The last day in Bulgaria began inauspiciously enough--with the intent behing my 9am alarm easily overcome by vivid dreams with well-placed Cyrillic characters.
I didn't fully rise into action until the Riu called to chase me towards checkout, at the more holidaylike hour of noon.Varna beckoned, and I sprung out of the hotel towards the closeby Autogara, where, fortunately, the midday minibus was to leave in ten minutes.
Noticing the 2 hour trip and that I opted not to claim my all-inclusive lunch, I scan the surroundings to find a snack counter offering TOCT, cyrillic for "toasted sandwich". Mine-mild, rubbery kashkaval cheese on toast slices the size of a clothes iron. EUR 1.10 please.
The 90 minute drive to Varna was the most attractive and intriguing of my various Bulgarian segments, particularly after the Vegas-like sprawl of Sunny Beach gave way to smaller, posher resorts like Obzor and small hamlets like Banya where newly-built and painted villas and decades old traditional homes that haven't seen paint since ex-local Party boss Todor Zhivkov was in charge.
Pine forests give way to sweeping bay views. Old Varna was aesthetically compelling. Fairly untouched by highrises built of bad Commie concrete, it is very much a product of its Black Sea envioronment--with a few Ottoman touches and ornate pastel-painted buildings evocative of Ukraine and Russia.
Indeed, if I were to come up with two words to describe Bulgaria, I'd say "Russia Lite." Weather is somewhat better, food more reliable, flags are the same save for the middle stripe (Russia's Blue vs. Bulgaria's green). Corruption and organized crime are pervasive, as is the all-pervasive cyrillic alphabet. Bulgaria is more tourist-friendly (no visas required). And Bulgaria can be seen in a week--though I did miss Plovdiv and Veliko Tarnovo, which are both world-class sites.
What's missing--Bulgaria doesn't have the nationalist edge that its Balkan neighbors have. An upcoming July election is drawing lukewarm passion, particularly following last month's EU poll which equalled a test run. (One observer said that the election offered voters a choice of which mob family they dislike least.)
Even Folklor TV, the all national-costumed-24-hour satellite Bulgarian ethnic kitschfest seemed more melancholy than defiant, particularly when compared to its Serbian sister station. Ok, there was one exception, a song where the word Bulgaria was invoked in pious tones, and images of Orthodox icons were interspersed with those of brave Bulgarian patriots hurling barrels down at fez-clad Turks on the slopes below. But Bulgaria last played smackdown with the Turks in the late 1800s, and since they are now both NATO allies, Bulgaria doesn't have anyone to chuck barrels at right now.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Bulgaria--Finnish Karaoke
My desire for a congenial environment causes me to stumble into an American-style pub-restaurant called the Vagabond. Unlike most of the venues on Sunny Beach's seaside promenade, the Vagabond was more than half full, but no one was eating.
Instead, as I started to piece together from the amateur singing and ubiquitous television screens, this was a. Karaoke venue. But not your usual Gloria Gaynor, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra karaoke. No this was Finnish Karaoke.
One of my favorite TV shows ever was "Raid", a 12-episode Western set in and around Helsinki. And its themesong, "Vain Rakkaus", occupies a well-used slot in my Ipod. So, sensing a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I examine the song directory and duly find Vain Rakkaus.
I sign up. I endure an agonizing wait of 90 minutes. It could have been shorter, for I was actually called after 45 minutes but the Bulgarian presenter thought my name was Mila instead of Mike.
The delay gave me the time to download the Vain Rakkaus lyrics to one of my Blackberry devices. I practiced in the back, attempting to partition the small but pesky number of 10+ letter words in the appropriate places.
I offer to pay a barmaid 20 leva (EUR 10) to video the occasion. (I have yet to watch, and have conveniently misplaced the carmera, but the requisite memory was eaten on the memory card, so I hope it took). Once called, things take a turn towards the silly when the DJ cues the wrong song, a Finnish remake of I Will Survive.
I protest loudly, which convinces the organizer of my seriousness. Vain Rakkaus cues.I start singing when the words appear.
Of course, that's 2 seconds before the music begins. I resynch by stretching the vowels in "korventaa.". My volume picks up with the chorus, and one of the Finns in attendance runs to the center of the floor and starts bowing at my feet.
