Monday, January 12, 2009
Back
Well, in case you didn't know I'm back in the USA (go ahead, chant: "USA USA USA!" You have my permission). In fact, I've been here for about a month now. Anyways I have about 8 blog posts I've written that I need to clean up and post and about 720-750 photos I need to edit. Not really looking forward to either of those...
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Video update from Turkey
Warning: I swear like a sailor in this one. Like a puppy peeing on the floor, I tend to pepper my speech with obscenities when I get really excited.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Finally
I'm in Bratislava and finally got around to posting my travels through Bulgaria. I'm off to Turkey tomorrow so I'm hoping to have some time to start working on editing the photos of Romania tonight. We'll see if I get anything up in the next few days.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Go Go Go Go
I've been on the move quite a bit in the past three weeks. I'm trying to put together posts on Sofia, Veliko Tarnovo, the Black Sea coast, trains and Romania. We'll see how much I can plow through in the next few hours on this couch. Currently I'm back at Backpack Hostel in Budapest. This is the first town I've returned to on this trip. It was a really cool experience to wake up, get off a train and have some strange feeling of familiarity as I exited the station.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Varna to Brasov: Part II
Uh, my train didn't go to Brasov. I was on the right train but it didn't go where my ticket said it did. I want to make it back home with a few stories people haven't heard yet so I'm not gonna post this one. If you're curious, ask.
Varna to Brasov
At least I’m on the right train. I almost missed it. I’d be stuck in Ruse if I hadn’t made friends with a taxi driver/hustler here in the station. I’m not sure what his deal is but he tries to catch people coming off the train and offers them trips over the boarder to Bucharest. He is “special taxi man, cause not in taxi.” I think that means he has a car.
Anyways I’m not sure how the train schedules and signs work here. There was something about Budapest on the departures section of the train board about an hour ago but it quickly disappeared after a strange announcement. I was told “you wait, late.” So I waited… After two weeks I can barely read Cyrillic but, using a cheat sheet, I could tell that my train wasn’t listed on the board in the station. No Bucharest, no Brasov and no Budapest. Then my friend shouted at me, “What you do? Go now! Train!”
So here I am on the train. I’m not sure what the sign said but, the conductor assures me it’s going to Brasov.
My quick check with the direction of the sun says that we’re headed in the right direction, however I smashed my thumb in the cabin door on the way back in. It’s a day of ups and downs but I’m really enjoying it. It’s a total adventure.
I’m going to try and finish up my novel before arriving in Brasov but before I go, I’d love to share a few things:
Last night rocked for the simple reason that I found one of the coolest little lodging bargains in Varna. Art Hotel runs about $28/night for a single room in the center of town. For this price, I got my own cozy little room and bathroom, stylishly decked out in square modern furnishing, cable TV and free internet. I was planning on staying at Flag Varna Hostel but despite what Lonely Planet and Let’s Go say, they’re not open in the winter. I found this out after trying to knock on the door at 3PM, 5PM and 6PM. You think they’d have a sign…
Lost in translation moments are abound here. Hand gestures, wild sounds, head nodding and lots of laughter.
In another type of cultural experience, a 7 year old kid asked me for a cigarette as I waited in Varna’s central square. I gave him a piece of gum. He spit it out and shouted, “Cigarro! Cigarette! You give me! Gum for baby.” I don’t even smoke…
For my goodbye Bulgaria dinner I went to a Turkish restaurant where I feasted for about $10. This got me a tasty salad, full chicken plate (a full pound of freakin’ chicken and a grilled chicken heart on the side), a half liter of beer and custard desert. I’ll also add that Bulgarian cafeterias have won my heart. Just point, smile, act like a stupid tourist and they’ll pile on the food.
This morning I found an amazing bakery. Honestly, if you’re ever in Varna, you have to go to *** for breakfast. Tell ‘em Brendan sent you (if only for the strange, “I don’t understand but you’re funny” looks you’ll get). Get the chocolate croissant. In addition to its magnus gigantius size, you’ll enjoy the fact that it’s dipped in chocolate and completely filled with a dark espresso chocolate goo that is so rich, tasty and explosive that you’ll be licking it off your fingers for lunch. I’m glad I ate it in private.
We just crossed the Danube and I’m back in the world of an alphabet I’m fluent in. Everything is still made out of concrete but at least the billboards are phonetically familiar.
