Burek and Birkenstocks

Flying into Sofia, I watched as a mass of rain heaved its way across the green plain below. The light, that shone tangentially to the greyness, came down in long lances from a silvery sky that topped the far mountains. The green plain was dotted with small towns and chimneys of an impressive size which faded in and out of the patchy shadows. All of this industrial/agricultural zone clutter, seen at altitude through the rainy pall, made it seem like we were coming down in a spaceship to a verdant planetary outpost in a neighbouring planetary system. A place where coal chimneys were space ports and hairless six-legged mice scurried among the rows of barley uttering curses in Esperanto. An inviting new adventure indeed.  

From ground-level, things were much more Earth-like. Metallic looking trains took me easily to the city centre and I walked to my hostel without an issue. On a balcony, with a truly incredible pizza in hand, I sat and watched the cobblestone street below become drained of light. Above it, balconies protruded from the multi-coloured houses and on one, down a darkening street, I watched as someone lit a cigarette. Their facial features were briefly visible from the cupped flame held within their hand but soon it was just a wavering glow coming from the cigarette’s end, like a firefly dancing above the street on the unsteady air that comes either side of a storm.  

Places to pray for the preservation of your immortal soul 

I love churches like a fat kids love cake. Across all of the different sub-genres of Christianity, it is widely agreed at churches are important. These were traditionally designed to be most grand and enduring monument to our immortal and omniscient supernatural puppeteer. The church, with its suspiciously deep pockets, has always employed the best artists and architects, so when you go to a church you can truly revel in the best that era had to offer. I mean, you can’t have a successful religion without somewhere to congregate and spread the confusingly disparate messages of peace, morality, sin, conquest, evil, mercy, tolerance, hatred, superiority, exceptionalism and pride, can you?

In amongst the fairly boring but pleasant architecture of Sofia, I was happily surprised by the beauty of the religious edifices at most turns. In Bulgaria, the Eastern Orthodox church dominated, and so, despite my few experiences of Orthodox churches in Bucharest and Tashkent, I wasn’t quite ready for what Bulgarian Orthodoxy had in store for me. While the architecture of Western Christianity is mostly based around a basilica (the long aisled hall with an apse at one end), Eastern Christianity focussed more on a compact style. This means that when you walk in you are not greeted with a long aisle of pews but instead you are thrown straight into the action.

The church of St. Nicolas the Miracle Maker was my first taste of Orthodox churches in Bulgaria and, as I went in, the small space surprised and embraced me. But wait wait wait… isn’t St. Nicolas also Santa? How did I not realise this before… Ok so, how did this beautiful church come to be named after that big fat man who exploits the labour of the mythical elven race. Well, St Nicolas was an early Christian bishop (270 – 343 AD) of Greek descent who did lots of good things such as: calming a stormy sea, stopping some sailors being wrongfully executed and felling a tree that was possessed by a demon. Surely it’s not only me that is wondering why a demon, presumably a creature of menace, cunning and ill-intent, would decide that the best way to spread evil, to infect the world with the maladies of sin, would be to possess an immobile and mute bloody tree. Creaking in the wind and dropping fruit on the heads of passers-by would be the extent of its villainous activities. Evil truly knows no bounds.

While St. Nick was running about like a God-powered superhero, he got thrown in jail during the final and most severe persecution of Christians within the Roman Empire (the Diocletianic Persecution from 303-311 AD). During this time most Christians were seeing their churches razed to the ground and their scriptures destroyed while being told to sacrifice to the Roman Gods. When the Christians refused, a little torturing and widespread burning alive happened throughout the Eastern Empire. But Santa escaped all this murder unscathed thanks to being locked up. Luckily for him, it wasn’t long until Constantine the Great ascended to Emperor and changed the course of history forever by tossing aside the old Gods and accepting the one and only G.O.D, of the strictly Abrahamic sense. St. Nicolas was freed but we still don’t know why the church was called St. Nicolas the Miracle maker. What made him so miraculous (beyond exorcising a particularly nasty willow)? Well, there are lots of stories of miracles performed by him, but my favourite is the legend of how he resurrected three children. They had been murdered by a butcher and then pickled in brine so that the butcher could sell them as pork during a famine. As the patron saint, the heavenly ambassador, of children (among many other things such as sailors and repentant thieves), I guess it was his heavenly duty to resurrect pickled children. Just another day at the office. But still, I don’t want to take that act of kindness away from him. Ol’ St. Nick didn’t pull sickies or shirk his workload, a company man through and through.