I continue undaunted. My singing of Vain Rakkaus was hardly the stuff of an award winning performance on Finland's Got Talent. But after inviting myself to the booth of the prostrate Finn and getting the reaction of him and his buddies, the shock and amazement was palpable.
"We knew you weren't Finnish, but it was obvious you knew the song," said Uki, inadvertently bemoaning the extent to which his nation's patrimony fails to travel much beyond its borders. More amazement followed when I shared how Raid became a cult Public TV classic in Washington, DC back in 2005. And how I own two sets of the DVD and the soundtrack.
But what I was left with was more shock and awe that I would actually find it within myself to sing Finnish Karaoke. And get a standing O.
Instead, as I started to piece together from the amateur singing and ubiquitous television screens, this was a. Karaoke venue. But not your usual Gloria Gaynor, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra karaoke. No this was Finnish Karaoke.
One of my favorite TV shows ever was "Raid", a 12-episode Western set in and around Helsinki. And its themesong, "Vain Rakkaus", occupies a well-used slot in my Ipod. So, sensing a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I examine the song directory and duly find Vain Rakkaus.
I sign up. I endure an agonizing wait of 90 minutes. It could have been shorter, for I was actually called after 45 minutes but the Bulgarian presenter thought my name was Mila instead of Mike.
The delay gave me the time to download the Vain Rakkaus lyrics to one of my Blackberry devices. I practiced in the back, attempting to partition the small but pesky number of 10+ letter words in the appropriate places.
I offer to pay a barmaid 20 leva (EUR 10) to video the occasion. (I have yet to watch, and have conveniently misplaced the carmera, but the requisite memory was eaten on the memory card, so I hope it took). Once called, things take a turn towards the silly when the DJ cues the wrong song, a Finnish remake of I Will Survive.
I protest loudly, which convinces the organizer of my seriousness. Vain Rakkaus cues.I start singing when the words appear.
Of course, that's 2 seconds before the music begins. I resynch by stretching the vowels in "korventaa.". My volume picks up with the chorus, and one of the Finns in attendance runs to the center of the floor and starts bowing at my feet.
I continue undaunted. My singing of Vain Rakkaus was hardly the stuff of an award winning performance on Finland's Got Talent. But after inviting myself to the booth of the prostrate Finn and getting the reaction of him and his buddies, the shock and amazement was palpable.
"We knew you weren't Finnish, but it was obvious you knew the song," said Uki, inadvertently bemoaning the extent to which his nation's patrimony fails to travel much beyond its borders. More amazement followed when I shared how Raid became a cult Public TV classic in Washington, DC back in 2005. And how I own two sets of the DVD and the soundtrack.
But what I was left with was more shock and awe that I would actually find it within myself to sing Finnish Karaoke. And get a standing O.
Bulgaria--Resting with the Lions
Arriving back in "Cote de Soleil", the French moniker for Sunny Beach, at 1 in the morning didn't leave me well-disposed to head for Varna on Saturday morning.
Sleep instead beckoned, and today's activities have been modest, even by my oft-sluggish standards. Lunch of dining room fish (the Riu serves a lot of it, and is a damn good non-pork option, even if I can't trace its provenance). A copy of The Times, and articles explaining the potential collapse of the governing dictatorships of Iran and Formula 1 motor racing. A stroll along the tacky but impressive beachfront. And, naturally, a quest.
Ever since my abortive attempt to play rugby at London Business School in the 1990s, I have been and ever-increasing rugby fan. I even have chosen favorite countries--Argentina (following a great conversation with a true Argentine rugbyman in andean Bariloche), and Wales, because they have the best in-stadium singing.
Today's quest was to see a match between World Champs South Africa, and the "British and Irish Lions.".The Lions are one of rugby's most revered traditions. Every four years, they gather the best of Britain's and Ireland's rugby pros for a three match series against one of the sport's fearsome Southern Hemisphere powers--Australia, New Zealand and New Zealand.
Rather than seen as an all-star jolly to sunny climes, the Lions series actually exceeds Rugby's World Cup in prestige--particularly with the World Cup incumbents as the hosts. So this year's epic first match demanded viewing. Being in Bulgaria was no excuse. And two rules: no empty venues and no Boliarka beer. As a haunt with a fair British clientele, seaside pubs with satellite tv were quite common here. But venues with the Lions were fewer on the ground. Some were showing Formula 1 qualifying, others obscure Norwegian League football matches. One, conveniently located, was pouring Boliarka, the ugly duckling among Bulgaria's otherwise competent local brews, the one on tap at the Riu.