Which also brings us to passport control time and, from what I’ve heard, this takes a while. I’m known as Mr. Cox in these places. I have the urge to tell them Mr. Cox is my dad, I’m Brendan, BCox or even B-Dog but I can’t do that. Border controls fill my heart with an uncomfortable guilty dread. I doubt I’m alone in this sentiment. I feel like they’re going to go through my bags, inquire about my taste in travel literature and ask about why I bought the cherry Danish instead of the apple fritter:
“You are American yes? American like Apple Pie… WHY YOU GET CHERRY?”
I can’t help but feel as if I’m looked upon as a threat in these places. Like I’m punching a hole into their territory or intruding on their sovereignty. Once through, I always realize that they’re not the SS or the American border patrol. I’m not a suspect and they’re not the Gestapo. They’re just guys with a job to do: Go down the rows of trains, fill out forms, address passengers by their last names and put stamps in their passports..
Hey, another stamp. Cool!
Anyways I’m not sure how the train schedules and signs work here. There was something about Budapest on the departures section of the train board about an hour ago but it quickly disappeared after a strange announcement. I was told “you wait, late.” So I waited… After two weeks I can barely read Cyrillic but, using a cheat sheet, I could tell that my train wasn’t listed on the board in the station. No Bucharest, no Brasov and no Budapest. Then my friend shouted at me, “What you do? Go now! Train!”
So here I am on the train. I’m not sure what the sign said but, the conductor assures me it’s going to Brasov.
My quick check with the direction of the sun says that we’re headed in the right direction, however I smashed my thumb in the cabin door on the way back in. It’s a day of ups and downs but I’m really enjoying it. It’s a total adventure.
I’m going to try and finish up my novel before arriving in Brasov but before I go, I’d love to share a few things:
Last night rocked for the simple reason that I found one of the coolest little lodging bargains in Varna. Art Hotel runs about $28/night for a single room in the center of town. For this price, I got my own cozy little room and bathroom, stylishly decked out in square modern furnishing, cable TV and free internet. I was planning on staying at Flag Varna Hostel but despite what Lonely Planet and Let’s Go say, they’re not open in the winter. I found this out after trying to knock on the door at 3PM, 5PM and 6PM. You think they’d have a sign…
Lost in translation moments are abound here. Hand gestures, wild sounds, head nodding and lots of laughter.
In another type of cultural experience, a 7 year old kid asked me for a cigarette as I waited in Varna’s central square. I gave him a piece of gum. He spit it out and shouted, “Cigarro! Cigarette! You give me! Gum for baby.” I don’t even smoke…
For my goodbye Bulgaria dinner I went to a Turkish restaurant where I feasted for about $10. This got me a tasty salad, full chicken plate (a full pound of freakin’ chicken and a grilled chicken heart on the side), a half liter of beer and custard desert. I’ll also add that Bulgarian cafeterias have won my heart. Just point, smile, act like a stupid tourist and they’ll pile on the food.
This morning I found an amazing bakery. Honestly, if you’re ever in Varna, you have to go to *** for breakfast. Tell ‘em Brendan sent you (if only for the strange, “I don’t understand but you’re funny” looks you’ll get). Get the chocolate croissant. In addition to its magnus gigantius size, you’ll enjoy the fact that it’s dipped in chocolate and completely filled with a dark espresso chocolate goo that is so rich, tasty and explosive that you’ll be licking it off your fingers for lunch. I’m glad I ate it in private.
We just crossed the Danube and I’m back in the world of an alphabet I’m fluent in. Everything is still made out of concrete but at least the billboards are phonetically familiar.
Which also brings us to passport control time and, from what I’ve heard, this takes a while. I’m known as Mr. Cox in these places. I have the urge to tell them Mr. Cox is my dad, I’m Brendan, BCox or even B-Dog but I can’t do that. Border controls fill my heart with an uncomfortable guilty dread. I doubt I’m alone in this sentiment. I feel like they’re going to go through my bags, inquire about my taste in travel literature and ask about why I bought the cherry Danish instead of the apple fritter:
“You are American yes? American like Apple Pie… WHY YOU GET CHERRY?”
I can’t help but feel as if I’m looked upon as a threat in these places. Like I’m punching a hole into their territory or intruding on their sovereignty. Once through, I always realize that they’re not the SS or the American border patrol. I’m not a suspect and they’re not the Gestapo. They’re just guys with a job to do: Go down the rows of trains, fill out forms, address passengers by their last names and put stamps in their passports..
Hey, another stamp. Cool!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Bulgaria: Sozopol
I’m spending the night in Sozopol where it’s cold, windy, cloudy and dark outside. A week ago I had no idea I would begin an entry about the black sea with a sentence like that. I was assured by many people that it would be warm and wonderful here.
