Trout Fishing in The Rila Monastery

"It is a skull on a hill, you see. He is standing on a skull. You see it there. The word is Gol..ghoul...I cannot say it. It is a Jewish word. Is there a Jew here to say it?"

Chapter 4 - The Boyana Church, A Plate of Trout, The Rila Monastery, Stray Kittens

Kind of a restless night. I had gone to bed very early and slept for eight hours, but I still woke up way too early. Because of the time difference, a playoff baseball game was on back home, so I thought I'd listen to the end of it and doze for a few more hours before the tour.

The game lasted an historic 18 innings, so I never got back to sleep. I guess I'll have a good answer if anyone ever asks if I remember where I was when this famous game happened.

Showered in the Mold Locker, (the shampoo said it contained "5 Plants!") I put on the still sortadamp clothes that had been drying for 36 hours, thus closing the book on laundry-gate, and clip clopped over to the pizza place where the bus was waiting. It was near the Nevsky Cathedral, which I never get tired of photographing.

The driver's name was also Simon, so there was a funny moment where I thought he was greeting me by name, but he was introducing himself. Hee haw, Bulgarian style. The rest of the passengers were from Texas, London, Italy and Montreal.

I was the youngest person. The Italians were standoffish, the Texans wouldn't stop talking about how it takes twelve days just to scratch the surface in Istanbul, the Canadians murmured to one another in French and the Londoner was a cool dude who has been all over the world.

We made our bleary early-morning way out of the city and into the mountains. The little mini-van took us past fields of black sunflowers to a heritage site called The Boyana Church.

The entrance was very small, and we had to duck to get in. "Is very danger!" warned the guide.

The frescoes were amazing and in an early realism style which the Bulgarians say pre-date that hack Giotto. They said "no photos" and enforced it, so the Canadian male and I took turns making noise so the other could take a sneak shot. He really hated that you couldn't take them. It was fun to have a secret photofriend.

None really came out, though. This was the best one. Sucks, but anything illegal is awesome, so here you go. Being bad feels pretty good!

The guide spent a lot of time trying to come up with the name "Golgotha" and asked if there were any Jews present, because they would know. I kept my mouth shut. Not sure what was going on there. I wasn't going to out myself for no vocabulary quiz.

He kept calling the frescoes "frexes" and used the word "author" instead of "artist."  Unfortunate is we will never know the author of this frex. 

It was endearing. 

Back in the van, the Texans went on and on about how if you go to a Turkish wedding you have to give the bride and groom a golden coin and golden coins are hella expensive, and you might not even know the bride and groom very well and they only invited you so they could get more gold.

The Canadians kept talking about how shitty all the buildings were. "I guess there's no money to fix them," they said. "These apartments could really use a co-op board."

He must have said that five times. "They need a co-op board!"

The driver asked if we wanted to stop for lunch first or push on to the Rila Monastery. I said I was very hungry, and the Texans gave me almonds, but we stopped anyway. Nice little tourist trap on the side of the road.

The thing about food here is it is dirt cheap. I probably haven't spent $20 on food in three days. Loaded up on fresh trout, olives and onions, fried cheese, and cucumber. It was all very good. Also coffee.

The Italians were angry that we stopped and they asked the driver to take them on to the monastery while we ate. He did. The Londoner asked me if it was true that Americans only get two weeks a year for vacation.

I told him that was generally true, but just living in the United States is like being on a beautiful vacation every day, so we don't mind.  That got a big laugh.  The Canadian male wanted to know "who the hell is going to pay for Obamacare!"

I said it pays for itself, which also got a laugh, but I wasn't joking that time. I wondered why he cared.

The Texans wanted to know if I was planning on going to Istanbul. With all their talk about it, I feel like I've been there. I told them "one day soon, I hope. I'm saving up for a gold coin." That made them smile.

We finished up and headed out. I was stuffed.

We passed so many things I couldn't photograph. Heartbreaking. Men selling honey. A black horse grazing in front of a collapsed pink building, pigs and goats, men and tractors. A giant canopy of trees with bright yellow leaves. 

I wanted to come back on a bicycle and stop every ten feet. 

We arrived at the Monastery and it exceeded the hype. Legit magic.If you can, you must

A gorgeous holy fortress surrounded by green hills and painted with every Christian fairy tale Hieronymus Bosch ever warned you about. Angels stabbing lizards, devils dragging bearded men into fiery fish mouths, three little frogs, women on wheels, three little frogs and more. All in the crisp, cool open air.

I got some hot mini-doughnuts in a courtyard and climbed the bell tower with the Londoner. 

The whole place looked like it would be delicious if you licked it or like it would be a bad-ass tattooed chick if it got up and walked around. These pics don't do it justice. The experience of being nestled in this place of violence and ritual was still-making. I thought about how my grandfather used to read me the Sunday Funnies in the paper and how generations of priests probably took boys here to read the walls.

Here I am in front of Hagar the Horrible, Beetle Bailey, and Hi and Lois. I skipped Gasoline Alley, because Grandpa used to. 

There was a little museum with rifles and an ornate bishop's chair. The Texans were quite taken by a carved wooden cross. No photos allowed. I didn't have the Canadian to cover for me, so I didn't try.

We found the long-lost Italians, and then it was time to go. Two-hour drive back. Most folks slept. I read Middlemarch and tried to take pictures through the window. Mostly a mess. I thought about coming back with the bike again and then I had the sad thought that there was probably no way on earth I would ever be back in this part of the world again. One and done.

I mean, if I had the time off, I would go somewhere else, right? God, wouldn't it be nice to be some old retired Canadian? With a French wife? I daydreamed about being an old married man and telling our children that their mother was a famous beauty in her day.

I got off at one of the hotels some of the others were staying in so I could have one last rock around the clock. Found the National Theater and a cool fountain I had been dancing around but never quite found before.

Grabbed an olive sandwich and a tortellini salad. Went home and packed up. I take an early bus to Nis in the morning. Serbia. A border crossing. I bet I sleep and dream of holy wallpaper.

While I was writing this, I kept the door open so the mold smell would get out. The whole downstairs smells like spores and I wanted them to do battle with their ancient nemesis, fresh air.  Two curious stray kittens poked their pink little noses in. When they saw me, they scrammed. My heart swelled. I would have shared my tortellini with them. 

Farewell, Sofia. I'll see you in a few days when I come back just to leave you. You are beautiful, and I am cruel.