Nevertheless, the 3^rd and 4^th century were a little tumultuous and I reckon this must’ve taken a toll on the man. St. Nick retired from the life of bishop and instead he focussed his miraculous powers on the most effective method by which to travel around the globe delivering presents to every Christian child on Earth (landing somehow on flying reindeer). While St. Nick was settled in his new life up in the Arctic, Nicolas II of Russia, the last Tsar of the Romonov dynasty and the country’s final monarch, decided his patron saint would be ye olde St. Nick. So, when this Russian Orthodox church in the centre of Sofia was built for the Russians living in the city, it was named after the patron saint of the monarch, in this case, St. Nicolas, Sinterklaas or Santa Claus.  

Inside this shrine to Santa, it was dark and cosy. Interior arches and domes were painted in a faded detail and the smell of the incense filled the room. Deeply sung hymns reverberated from beneath my feet as if coming from the Earth itself. The golden framed idols were only distractions from the perfectly formed edifice and the incredible skill of the painters who had depicted incredible biblical scenes but had somehow neglected to paint the three pickled children.

However impressed I was with the Russian church, it wasn’t until I had stepped foot inside the huge Alexander Nevsky Cathedral that I truly felt overawed. It was dark, gloomy and silent. Giant golden chandeliers neither shone with tacky brilliance nor hid beneath the light they emitted; their light was a reserved one. Every vast surface was painted and on the largest dome a white bearded God reached out his hands to encompass all who stood below. Small windows surrounding the domes aided the lighting, but the dark walls seemed to greedily absorb the light. Comfy wooden benches were set around the edges and from them I watched people light candles, some solemn in their religious duty and some in a rush. However, both the dedicated and the busy were lit by the warmest glow in the cathedral, that which sprung from the naked flames to illuminate the faces of the constantly changing believers. 

The churches were common place in Sofia but amongst the cityscape was the one remaining functional mosque in Sofia, the last religious remnant of the Ottoman rule over this country. The Ottoman Empire was born out of the ambition of the tribal leader Osman I in southern modern-day Turkey whose descendants breathed life to the idea of Empire and of rule. In the first century since Osman’s death in 1323, the Empire grew, spreading outwards and gaining land through conquest. The Turks first set their eyes on the Balkans and in only a few decades had conquered land from the Black Sea to the Aegean.

The history of Ottoman Bulgaria spans almost 500 years and includes tonnes of uprisings all of which ended in failure. However, with the Batak massacre during the April uprising of 1876, the tide started to change. The massacre had seen the brutal extermination of an entire town, through the systematic impaling, burning alive and beheading of every man, woman and child. Witness accounts describe piles of charred infant bones and rotting bodies but perhaps most shocking of all is what happened to the mayor:

“They then took from him all the money he had, stripped off his clothes, put out his eyes and his teeth, and impaled him slowly until the stake came out of his mouth; after which they roasted him on the fire, he being then alive. He lived for half an hour during the awful event.”

The outrage across Europe put a lot of pressure on the Ottomans (I think people may have started to realise that a polity that hogroasts mayors might not have a leg to stand on where modern governance is concerned). The waning power and unpopularity of the Ottomans meant that when, in 1877, the Russo-Turkish war broke out, the Ottomans had few friends and many enemies. With Bulgaria and other Balkan countries inspired by the opportunity to kick the Ottomans out, many more massacres were committed by both sides but the Russian coalition prevailed and Bulgaria got its independence.

Throughout the rest of my trip in the Balkans, I would come to see much more of the Ottoman legacy stamped onto the land and still influencing the lives of the people, however this was my first time in contact with this history and I was happy to just sit in it and absorb it. Banya Bashi Mosque was built 500 years ago and stands above natural thermal baths. Its red brick exterior wasn’t all that impressive so when I went inside I was taken aback by the stunningly beautiful decoration of the main dome, whose concentric rings of immense detail were enough to have me entranced for a long while. On a side note, while I was sat there a young guy walked in. Now I’ve been culturally trained, especially throughout my time in Jordan, to say, “Assalamulaikum” as a greeting, especially in a place where you can be sure the people are Muslim i.e., a mosque. However, when I said this innocuous and polite phrase meaning ‘peace be upon you’ he looked at me as if I had suddenly pulled down my trousers and started yodelling the entire Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack (a face I know very, very well) but on this occasion I felt the look to be unwarranted. His face of contorted confusion and dismissive sympathy cut deeply but not as deeply as his complete silence. I know now that Balkan Islamic culture is not very strong, with a strong drinking culture and a low turnout for prayer time but I’m not sure this is a reason to look at me so harshly or to ignore my politeness. The reply is simple, in fact I argue any reply would’ve sufficed.

