Kazan — summer 2014

3rd busiest airport in Europe. Normally when I come here, we debark (debarque?) from the plane to a bus, and then the bus takes us to a terminal. This time we pulled up straight to the gate. Took me by surprise. I have a few hours to kill. So what do I have for breakfast in Frankfurt? Frankfurters and potato salad, of course. And to prove I am an American, I topped it off with a glass of milk. (Yes, I know, it’s Germany, I should have beer, but I’m just not a beer fan.)

I neglected to buy an adapter for Bulgaria; they use the standard European plug, so I grabbed an overpriced one from one of the airport shops.

To my enormous surprise, I found free wifi here as well.

Getting ready to leave Frankfurt for Sofia was pretty easy. Lufthansa (LH) didn't even check our passports, which shocked me: they only scanned our boarding passes. Apparently the Bulgarians are just not too uptight about who gets on a plane to visit them. The plane was an Airbus 320 series, packed tight with seats, but bearable. I had hoped to sit next to a Bulgarian to ask some questions, but my companions were on my left a window and on my right an Asian woman on my right whose accent left me no hope of getting any pre-landing information. The pre-recorded announcements included a beautiful male voice delivering instructions in Bulgarian as well as the standard German and English that LH uses. That's when I started getting really excited: I had been reviewing my Bulgarian for half the previous flights. Soon I would be able to use it.

Departing Frankfurt is always fascinating. The landscape below is a beautiful montage of forest and cultivated land. Sometimes the city boundaries follow the shape of vanished water ways. Sometimes there are odd patterns that make you wonder what the people and legislation economic situations were that formed then.

I noticed that there seems to be a preference for red roof tiles in many places. The landscape continued being mainly agricultural throughout the trip, with one very odd exception: a lake with a curious constriction at the top. I thought it was in Germany, but a later verification showed that it was Lake Balaton in Hungary.

As I approached Sofia, I noticed again the proponderance of red roofs in what were presumably construction areas.

The Sofia airport is practically in the city...

and as we approached from the east we were flying over something that anyone who had been in Russia previously would recognize: those shabby-looking Soviet-era apartment buildings. It felt like we were going to hit their TV antennas with our landing gear. (Click the picture for a better view.)

The airport itself is lovely and clean...

And now the adventure itself was began. Passport control was a piece of cake. Baggage arrived safely. As soon as I exited baggage claim, I changed $100 into levs, the Bulgarian unit of currency. (1 lev = 100 stotinki.) Asked the information desk where to catch a cab.

I always have the best conversations with cab drivers. Told him to take me to Централната автогара (the Main Bus Station). I had been warned about fake cab drivers that would try to rip you off, but I was taking some online advice about what company to choose and made sure to use Супертран (Supertrans)...

and my driver Khristo with his Soviet-style dentistry...

seemed mostly okay. (Okay, I cheated on that picture, but you still get the idea.)

Half-way through our taxi-ride, Khristo pulls up and a young man gets into the seat behind me... not what one normally expects on a taxi ride... The kid looks kind of shady. Is this the point where foreigner Don gets overpowered by two Bulgarians and has all his money and laptop stolen? The driver introduces the kid as his son Petko. That kind of double-duty on a taxi ride feels very Russian to me, and the kid doesn't send off a bad vibe, so I figure I'm okay. We drive maybe half a mile and our taxi gets rear-ended. Truthfully, not even hard-enough for my head to hit the head support behind me. Still, I wonder. There is a shady-looking Bulgarian in the back seat and the timing makes me wonder if this is actually a rip off. The driver gets out and starts yelling at the other driver; the meter is still ticking. Is this how they are going to rip me off? After two minutes of yellow Khristko and Petko get back in the cab. The bumper isn't even scratched so we proceed to the bus station. The whole trip cost me about 14 levs, which means the online advice I got was spot on. I could have done it cheaper had I been willing to do a couple busses, but this is my first time in Bulgaria and I have three pieces of luggage. I'm gonna be lazy. We arrive at the bus terminal without further incident. I tip excessively well with 6 lev.

At the terminal I find the kiosk that sells tickets to Plovdiv. I'm confused. No one is there. I try to decipher a sign that suggests that for certain future bus rides, you have to go to another window. Then I realize that the phrase ‘future tickets’ actually means ‘after lunch tickets.’ Разбирам (comprendo). I go to window 14. There is someone there. The price for the two hour ride to Plovdiv is 14 levs, just as the website said it would be. Excellent. And odd. My 20-minute taxi ride cost me more than the two-hour bus ride... although that was due to my generosity. The bus would department in about 25 minutes. Excellent timing.

I go to sector 6. The bus pulls up almost immediately. I stow my bags in the luggage department and stand around to make sure that no one unauthorized removes them. And I start watching the people. The Turkish ethnic influence is clearly greater here than in Kazan. You can tell that the economy is pretty weak. Still, when possible, people really like to dress nice.

I get on the bus. Not far from me sits a girl who can't be more than 13. She has a smart phone... definitely some money in that family, despite the fact that her jeans are artfully ripped. In fact they are way too ripped to be natural. I wonder how long it took her to do that? As we being to ride through Sofia, I'm surprised by the amount of graffitti everywhere. Some of it borders on real art.