I walked another half hour down the strand, and a seaside restaurant with 8 flat screens beckoned, along with a dozen brits wearing football shirts from the likes of Swindon Town and whomever has FourFourTwo.com as its shirt sponsor.
The crowd was unsociable, my Wisconsin Badger shirt and Americanized cheering failing to produce any response from the throng. But the match was more than worth the stroll and the surliness--with an epic brittanohibernian fightback following some easy early points yielded to the South Africans, only for the hosts to stymie the hybrid nationals at the end.
Sleep instead beckoned, and today's activities have been modest, even by my oft-sluggish standards. Lunch of dining room fish (the Riu serves a lot of it, and is a damn good non-pork option, even if I can't trace its provenance). A copy of The Times, and articles explaining the potential collapse of the governing dictatorships of Iran and Formula 1 motor racing. A stroll along the tacky but impressive beachfront. And, naturally, a quest.
Ever since my abortive attempt to play rugby at London Business School in the 1990s, I have been and ever-increasing rugby fan. I even have chosen favorite countries--Argentina (following a great conversation with a true Argentine rugbyman in andean Bariloche), and Wales, because they have the best in-stadium singing.
Today's quest was to see a match between World Champs South Africa, and the "British and Irish Lions.".The Lions are one of rugby's most revered traditions. Every four years, they gather the best of Britain's and Ireland's rugby pros for a three match series against one of the sport's fearsome Southern Hemisphere powers--Australia, New Zealand and New Zealand.
Rather than seen as an all-star jolly to sunny climes, the Lions series actually exceeds Rugby's World Cup in prestige--particularly with the World Cup incumbents as the hosts. So this year's epic first match demanded viewing. Being in Bulgaria was no excuse. And two rules: no empty venues and no Boliarka beer. As a haunt with a fair British clientele, seaside pubs with satellite tv were quite common here. But venues with the Lions were fewer on the ground. Some were showing Formula 1 qualifying, others obscure Norwegian League football matches. One, conveniently located, was pouring Boliarka, the ugly duckling among Bulgaria's otherwise competent local brews, the one on tap at the Riu.
I walked another half hour down the strand, and a seaside restaurant with 8 flat screens beckoned, along with a dozen brits wearing football shirts from the likes of Swindon Town and whomever has FourFourTwo.com as its shirt sponsor.
The crowd was unsociable, my Wisconsin Badger shirt and Americanized cheering failing to produce any response from the throng. But the match was more than worth the stroll and the surliness--with an epic brittanohibernian fightback following some easy early points yielded to the South Africans, only for the hosts to stymie the hybrid nationals at the end.
Bulgaria--Flying Domestic
I wanted to give myself a good day in Sofia, and a chance to see the country, and still get back to Sunny Beach to make reasonable use of my all inclusive vacation.
So, the logical move was to take a daytime bus to Sofia to see the countryside, and then fly back to the coast the next night.
Now as I find myself in the midst of a four-hour preflight experience at Sofia's sparkling but nearly comatose airport terminal, I'm thinking I may have been better off "leaving the driving to " one of this countrs numerous bus operators.
The bus to Sofia was cheap and simple. 6 hours, 18 Euros, leaving 500 yards/meters from my hotel. New buses, and relatively new EU-funded roads.
The flight back--2 hour delay for a 45 minute flight. Fare of 65 Euros, and the prospect of negotiating for an overpriced airport taxi now that the flight will arrive 'round midnight.
Airport dinner was 8 Euros--a draft Shumensko beer and a sandwich--about three times the price "out on the economy."
I've only flown domestic twice in my leisure travels, or at least those outside the USA. The first, back on the 2 week rampage through Turkey in 1998 that followed my marital split-up, was excellent. First class on Turkish Airlines, and I felt like a star with my cocktail served in a real glass. The second, over the Andes with LAN Argentina's service between Bariloche and Buenos Aires' main domestic airport, whose name escapes me but which had the most enticing-looking steakhouse in all of air travel.
To be sure, air travel has improved in Eastern Yurp in recent years. Bulgaria saw the disappearance of it's commie-era national airline, Balkan, and its replacement with tonight's tardiness culprit, Bulgaria Air. While Bulgaria Air doesn't belong to a major Western frequent flyer program, it does operate an all -Western fleet, including tonight's veteran Boeing 737. And, for effect, a large Lufthansa Technik maintenance hangar on the airport ground reassures the traveler.