I can say with certainty that none of those people have ever been on the Black Sea coast in November. It’s freezing cold here. This is the type of cold that can only be found on a chilly beach in the middle of the off season. It’s a pretty town but everything has been shut down and boarded up for the winter so I feel like I’m staying in the residential portion of an old, abandoned amusement park. The umbrellas have been stripped of their cloth, leaving only heavy rusted iron skeletons. The only thing of value left in most outdoor bars and cabanas is the concrete seating areas and shell of the bar, all covered in bright paint the color of summertime.
I think that the tourist season must have recently ended because the highlight of my day was watching someone clear out their bar for the winter. The bar was located on the top of a rocky cliff so their moving technique was awesome: they simply threw all their cheap furniture and junk out of the window and onto the rocks below. Chairs, broken tables, bamboo thingies, lampshades and other items were simply cast off like an Anasazi spring cleaning[1]. For about 5 minutes I sat on the beach and watched all these items smash on the rocks below.
In hindsight, I might have witnessed the Bulgarian Mafia ransacking a bar….
Anyways, I’ve spent my time here walking around, taking pictures and walking around a bit more. There isn’t much more to do here. There are a few overpriced restaurants and cafes but that’s about it. Any public place I spend a bit of time in, I can’t help but feel like I’m intruding on these people’s lives. The economy of the black sea coast is heavily dependent on tourism (e.g. Sunny Beach has three times more hotel space than the beach can accommodate) but it’s obviously a summer time thing. From my interactions I can’t help but feel like I’m strangely out of place and out of time. I get concerned and confused looks like I’ve shown up right at the final buzzer of a sporting event or just in time for the curtain call of a play.
Tonight I’m staying in a simple guesthouse. The place is in Lonely Planet and it consists of 3 cold rooms on the second floor of an older couple’s house. It’s outfitted with creaky doors, strange plumbing and skeleton keys for the rooms. Nice. After ringing the doorbell a few times and waiting a bit, I engaged in a scene that I’ve reenacted in almost every city I’ve stayed in across Bulgaria: A strange man or woman approaches you on the street and motions at the place where you’re staying. He then tries to tell you (usually in Bulgarian punctuated with wild hand gestures) that it’s (a) expensive, (b) cold, (c) noisy or (d) filled with gypsies. What strikes me is that they’re not trying to sell me on alternative accommodations but they’re just trying to scare me away. For Sozopol, the man in question went for a combination of options A and B. This was a bit of a bummer because the ones who skip A B and C and go straight for the gypsies are by far the most entertaining of the bunch. Old ranting and raving bigots tend put a lot more heart into their practiced attempts to dissuade you.
Other Sozopol highlights include the taxi drivers waiting for a fare at the Burgas bus terminal. One the drivers I talked to actually lives in Sozopol. We communicated enough that I know he’s a bit shady and he knows I’m from California. An hour after I arrived, I found him back here hustling for fares in the central square. Every time I pass through the square he sings out “CALI-FORN-YA!” and points me out to his friends. I can’t help but feel like it’s a bit patronizing but I can’t help but smile and bust out a jiggy dance move for him.
I’m a good ambassador.
Most of the buildings here are made of wood. I like this because I’m sick of concrete by now. I might find the time to rant more about building materials in a later entry. For now, all you need to know is that I have a sinking suspicion that you can learn a lot about a people by how they build their homes and infrastructure. I’m going to have to fight the urge to throw a brick through every CVS or Walgreen’s window I see when I get back.
Finally, I’ll leave you a with an idea that is totally removed from travel and anything else I’ve talked about here. While hiding from the cold in a nice café I finally had the opportunity to read the transcript of Malcolm Gladwell’s talk: Age Before Beauty. It’s absolutely beautiful and completely inspiring. I think he’s about to publish a book on Genius and his talk ties in with the subject. If you’ve ever been interested in the difference between greatness achieved at a young age vs. greatness achieved later on in life go and read it. Absolutely fascinating.
And with that, I slip back into the dimly lit cold streets to find a store that sells Chocolate and Rakia: a nasty and cheap liquor made from grapes, plums and whatever other fruits a distiller might have lying around. One US dollar gets you approximately a half pint of 80 proof liquor. I’m not an alcoholic but it’ll help warm up my cold and dim single bedroom.
[1] The area below Mesa Verde yielded a gold mine of broken Native American artifacts because the Anasazi simply threw their trash and broken wares down the hills behind their settlements.