The seats have me eating my knees. Nasty. Good thing there is no one sitting next to me, otherwise there is no way I could tolerate it. Other than that, the bus is clean and in good order with good AC, which the driver actually uses. Thank you, God. None of that Russian-style stupidity here that makes Russians prefer to sweat rather than use the AC.

We depart the city. The Bulgarian countryside is forest interspersed with agriculture. The forest reminds me of the Missouri Ozarks. I recognize fields of wheat or maybe barley, sunflowers, and corn, along with fields just beginning to blossom yellow, which must be rape. There are also fields of a plant that I want to say are potatoes, but something doesn't seem right about that, so I ask two women nearby what they are, and I'm told they are царевица, which turns out to mean corn. Sorry, ladies, but if you can't tell a corn field from a potato field, you are definitely from the city. I wonder if maybe those were soybean fields? I couldn't get close to be sure.

As we go through the countryside I pay attention to various ads. The international two-letter abbreviation for Bulgaria is BG. I notice the occasional billboard, like this one for a web site that made me laugh...

Technically prostituting oneself is legal in Bulgaria... is this that kind of website?

Nope. It turns out to be a site for future mothers. Future mothers, eh? Then why does a quick google of the site reveal pictures like this one on the left? I now have deepened my insight into what big Bulgarian mammas want.

Hm. Looks like the Russian oil giant Lukoil has partnered up here with Burger King on roadside services. Interesting. Later I see the same thing with American giant Shell and McDonald’s. Curious. Wish I had got a decent picture.

The bus ride to Plovdiv is starting to put me to sleep. Can barely stay awake. We start pulling into Plovdiv. I force myself awake. We arrive at the bus station. I give the address of my apartment to the taxi driver. He has never heard of the street, so he gets on his cell phone and has a friend Google it. We eventually get there. It's about five o'clock. That was really good timing. I check in without any hassles.

It is done. I have arrived in BG safe and sound. More later.

I arrived at my hotel, Bright House, really a set of apartments rented out on a hotel basis. Talk about an aptly named hotel. The light pours in from the front and back windows, and the tile floors are spotlessly clean, reflecting light pleasantly. One is only tempted to turn on the lights at night. The only downside is that the bathroom is a ‘wet bathroom,’ that is, one where the shower drain is in the middle of the restroom, so after you finish your shower, you have to let the bathroom floor dry.

Fortunately they have provided a squeegee to speed up the process.

I have friends for whom a wet bathroom would be a deal-breaker — yes, I'm thinking of you, Mr Bailey — but for me its okay, especially considering how very comfortable this place is.

To my incredibly pleasant surprise, Google Voice is not blocked here, so I could send home text messages about my safe arrival. I haven't bought a SIM card for my phone here yet, so I called Cleo, my old Bulgarian teacher, via Skype. We arranged to meet at the main post office, and then we headed to a little cafe for some iced tea and caught up. I studied with her back in 91-93, I believe. Her English is still great. She told me about the experience of her and her family living in Japan back in 96. Fascinating. Bulgaria was undergoing hyperinflation at the time, so it was good to be elsewhere, but she had the same adjustment issues there that are commonly related by an American living in Japan. There is actually scholarly literature on the subject of culture shock, but frankly even the anecdotal books that document it are really helpful in learning to adjust.

Cleo already had evening plans, so we set up a meeting for tomorrow at noon. I'll have to prepare myself to go into sociability mode; by nature I'm the introvert, so preparing my mind in advance to talk about absolutely everything makes things go more smoothly for me. As I headed back toward my hotel, I approached the circular fountain on Stefan Stambolov Square...

and what should I hear, but a full-sized orchestra playing “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Samuel Johnson said, “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel,” and when I see patriotism in Americans these days, I usually have a negative reaction because it is based, I think, not on love for country, but on on fear and narrow-mindedness and xenophobia. But when I heard this song playing here, my heart just sang for the joy of hearing it. I spotted a little girl, probably seven, dancing with fairy-like grace to the song, and a young father nearby dancing with his child of probably 18 months in his arms. Joy! I fumble-fingered my camera trying to record her, but here she is dancing to the next song.

From there I headed back to the apartment. Prepped my blog for the day. Then jetlag hit with a vengeance. Went to bed at 8:00 p.m., which is exactly the perfect time to do it from the point of view of getting over jetlag. Slept for four hours. Woke up sleepless. Internetted. Went back to bed for 5-6 hours. Got up at 8. Awesome. This should prove perfect for adjustment purposes.

Time to start touring again. Sheesh, my eyes are jetlagged to death. I look like a freakin’ meth addict. Time for some Visine.

I'm preparing my afternoon blogging. The TV is on in the background. The station is showing a history of WWII... in Castilian Spanish. European TV always amazes me.

I often use Skype for international calls. I haven't purchased a local SIM card here, so I just had to call Cleo from Skype. Our 55 second conversation cost 39 cents. Essentially I think Skype calls as if from an American phone. The Scottish blood in me roils. But if I bought a local SIM card, it probably wouldn't be that cost effective since I'll probably only make 5 or ten phone calls during my Bulgarian trip. So once again Skype convinces me that it is the most practical alternative for many things.