City of Seven Hills -- Plovdiv, Bulgaria

I'm starting this post from the Small Library Cafe in the Kapana district of Plovdiv, Bulgaria. Upbeat jazz plays downstairs, echoing softly into the upstairs room where  I sit on a loveseat covered in a Turkish tapestry. The drink to my left is not what I ordered, but it is delicious. 

"I'm sorry," the barista said in broken English when he placed it on my table. "It's... not ready. I made... something else." 

"Thank-you!" I ecstatically received the large cup of foam and coffee and mystery.

The downstairs area of Small Library Cafe

I arrived in Plovdiv on Friday afternoon at about half past one and was delighted to discover that this ancient Bulgarian city was significantly warmer than Sofia. My friend Misho happened to be visiting his family in Plovdiv for a few days, so he walked down to the bus station to meet me.

Nothing better than a friendly face at a bus station in a new city. 

Misho understands that I quite like American hugs (best thing out of America. Other than our consistent use of shower curtains), so he gave me a good one, backpack and all.

"What do you want to do?" Misho asked.

"I want food," my stomach grumbled its discontent.

Misho reached into his backpack and pulled out a carton of Bulgarian yogurt. That kind with the special, patented bacteria that's supposed to make you live forever. Or to a prodigiously wizened age, at the very least.

"And I have honey from Vlad!" I exclaimed, reaching into Ellie to pull out Vlad's gift.

Bulgarians are always putting food in my bag. Tea from Oleg, honey from Vlad, now yogurt from Misho. 

We sat on a bench in the Garden of Tsar Simeon so I could eat the yogurt.

"I don't think I'll be able to finish this whole thing," I gazed doubtfully at the large container. And then proceeded to finish the entire carton within five minutes.

Misho led me into the Kapana district of Plovdiv, the same district and to the same cafe where I now sip my mystery coffee.

"Kapana means "The Trap" in English. Because the streets are narrow and the buildings are close together," Misho explained.

"Kind of like "The Shambles" in York," I sighed, remembering York's charming, woozy buildings that reminded me of people falling asleep while sitting up, slowly leaning forward, heads drooping, shoulders sagging...


I drank a very non-mysterious cappuccino, Misho drank a beer, and we watched city workers hang Christmas lights as we chatted about the possibility of hitching through the south of France together.

 

I like that his mustache and eyebrows are almost exactly the same.

Then Misho took me for a wander in the Old Town.

And when I say old town, I mean very old town indeed. Probably because in the 6th millennium BC when the Neolithic chaps decided to settle down, they used Bulgarian yogurt instead of mortar (they definitely had mortar in the 6th millennium BC...).  Hence, Plovdiv is one of the oldest, if not the oldest continually inhabited city in all of Europe. During most of its recorded impressively long life, it was referred to as Philippopolis, after Philip the II of Macedon. This warmongering, egotistical maniac conquered the city in the 4th century BC, and decided it ought to be named after him.

Philippopolis. Philip's city.

Like Rome, Plovdiv has seven hills. Or rather, had seven hills. I believe that at least one of them was razed to the ground to be turned into cobble stones that pave much of the Old Town.

Old Roman theatre. Now used for concerts, operas, etc.

Then Misho led me to Nebet Tepe, where we sat on the ruins of an old fortress and watched the sun slowly set over Sahat Tepe (one of Plovdiv's other remaining hills) and the mountains behind.

My friend Misho

" This is what I did a lot during highschool. After class, come up here with friends and some beer. Watch the sunset," Misho told me as the sun sent out its last vibrant, glowing golden rays for the 9th of December, 2016.

Then Misho shared an experience with me. The experience of tripe. Of Bulgarian tripe soup, or "shkembe chorba". Which is apparently a big deal. Probably because it's known to cure hangovers, and anything known to cure hangovers is a big deal.

Tripe Soup Ingredients

1 lb tripe (calf belly)
1 cup (sunflower) oil
2 cups fresh milk
1 teaspoon paprika
1 tablespoon ground black pepper
1 tablespoon salt
2 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly diced
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
dried hot chili pepper mix

"It's SO GOOD," I savored the unique soup, closing my eyes and tasting the milky, oily, spicy soup. 

These are the experiences that help me remember a place. I just tried tripe soup in Plovdiv with Misho. I'll remember this. 

Remarkably happy and full, we walked to meet my host at his apartment near the train station. I hugged Misho and said I'd get back to him about maybe hanging out at a club later that evening, depending on my host's schedule. 

That's one of the downsides of surfing. Always having to check in with hosts to make sure that your plans don't interfere with their lives. Or their plans for your life. Like chicken soup before seven. Blurgh. 

Turns out, Beko had a plan for that evening. And it included a four course dinner.

But... tripe soup... oofta. I can't tell him I already ate after he's put so much time and energy into this meal. I'll just have to... try... make space... freaking Bulgarians and all their food. 

 

Course #1. The following courses were equally impressive.

 After struggling through a language barrier (Beko's English is pretty poor), my host called a cab and we set off towards "The Trap". Where we found a smokey, dirty, old-school type of bar with old sewing machines for tables.

I experienced far too much joy from this peddle. It seriously sounded like a donkey. An old, wheezing donkey. I laughed so hard that the people at the neighboring table started giving us funny looks. Probably because they were irritated that I kept making our table sound like an old, wheezing donkey.

 We stayed for a few drinks and made origami out of the labels of beer bottles.

Misho has perfected the art of tiny origami cranes.

The next day, Beko arranged a glorious spread for breakfast... then an equally glorious spread for lunch, just a couple of hours later. 

"Eat," Beko would say. "Eat fruit. Eat sweets. No shame. Eat!" 

"I am eating!" I protested, feeling a bit like a goose being prepared for foie gras.  

After I had finally managed to convince my generous host that I did not, in fact, require more food, we went for a walk into the city. 

"This is... tobacco district. In August, big fire," Beko explained the charred skeletons. 

One will quickly notice cats when walking through Plovdiv. Cats, cats, everywhere. Cats on roofs, cats in trees, cats under garbage cans, cats scurrying through ancient ruins, cats napping in parks. Cats, cats, everywhere.

Odeon

A large pedestrian street near The Trap

Christmas!

Atlas

Plovdiv is RIFE with the good kind of graffiti. I love it.

It is also rife with coffee machines. You can hardly walk a couple of blocks without seeing one of these guys.

This is how I feel about mushrooms.

One day I will learn to knit more than hats. I will knit finger puppets. And then hats for the finger puppets.

I have an obsession with street lamps, in case you haven't noticed. Plovdiv makes me very happy in this department. There is no shortage of interesting street lamps.

Traditional Bulgarian architecture.

After hours of wandering Plovdiv, Beko and I shared a sunset from Nebet Tepe.

Stadium

Beko fed me another spectacular four course meal when we returned to his flat.

I'm glad I'm only here one more day. A week with this lovely guy and I wouldn't be able to walk anymore. Holy bananas.

There's much more I could write about my stay with Beko, but I'll save it for another post. Partially because I'm feeling particularly long-winded these days, and partially because I'm about to meet with my next host, a Spanish fellow named Domingo.