So, the logical move was to take a daytime bus to Sofia to see the countryside, and then fly back to the coast the next night.
Now as I find myself in the midst of a four-hour preflight experience at Sofia's sparkling but nearly comatose airport terminal, I'm thinking I may have been better off "leaving the driving to " one of this countrs numerous bus operators.
The bus to Sofia was cheap and simple. 6 hours, 18 Euros, leaving 500 yards/meters from my hotel. New buses, and relatively new EU-funded roads.
The flight back--2 hour delay for a 45 minute flight. Fare of 65 Euros, and the prospect of negotiating for an overpriced airport taxi now that the flight will arrive 'round midnight.
Airport dinner was 8 Euros--a draft Shumensko beer and a sandwich--about three times the price "out on the economy."
I've only flown domestic twice in my leisure travels, or at least those outside the USA. The first, back on the 2 week rampage through Turkey in 1998 that followed my marital split-up, was excellent. First class on Turkish Airlines, and I felt like a star with my cocktail served in a real glass. The second, over the Andes with LAN Argentina's service between Bariloche and Buenos Aires' main domestic airport, whose name escapes me but which had the most enticing-looking steakhouse in all of air travel.
To be sure, air travel has improved in Eastern Yurp in recent years. Bulgaria saw the disappearance of it's commie-era national airline, Balkan, and its replacement with tonight's tardiness culprit, Bulgaria Air. While Bulgaria Air doesn't belong to a major Western frequent flyer program, it does operate an all -Western fleet, including tonight's veteran Boeing 737. And, for effect, a large Lufthansa Technik maintenance hangar on the airport ground reassures the traveler.
Bulgaria--Another Balkan Capital
Seated at one of Sofia's ubiquitous in-park outdoor cafes, I have a few minutes to reflect on my detour from my otherwise-all-inclusive beach holiday...
There was no question Sofia was worth both the visit and the schlep required to get in and out.It is not that Sofia is overwhelming or even all that aesthetically pleasing. More like an American state capitals rather than one of Europe's top cities, Sofia has little history to speak of, having been selected as Bulgaria's new capital in the 1890s. What little is here of architectural note is mostly fin de siecle in style, with a few Russian-style influences.
Sofia was also bombed intensively during WWII, but it was unclear by whom, as the Bulgarians switched sides in 1944. Outside of Sofia's small centre is a sea of what the Czechs call "panelaks"--the crumbling, dissheveled mid and high rise apartments bult of bad concrete to house the masses in Commie days.
In a fit of generosity during the democratic transition, the state gave most if not all of the flats to their occupants. This factoid explains a lot. Like how Bulgarians can live on an average monthly wage of about $300. And how even the most average of folks can have 1,2,3 properties. The economy was fuelled by a construction boom before, like economies everywhere, it stopped being fuelled at all.
Further out, onto Vitosha Mountain, lives Roy, an Antipodean ex-colleague of mine from our days at a quirky London communications consultancy. I was a huge fan of his at a number of levels (not least of which were his wit and healthy skepticism of our now-defunct company's culture), and the opportunity to pay a visit was one decisive reason for choosing Bulgaria. Roy did not disappoint. Now the Chief Executive of a leading Bulgarian commercial concern, Roy shared excellent stories about working and leading in an environment with a long and continuing history of being downtrodden. Roy looks the locals in the eye and doesn't buy their stories or take their crap, which they attempt to dish out in abundance. Roy has a great set up in Sofia--a beautiful mountainside home overlooking the city's expanse and "only 17 minutes to the snowfields" on Vitosha, a mountain with Olympic aspirations. (Sofia lost out to Sochi for the 2014 winter games).
But it quickly becomes apparent that being an expat here is several divisions ahead of my expat-lite experience in Brussels. "We needed to make sure there were several alternative heating systems. We avoided the gas shutdown (when Russia cut off all of Europe's gas to punish the Ukrainians), but we also have electricity and diesel as well.". Schooling is also a challenge, and security a concern. "We do live in a walled enclosure," noted Roy of his home's otherwise idyllic setting.