My final, most adventurous but least spiritually engaging place of worship was the Dragalevski Monastery. The Eastern Orthodox church loves a monastery, a place for God-loving virgins to come together. These aren’t the type of virgins who troll people from the safety of their mother’s damp and Dorito-filled basement. These have come to the light of God’s love, living in poverty but happy in the knowledge that Jesus is their pal and the have the drippiest garms out there. God hates a poor fashion taste (among many many other things). Anyway, back to the monastery visit. In the morning, I had got chatting with an Aussie man called Jeremy. He had wanted to get breakfast and then wanted to buy some second-hand trousers to make up for his lost luggage. So, I tagged along keen for food and also strangely interested in the clothes available in a Bulgarian second-hand shop. Finding a decent breakfast was easy and so was finding a pair of trousers for Jeremy (after he initially took interest in a pair of women’s trousers, asked the price and found himself faced with the judgemental raised eyebrow of the cashier who told him questioningly that those were for women). Obviously, my plans for a judgement-free shop for miniskirts would have to wait until I was out of Bulgaria.

After Jeremy had his new trousers, he asked what I planned on doing for the rest of the day, I thought I might head up to the Dragalevski monastery on the outskirts of the city, halfway up Vitosha mountain. Jeremy asked to tag along, and I was more than happy for the company. We headed into the underground (which was 70p for a trip anywhere in the city) and I educated Jeremy of the wondrous station snacks of the Bulgarian metro. Flaky pastries filled with salty cheese, among other fillings, were my go to and only knowing the names of two things (Burek & Banitsa), lots of pointing and unknown pastries flew my way. We rode to the final stop and then walked up the steady incline next to the road for a few kilometres. Eventually we left the traffic behind and headed off on smaller lanes among the beautiful large houses. Finally, we set off on gravel tracks into the woods which were easily followed but also easily deviated from when a shortcut up a steep soil bank appeared. This was the first time that Jeremy’s lack of suitable footwear came to the fore, he was rocking the Birkenstocks. I’m reliably informed that they are cool now, they are 100% “on the fashion wagon” (a term I’m confident is all over the TikTok reels and MSN chats) however, they weren’t cutting the mustard on the saturated soil banks of a Bulgarian forest. He soldiered on for fashion, nevertheless.  

The monastery itself was like a big apartment building whose corridors were open to the fresh mountain air due to the colourful arches which covered the front of the building and were filled with flowers. Opposite the colourful L-shaped monastery was the tiny church and its surrounding garden/graveyard. I wasn’t particularly impressed by any of it to be honest, there weren’t any monks, nuns or angels floating about, but I was content in the fresh mountain air. Jeremy thought much the same, so we went for looping walk in the woods to get the blood pumping. 

The woodland was quiet, cool and still verdant, holding out against the approaching autumn. Jeremy almost stood on a salamander as we worked our way uphill following a beautiful stream which flowed over dark slimy rocks, some of which had begun to grow moss on their damp surfaces. In other places the stream pooled, and tadpoles darted around in amongst the sodden leaf litter. The trees had found a foothold in the soil either side of the rocky stream and grew straight up towards the bright green canopy of their neighbours. Once we had negotiated the stream and the fallen boughs of summer storms, we found a new path to take us downhill, mainly following course of the old cable car. Part of the way down we found an abandoned three-legged concrete structure presumably there for the lone gone cable car. The structure was now rotting away in the quiet woodland overlooking the sunlit city far below. The strange structure looked to me like an H.G Wells inspired tripod rising from the ground and into the canopy with nefarious intent. That is of course why I wanted to climb it. The authorities had obviously tried to stop people going up for a snoop around by cutting five rungs off of the ladder and the hasty application of barbed wire. However, when we arrived the barbed wire had been cut and some missing rungs were not going to stop us. I went for a look first, the guinea pig, climbing through the strange metal cage and then onto the concrete platform above. There wasn’t much to see other than a slightly higher view of the city, but it was an interesting little climb. When I had to returned to the ground it was just as enjoyable to watch Jeremy try to, not only climb the thing barefoot, but also to fight away the red ants that had made their home up there. Back on solid ground, we zigzagged further down the mountain, reached the road and hungrily walked the final descent to the underground station for more pastries.   

Places to be a Gluttonous Little Pig Boy

When I wasn’t waltzing around places of worship, I was walking. Walking along graffitied streets, through fountain-filled squares and crossing endless sprawling tram tracks. With a passing eye I admired the statues, kiosks and monuments in Sofia’s many parks and the burek-filled bakeries on quiet residential corners. With all this aimless wandering, I deserved to treat myself in the evenings and in Sophia I was in a chatty mood so found plenty of people to head out with. After Jeremy and I had come back from the forested slopes of Vitosha, we went to Pod Lipite which was a traditional Bulgarian restaurant whose name means ‘Under the Linden trees’. As per usual in the Balkans the service was cold at first and then very warm and friendly soon after. We enjoyed warm bread, with dry salty dip thingies (you know that I was mainly focussed on the bread, quickly seizing Jeremy’s scraps when he claimed, like an amateur, that he wanted to save room for the main course). Then we dived into a pile of meat and vegetables. Simple food, done well.  

