish sauna to an icy plunge pool.
On the culinary front, the food wears thin with its same-menu insistence of shopska salad, greasy potatoes, and meat, with only a banitsa for breakfast accompanied by someone’s obnoxious cigarette. The politics grinds even worse, with conspiracy theories percolating that the US is abetting and benefiting from the Russian war in Ukraine. It’s all a forlorn missing of the finger on the pulse, where the state of being trapped in time teeters closer to communism than is comfortable, while not offering a bright vision for Bulgaria’s future.
In Sofia, I attended the one-man play “A Sleeping Angel” with Bulgaria’s masterful actor Hristo Mutafchiev. In one exquisite moment, he stood with his hand held aloft, carving soft arcs in the air before seating himself and bringing his hand to rest under his chin in pensive thought. The entire audience held its breath as we hovered with him in the moment, suspended and rapt.
Here’s my photo essay on Bulgaria.