There was no question Sofia was worth both the visit and the schlep required to get in and out.It is not that Sofia is overwhelming or even all that aesthetically pleasing. More like an American state capitals rather than one of Europe's top cities, Sofia has little history to speak of, having been selected as Bulgaria's new capital in the 1890s. What little is here of architectural note is mostly fin de siecle in style, with a few Russian-style influences.
Sofia was also bombed intensively during WWII, but it was unclear by whom, as the Bulgarians switched sides in 1944. Outside of Sofia's small centre is a sea of what the Czechs call "panelaks"--the crumbling, dissheveled mid and high rise apartments bult of bad concrete to house the masses in Commie days.
In a fit of generosity during the democratic transition, the state gave most if not all of the flats to their occupants. This factoid explains a lot. Like how Bulgarians can live on an average monthly wage of about $300. And how even the most average of folks can have 1,2,3 properties. The economy was fuelled by a construction boom before, like economies everywhere, it stopped being fuelled at all.
Further out, onto Vitosha Mountain, lives Roy, an Antipodean ex-colleague of mine from our days at a quirky London communications consultancy. I was a huge fan of his at a number of levels (not least of which were his wit and healthy skepticism of our now-defunct company's culture), and the opportunity to pay a visit was one decisive reason for choosing Bulgaria. Roy did not disappoint. Now the Chief Executive of a leading Bulgarian commercial concern, Roy shared excellent stories about working and leading in an environment with a long and continuing history of being downtrodden. Roy looks the locals in the eye and doesn't buy their stories or take their crap, which they attempt to dish out in abundance. Roy has a great set up in Sofia--a beautiful mountainside home overlooking the city's expanse and "only 17 minutes to the snowfields" on Vitosha, a mountain with Olympic aspirations. (Sofia lost out to Sochi for the 2014 winter games).
But it quickly becomes apparent that being an expat here is several divisions ahead of my expat-lite experience in Brussels. "We needed to make sure there were several alternative heating systems. We avoided the gas shutdown (when Russia cut off all of Europe's gas to punish the Ukrainians), but we also have electricity and diesel as well.". Schooling is also a challenge, and security a concern. "We do live in a walled enclosure," noted Roy of his home's otherwise idyllic setting.
Bulgaria-Day 3
After a long sleep-in brought on by my lack of somnolescence following the virtuoso performance by the Globally Famous DJ Sash at SB's Den Glade Viking, I took one look at the pool area and its collection of aging Germans and tattooed Brits, and then call again for a road trip.
Yesterday's trip, to Nessebar, a small but cute Bulgarian seaside town of Romanesque provenance was pleasant if predictable. Lots of souvenir shops, everything at the relatively modest but high for Bulgaria tourist prices.
Today's trip, Burgas, was the real deal. An old school Black Sea port cum beach town, with a resort atmosphere set in authentically ex-commie digs.
One thing that's always struck me about ex-commie places is the sheer numbers of buildings with multiple layers of peeling paint. I first noticed this in Rugen, a Baltic resort that once catered to Erich Honecker and the heavies of the old DDR (East Germany for those who never saw the classic, Goodbye Lenin). Rather than marking eyesores, the peeling paint speaks to these buildings being witnesses to history, as the history in these parts was turbulent over the last 70+ years.
Bulgaria's history is interesting enough. A Nazi ally which nonetheless saved its 50,000 member Jewish community, Bulgaria switched sides to the USSR in 1944 and later embraced communism to such an extent that it asked to be annexed to the USSR in 1973. They must have dug Brezhnev's eyebrows, I guess.
Today, Burgas at eventide is bustling if not ostentatiously prosperous (guys in t-shirts driving late-model Mercedes notwithstanding). Streetside cafes are about half full. Prices are a little cheaper than in Sunny Beach, menus in Cyrillic and either English or German, depending on the place.
Cyrillic is fun. Invented by Bulgarians Cyril and Methodius, who were later sainted for their literacy-spreading deeds, it is at its most fun when Westerners mangle the pronunciation of letters like B, C, H and P, which have differing sounds in the roman alphabet. As was once said of a Moscow dining establishment, "I once thought that 'PECTOPAH' meant 'restaurant'. Then I ate there, and realised that in fact, it really meant 'PECTOPAH'.". To be fair, in Bulgaria, restaurant means 'PECTOPAHT'. I haven't had a bad meal yet, to be fair.