I can say with certainty that none of those people have ever been on the Black Sea coast in November. It’s freezing cold here. This is the type of cold that can only be found on a chilly beach in the middle of the off season. It’s a pretty town but everything has been shut down and boarded up for the winter so I feel like I’m staying in the residential portion of an old, abandoned amusement park. The umbrellas have been stripped of their cloth, leaving only heavy rusted iron skeletons. The only thing of value left in most outdoor bars and cabanas is the concrete seating areas and shell of the bar, all covered in bright paint the color of summertime.
I think that the tourist season must have recently ended because the highlight of my day was watching someone clear out their bar for the winter. The bar was located on the top of a rocky cliff so their moving technique was awesome: they simply threw all their cheap furniture and junk out of the window and onto the rocks below. Chairs, broken tables, bamboo thingies, lampshades and other items were simply cast off like an Anasazi spring cleaning[1]. For about 5 minutes I sat on the beach and watched all these items smash on the rocks below.
In hindsight, I might have witnessed the Bulgarian Mafia ransacking a bar….
Anyways, I’ve spent my time here walking around, taking pictures and walking around a bit more. There isn’t much more to do here. There are a few overpriced restaurants and cafes but that’s about it. Any public place I spend a bit of time in, I can’t help but feel like I’m intruding on these people’s lives. The economy of the black sea coast is heavily dependent on tourism (e.g. Sunny Beach has three times more hotel space than the beach can accommodate) but it’s obviously a summer time thing. From my interactions I can’t help but feel like I’m strangely out of place and out of time. I get concerned and confused looks like I’ve shown up right at the final buzzer of a sporting event or just in time for the curtain call of a play.
Tonight I’m staying in a simple guesthouse. The place is in Lonely Planet and it consists of 3 cold rooms on the second floor of an older couple’s house. It’s outfitted with creaky doors, strange plumbing and skeleton keys for the rooms. Nice. After ringing the doorbell a few times and waiting a bit, I engaged in a scene that I’ve reenacted in almost every city I’ve stayed in across Bulgaria: A strange man or woman approaches you on the street and motions at the place where you’re staying. He then tries to tell you (usually in Bulgarian punctuated with wild hand gestures) that it’s (a) expensive, (b) cold, (c) noisy or (d) filled with gypsies. What strikes me is that they’re not trying to sell me on alternative accommodations but they’re just trying to scare me away. For Sozopol, the man in question went for a combination of options A and B. This was a bit of a bummer because the ones who skip A B and C and go straight for the gypsies are by far the most entertaining of the bunch. Old ranting and raving bigots tend put a lot more heart into their practiced attempts to dissuade you.
Other Sozopol highlights include the taxi drivers waiting for a fare at the Burgas bus terminal. One the drivers I talked to actually lives in Sozopol. We communicated enough that I know he’s a bit shady and he knows I’m from California. An hour after I arrived, I found him back here hustling for fares in the central square. Every time I pass through the square he sings out “CALI-FORN-YA!” and points me out to his friends. I can’t help but feel like it’s a bit patronizing but I can’t help but smile and bust out a jiggy dance move for him.
I’m a good ambassador.
Most of the buildings here are made of wood. I like this because I’m sick of concrete by now. I might find the time to rant more about building materials in a later entry. For now, all you need to know is that I have a sinking suspicion that you can learn a lot about a people by how they build their homes and infrastructure. I’m going to have to fight the urge to throw a brick through every CVS or Walgreen’s window I see when I get back.
Finally, I’ll leave you a with an idea that is totally removed from travel and anything else I’ve talked about here. While hiding from the cold in a nice café I finally had the opportunity to read the transcript of Malcolm Gladwell’s talk: Age Before Beauty. It’s absolutely beautiful and completely inspiring. I think he’s about to publish a book on Genius and his talk ties in with the subject. If you’ve ever been interested in the difference between greatness achieved at a young age vs. greatness achieved later on in life go and read it. Absolutely fascinating.
And with that, I slip back into the dimly lit cold streets to find a store that sells Chocolate and Rakia: a nasty and cheap liquor made from grapes, plums and whatever other fruits a distiller might have lying around. One US dollar gets you approximately a half pint of 80 proof liquor. I’m not an alcoholic but it’ll help warm up my cold and dim single bedroom.
[1] The area below Mesa Verde yielded a gold mine of broken Native American artifacts because the Anasazi simply threw their trash and broken wares down the hills behind their settlements.
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