Sofia’s Cold Heart
Part 2 of a 3-part journey
It's fair to say I didn't really know anything of Bulgaria, apart from it being a former Soviet state locked behind the Iron Curtain for 70 years and producing steroid infused Olympic weightlifters in the 1980’s.
Cathedral of Saint Nedelya in central Sofia
Oh, and that bizarre James Bond-esque incident known as the Umbrella Assassination; the assassination in the 1970's of a Bulgarian dissident living in London, carried out by the Bulgarian secret service using a poison pellet supposedly delivered via the tip of an umbrella.
Apart from a little mystique, Bulgaria also offered something that has intrigued me for some time...seeing the remnants of the Soviet era.
A little tired, a little dishevelled, and a little gritty. I like it!
It would have made more sense to go to the core than what was essentially a satellite state of the USSR. But the core, Russia, ruled itself out as a travel destination after invading Ukraine in February of 2022.
It might be the country that neighbours Turkey but the colour, energy, vibrance, wonder and spectacle of Istanbul is a long, long way behind.
Not that I expected or even hoped the capital, Sofia, would be anything like Istanbul, but the contrast was striking.
It’s impossible to know how 70 years of Soviet isolation and suspicion of outsiders affected the psyche of the people, and the economy.
Maybe I was in the wrong part of town…
It’s fair to say they haven’t yet quite warmed to the idea of tourism, or much else it seemed.
Few people speak English (the common language of tourism) and even fewer seem vaguely interested in anything resembling hospitality.
That may sound harsh from only a few days travelling there but I had enough experiences to make me feel safe enough to put that in writing.
And I tried, Sofia. Oh, I tried!
For the sake of fairness and the allowance of 70 grinding years of isolation from the outside world, I tried. But not for me and not this time did I find much warmth.
Maybe it would have been different if I learned a little of the language and spent a few years there getting to know them. Then they might warm a little. Maybe.
My sense is that this is the type of country you can only call home once you have seven or eight generations of relatives in the soil, some of those necessarily serving time in the Gulag.
This little anecdote will give you sense…one afternoon I was standing on a tram platform as a tram approached. Ahead of me the track forked; straight ahead went to outer suburbs, and right took me to my destination.
Unsure of which direction the approaching tram would take, I turned to a 30 something year old woman standing next to me, smiled, and tried to sign-language a question about which direction the tram would take.
Just don’t ask which way it’s going.
Instead of helping or even trying to understand, she simply ignored me, turned away and put her back to me.
My jaw dropped in disbelief for a moment before I laughed to myself.
If that was an isolated incident I wouldn’t mention it, but it wasn’t.
And yet I still can’t blame the people. It hasn’t really existed as a country in control of its destiny for many a long time.
Peak communism.
Once a part of the Ottoman empire, self-determining for a short while, then victim of a soul crushing ideology as an outpost of the Soviet empire, and now an outpost of the European Union.
A marriage of convenience with cheap labour and the gateway to the Black Sea, the dowry.
To make matters worse, they’re in a population death spiral; on one hand joining the EU made them a source of cheap or young labour to feed ageing western European states that offer better lifestyle and job opportunities.
On the other, it suffers a birth rate well below the rate required for population replacement.
Their population has fallen 22% since 1980 and is projected to age and fall further. The only thing uglier than the Soviet era apartments is Bulgaria’s population pyramid.
With that history and bleak outlook, I wouldn’t give a shit about some Australian traveller waving his arms at a tram either.
I spent a few days with camera in hand, riding the trams, trying to capture the dour mood of a place that had a feeling of being left behind, and falling further.
Neglect, decay, disinterest was everywhere to be found as I walked the streets wondering what life was like here during peak Cold War.
A far cry from the busy-ness of Istanbul.
Empty or near empty trams, took me to outer suburbs with dreary and unkept common areas and empty playgrounds amongst the apartments.
A quiet and eery emblem of a shrinking and ageing population, where children feel like an artefact of the past.
At night, streets had a threatening stillness; too quiet, too deserted, too early.
In Istanbul I (naively?) felt I could walk the streets safely at 3:00am. Here, 10:00pm seemed risky. I was hyper-alert.
A bit too quiet…
I caught some Soviet era remnants I was looking for, and while it’s true you can find decay in any part of the world, here it seems more a feature than a bug.
If I had to describe the architectural style of the Soviet era apartments, ‘bland austerity’ would be it. Stay too long and I’m sure it’s visual dreariness would darken your outlook on life.
Despite that, some resist.
For the love of country or lack of choice they stay and try their hand at wine bars, cafés and other businesses, refusing to join the exodus of the educated young.
They offered a rare flicker of light amongst the general decline; friendly, brave, enterprising people I gave my sincerest well wishes to as I came across them, going out of my way to give them some business, stopping for snacks or tea when I wasn’t even hungry or thirsty.
An odd feature and pleasant discovery of Sofia was the subway system. We normally associate the underground with the grittier aspects of a city.
The reverse seemed true in Sofia, the subway was more pristine than above ground, at least in the city circle. Maybe that changes as you go further beyond the inner city but that’s now a discovery for another day.
Despite what might sound like abject misery, I’m glad I went and wish I’d spent more time there. Really!
I wanted to dig deeper, find a chink in Bulgaria’s grumpy armour.
Somebody hand that man a sitar
I was open to the possibility there was something else there to be found (there is) and some diamonds in the rough (I’m sure there are).
But I had already made plans to travel with the boys.
It seemed a good fit to stay together and head to Romania as a foursome; Efe was a thoughtful and intelligent conversationalist. Tibet plays bass so was a willing participant in all musical discussions.
Berg was more reflective, the quiet one. The George Harrison of our foursome.
The type of guy who could meditate cross-legged on a train without being distracted by our back and forth, only interjecting when he really felt he wanted to say something.
A sitar would not be out of place in his hands.
Given the Metallica theme of their journey, maybe better to describe him as the Kirk Hammett of the troupe.
We worked well as a foursome and agreed to head to Romania that way.