Yesterday's trip, to Nessebar, a small but cute Bulgarian seaside town of Romanesque provenance was pleasant if predictable. Lots of souvenir shops, everything at the relatively modest but high for Bulgaria tourist prices.
Today's trip, Burgas, was the real deal. An old school Black Sea port cum beach town, with a resort atmosphere set in authentically ex-commie digs.
One thing that's always struck me about ex-commie places is the sheer numbers of buildings with multiple layers of peeling paint. I first noticed this in Rugen, a Baltic resort that once catered to Erich Honecker and the heavies of the old DDR (East Germany for those who never saw the classic, Goodbye Lenin). Rather than marking eyesores, the peeling paint speaks to these buildings being witnesses to history, as the history in these parts was turbulent over the last 70+ years.
Bulgaria's history is interesting enough. A Nazi ally which nonetheless saved its 50,000 member Jewish community, Bulgaria switched sides to the USSR in 1944 and later embraced communism to such an extent that it asked to be annexed to the USSR in 1973. They must have dug Brezhnev's eyebrows, I guess.
Today, Burgas at eventide is bustling if not ostentatiously prosperous (guys in t-shirts driving late-model Mercedes notwithstanding). Streetside cafes are about half full. Prices are a little cheaper than in Sunny Beach, menus in Cyrillic and either English or German, depending on the place.
Cyrillic is fun. Invented by Bulgarians Cyril and Methodius, who were later sainted for their literacy-spreading deeds, it is at its most fun when Westerners mangle the pronunciation of letters like B, C, H and P, which have differing sounds in the roman alphabet. As was once said of a Moscow dining establishment, "I once thought that 'PECTOPAH' meant 'restaurant'. Then I ate there, and realised that in fact, it really meant 'PECTOPAH'.". To be fair, in Bulgaria, restaurant means 'PECTOPAHT'. I haven't had a bad meal yet, to be fair.
Bulgaria-Day 2
I have started to realize why I am growing to like this place so much. Unlike Greece which oozes Greekness, Italy which overwhelms with la dolce Italiana and the overwrought pungence of baked Parmesan, and Turkey with its addictive mix of Ataturkian ultranationalism, chilled-out Islamism and the dynamism of the diminutive Sezen Aksu, one of her iconic stars; Bulgaria does not attempt to have its visitors take it ultra-seriously.
Indeed, according to Lonely Planet, the national dish, Shopska salad, was manufactured by the Bulgarian Tourist Office in the 1970s to create some distinctive Bulgarianness on menus that even in Commie days tended towards bland internationalism. I've avoided it as I prefer the glorious local tomatoes without the adulturation of sheep cheese, raw onions, of which I am no fan, and cucumbers, which are equally tasteless everywhere.
Unlike in other holiday locales, where locals are keen to exult their nation's patrimonies and glories, Bulgarians express surprise at the interest of visitors. No more so in the case of the exceedingly rare Yanks on these Black Sea shores."Long flight!" said one Black Sea publican, expressing amazement that an American would venture here, and spreading his arms out for effect. I then told hime I actually lived in Brussels. What I left out was that the 3 hours en route aboard the aging 767 employed for Jetairfly flight 7147 brought me closer to The Creator than any recent transatlantic trip on an Airbus 330.
Immediately, my publican friend tells me about his relative in Chicago, and why the Bulgarian mafia sucks so much. I didn't argue. And, after watching the second half of the taped Romania-Uruguay rugby test match on Eurosport 2, I made a point of tipping well.
Bulgaria indeed gets very few Yank tourists. The main Black Sea airport at Burgas is nearly inaccessible, serviced mainly by charters from the UK, Germany, the Nordics and the Benelux, with twice weekly commuter flights from Sofia to connect with the global scheduled network. A round trip from a major Midwestern city that isn't Chicago costs about $3500.
By comparison, a week a one of my Riu's sister properties in the Dominican Republic costs a hell of a lot less than $3.5k. And they probably serve better beer and caipirinhas. I have only two complaints about the Riu two days in. One--they serve Bulgaria's worst beer on the all inclusive menu, Boliarka, and don't even offer a paid upgrade to the likes of Bulgaria's competent Zagorka or Kamenitza. And the watered down lemon Koolaid called a "Caipirinha" should spur inspired outrage from offended limes everywhere. Yuck!