However, the biggest evening of indulgence was with a rag tag group of people from the hostel. An 18-year-old German guy who was quite reserved, a small Israeli digital nomad who was a little odd and finally, a lanky Austrian who was very chatty. First, we had decided to go to Manastirska Magernitsa restaurant which was yet another traditional restaurant with cool décor and great food. Then seeing as it was a Friday, we decided to see what the nightlife of Sofia had to offer. First, we found a bar called “The Apartment” which sounds sinister but in fact it was a cool concept. Basically, it was just 2 apartments which had been joined together. New furniture and décor had been added but it still felt very much like an apartment where the kitchen was the very casual bar. It was quiet and bougie but a great space and if it had filled up it would’ve been fun. But we didn’t have the patience to wait so, after one beer we left and headed to Hambara. Apparently it was a famed bar down an unlit alleyway, but we weren’t sure which of the dodgy alleyways to choose. After a few tentative looks we made it to a scratched up wooden door with chatter bleeding through it and into the night. We had heard that to get in you have to knock, so the Austrian stepped up to the plate, gave a solid knock and the door opened. I wasn’t quite prepared for what was inside. A flickering darkness. Ill-defined spectres roamed above and below. A swirling mass of low-level chatter pushed past us and out into the drizzle. Inside, a stagnant cigarette-smoke haze hung as an acrid atmosphere that shifted and eddied as people waded through it. The bare plaster walls took on an undeserved warmth from the glow of the many candles that were lighting the high-ceilinged room. As we got settled on the second floor/ balcony seating, the zigzagging bar could be seen occupying the corner while people milled about and disappeared beneath us to their small, benched seating. Soon, the grumpy decrepit man amongst us (me) got tired and wanted to go back. The Austrian and German joined, and we returned to the hostel, leaving the Israeli to chirpse some Italian girl, presumably unsuccessfully. 

Final Thoughts 

Sofia was good. I hope that through this post you’ve got a solid impression of my overall positive sentiments towards the city. However, there was one dispiriting aspect to the place, something that both physically and mentally tormented every hour of my day. The mosquitos. I think I may have spent my days walking endlessly through the city’s districts to distract me from what would come as the sun set, as the sky darkened. In the evenings, I would extend my waking hours, cowering in the small living room of the hostel until the pull of sleep was stronger than the stimulant of fear, only then would I crawl into bed. It wouldn’t take long for my lingering fear to become regret, an anxious anticipation of misery. The ravenous creatures of the sky, who haunt the twilight hours with their incessant whine, would only be abated when appeased with a sanguine sacrifice. But there were always more to take their place; I was fighting against a hidden enemy who threw forward more bodies than I could handle, as I swiped blindly into the dark. The only good sleep I had in Sofia was when I wrapped a t-shirt around my ears like a headscarf; I could drift off without hearing them swarming around their downed prey (my succulent body). A little victory goes a long way.

As I left Sofia, I was itchy but I felt serene in the mist of early morning. On Mariya Luiza Boulevard, Orthodox domes and the lone minaret of Banya Bashi mosque came together as one architectural mass, with the uncertain mental or atmospheric haze of an early morning. Old men walked with sticks across wide lanes, negotiating the cobblestones without the worry of the traffic to come later in the day. And, as I approached the bus station, I peered into one last tram. I thought of the trams, new or old, as moving slices of Sofia’s populace. Windows into the mundane every day, the reality of life, showcased to the world through the harsh interior lighting or sunlight streaming in through the windows. In this older dark green tram, which were always slimmer than the more modern iterations seen around the city, was a very old man. Backlit by the blueish tinge of the interior lights, he had his head resting on his knuckles gazing listlessly at the grey morning. As he continued his motionless inspection of yet another Sofia morning, his window was steadily steaming up. The condensation distorted his face bit by bit, contorting it into a blue-tinged cubist masterpiece as seen from the pavement. But it simultaneously obscured his view of the city too. His unmoving gaze would’ve seen only suggestions of door frame, billboard or a casino’s peeling paintwork. He would’ve shifted his focus back and forth between the drips of condensation that rallied for a downward break towards the windowsill, and the bouncing, shuffling or swaggering walk of the malformed figures walking through the mist at the side of the road. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of me watching him before both of our gazes moved on. Both of us going somewhere unknown to the other.