Sofia, So Good - Day:The Last

"Here is difference between Bulgarian and Russian businessman. When you come to a Bulgarian with a proposal, he will say, 'no, this will not work," and that is the end of it. When you come to the Russian, he will say, 'no, this will not work... for me. I have a friend who might be interested. Here is his information."

Chapter 9 - The Mountain, The Meatballs, The Mushrooms, Farewell

Perfect weather on the final day. Nenko offered to take me to the mountains, and I had to weigh whether or not to accept that offer or take one last day trip to a remote city. I figured having a local guide and experience was probably the most exciting option.

He had some work to do, I had some writing to do, we showered, his mother left to go to her Senior Choir Club, and we were off.  "We will have a nice climb," he said, "and then we will have some delicious meatballs at a special place I know."

We had had some eggs for breakfast, but the promise of these meatballs fired me up for sure. Local guide!

On the way, we passed an apartment building shaped like a snail, and I begged him to stop. He said he had thought it was a pumpkin.

The mountain is called Vitosha and was easily reached. It's apparently a popular place to ski, but we would be hiking. Some time ago, I bought some absurd duck-hunting boots because they were on sale. Some imp of the perverse had me wear them on this trip, and they were at last serving their purpose.

Upward we drove, winding through the stone path, up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen. Hilarious oldies like, "When You're in Love With a Beautiful Woman," and the like crackled on the radio and I sang along and laughed. When you're in a good mood on a nice day, oldies sure make you smile.

Up, up, up, spiraling through a forest of bright yellow and fierce orange. We twisted through a path alternately blinding and shadowed. We passed closed ski lift stations and hillside cafes. "In the season, there are delicious soups here and mountain tea," he said.

We parked. He suggested I not take my camera bag, but... I wanted to. I never hike, so the idea of extra weight was just a concept to me. Why not carry my whole home like the apartment snail?

Sweaters on, we began our climb through stamped-down grasses, using roots and stones as stair steps. The air was pure and cold. It felt good to breathe it. We passed an Austrian, a huge-thighed human billboard for sporting goods.

We forded trickling streams and smelled strange plants, crushing their dried leaves in our fingers. We were soon surrounded by large beds of lava rock and the city became a Georges Braque canvas far below. Smeary and abstract, hazy brown dotted with white.

My pack grew heavy and I thought about being a soldier. I thought about The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. I was tired very quickly, but I kept on. He was some steps ahead of me. Gravel and tall grass. Timber and mud.

"We are halfway to earning our meatballs!" he said. That put some Seattle in my step. I climbed past rocks spray-painted with red arrows. We were going the right way.

He pointed out the highest peak and asked if I wanted to go there. I told him the second or third highest would do just fine, thank you. He asked if I was tired. I said yes. "Thank god!" he said, "I am not alone."

Apparently there is a Bulgarian idiom for being tired that translates as something like, "I am a yellow cheese on a hot day," so he called us the "Yellow Cheese Mountaineers."  I liked that very much.

We stopped talking and concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other, still sloping upward. I shed my sweater. My body was wet with effort. When we reached the highest point to which we would climb, we looked down and saluted the path we'd taken.

The first steps going down were as beautiful as an affair. You make that turn from the Upward to the Downward, and your soul is a pink piece of lobster flesh sliding out of a hollow claw. I would go on. I would live.

I would be sometimes off balance, and I would take perilous steps, but somehow I kept my feet each time. No stumbles, no twists. Perhaps the great Mammon himself steadied by shoulders. Praise him. Praise Mammon!

Breathless but happy, we wound down down down, until at last we had reached the bottom. We looked back at the peak and saluted a second time. A rare second salute. He asked me if I was ready for those meatballs. I had forgotten them. I was ready for them.

Threw my bags and sweater in an exhausted heap and get in the car. Mad corkscrew back to civilization, The radio crackled and crooned unrecognizably until at last George Michael broke through. "I don't want your freeeeedom," he sang. Lovelove.

At the base, we made a right, went under a bridge, took an exit and arrived at the promised meatball restaurant.

IKEA cafeteria.

I lost it laughing. I hope he wasn't insulted. It was nice inside and they were just fine. What did I expect? Folk dancing? I also had something called Swedish Festival Juice. Don't ask.

On the way home he told me about a farm his father had left him out in Birgas on the Black Sea Coast. They used to grow grapes, but gypsies steal grapes, so you can't make any money, because you do all the work, and when they're ready to sell, "snick snack, they're in a gypsy sack."

So, he switched to wheat, which is harder for the gypsies to fence.

But, not all the grapes were stolen over the years and he had an old family recipe for rakia, a Bulgarian whiskey. It's like grappa. He told me all about how to make it.

We arrived home and just as I took my shoes off, he came into my room with three bottles of rakia and some of those mushrooms from the other day. It was on.

We drank for an hour and ate fresh, cool mushrooms swimming in oil. The combination of flavors with the whiskey was very nice indeed. We sat in his kitchen at a tiny formica table, and as the shadows lengthened, his eyes twinkled with memories of discreditable deeds from his past. Pyramid schemes in Moscow, winning a computer in a physics competition, more about the concrete business.

He spoke well, and it was relaxing to sip at the rakia and listen to experiences so unlike my own. He's his own person, but he was also a charming stereotype of the industrious Eastern European with a million get rich quick schemes.

Also a little like the guy James Bond calls when he's stuck somewhere. "Blast it Moneypenny, the Russians have encrypted these files. Have Q send Nenko to crack them."

Then I dozed.

Woke up with a predictable headache, so I went out in the dark for bottled water. I had a few more Bulgarian lev to get rid of, so I stopped by a little food stand. They had french fries, which seemed like they would soak up the whiskey, but I couldn't make the cashier understand.

I ended up drawing them on a napkin. It made us both laugh.

I ate two and left the rest for the animals.

Went home, packed, set the alarm, and.... that's it. The taxi came and got me. Nenko and I shook hands goodbye. Strangers and then friends. A lot of nice relationships on this trip. A lot of unexpected companionship.

A lovely time in an interesting part of the world.

That's it. I never made any Bulgaria/Bulge Area jokes. I sure meant to. Thanks for reading, fools.

Croatia next time. Or Scotland. Or maybe I'll just sleep like a yellow cheese.  See ya, next blog, scoundrels.