Indeed, according to Lonely Planet, the national dish, Shopska salad, was manufactured by the Bulgarian Tourist Office in the 1970s to create some distinctive Bulgarianness on menus that even in Commie days tended towards bland internationalism. I've avoided it as I prefer the glorious local tomatoes without the adulturation of sheep cheese, raw onions, of which I am no fan, and cucumbers, which are equally tasteless everywhere.
Unlike in other holiday locales, where locals are keen to exult their nation's patrimonies and glories, Bulgarians express surprise at the interest of visitors. No more so in the case of the exceedingly rare Yanks on these Black Sea shores."Long flight!" said one Black Sea publican, expressing amazement that an American would venture here, and spreading his arms out for effect. I then told hime I actually lived in Brussels. What I left out was that the 3 hours en route aboard the aging 767 employed for Jetairfly flight 7147 brought me closer to The Creator than any recent transatlantic trip on an Airbus 330.
Immediately, my publican friend tells me about his relative in Chicago, and why the Bulgarian mafia sucks so much. I didn't argue. And, after watching the second half of the taped Romania-Uruguay rugby test match on Eurosport 2, I made a point of tipping well.
Bulgaria indeed gets very few Yank tourists. The main Black Sea airport at Burgas is nearly inaccessible, serviced mainly by charters from the UK, Germany, the Nordics and the Benelux, with twice weekly commuter flights from Sofia to connect with the global scheduled network. A round trip from a major Midwestern city that isn't Chicago costs about $3500.
By comparison, a week a one of my Riu's sister properties in the Dominican Republic costs a hell of a lot less than $3.5k. And they probably serve better beer and caipirinhas. I have only two complaints about the Riu two days in. One--they serve Bulgaria's worst beer on the all inclusive menu, Boliarka, and don't even offer a paid upgrade to the likes of Bulgaria's competent Zagorka or Kamenitza. And the watered down lemon Koolaid called a "Caipirinha" should spur inspired outrage from offended limes everywhere. Yuck!
Bulgaria-Day 1
Barely 18 hours into my visit to the shores of the Black Sea and I feel well and truly on vacation. Not sure if that's more a function of my interleaving of weak all-inclusive cocktails with strong cups of Nescafe, or whether the relaxed atmosphere of Sunny Beach, Bulgaria has ensnared me with its charm.
Sunny Beach, on the surface, is a complete abomination. Imagine a seaside knockoff of Las Vegas done up in Oligarch chic. Lots of new buildings in bright colors and bad concrete. But a different class of bad concrete than was used in Commie days, with but a few old-school reminders of the Big Red Machine interspersed among hotels like the Planeta, Hrizantema, and Polyusi.
The Riu Helios Palace is an oasis in this sea of post-communist tourist mayhem. An outpost of the Spanish-German Riu chain, it is four-star both in rating and performance. Not ultra-luxurious, but competently run and with a fairly high standard of food, drink and accomodation served up to a fairly well-screened northern European clientele.
Being a single at an all-inclusive is always a bit of a challenge, particularly when one isn't actively "on the pull" (once again, my vacation coincides with the early stage of a new relationship conversation). Mostly, I'm interested in meeting some new buddies to take in Sunny Beach's legendary dance-music nightlife with. But even sans buddies, there is an abundance of entertainment here--mostly to be gained from watching the legions of young Scandinavians letting their hair down to the techno beat.
Sunny Beach, on the surface, is a complete abomination. Imagine a seaside knockoff of Las Vegas done up in Oligarch chic. Lots of new buildings in bright colors and bad concrete. But a different class of bad concrete than was used in Commie days, with but a few old-school reminders of the Big Red Machine interspersed among hotels like the Planeta, Hrizantema, and Polyusi.
The Riu Helios Palace is an oasis in this sea of post-communist tourist mayhem. An outpost of the Spanish-German Riu chain, it is four-star both in rating and performance. Not ultra-luxurious, but competently run and with a fairly high standard of food, drink and accomodation served up to a fairly well-screened northern European clientele.
Being a single at an all-inclusive is always a bit of a challenge, particularly when one isn't actively "on the pull" (once again, my vacation coincides with the early stage of a new relationship conversation). Mostly, I'm interested in meeting some new buddies to take in Sunny Beach's legendary dance-music nightlife with. But even sans buddies, there is an abundance of entertainment here--mostly to be gained from watching the legions of young Scandinavians letting their hair down to the techno beat.
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