Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 71 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Aleksander Nevsky church, Sophia, Bulgaria A perfect blue sky welcomed us to Sophia, capital of an independent, no longer Communist, Bulgaria. Since the rest of our little group of friends wouldn't arrive for another day, Sherrill and I set out to explore alone. We walked toward the city center, past a Russian orthodox church built for Russian diplomats and a 19th century palace. Much of city was bombed during World War II, but we discovered surviving historic buildings scattered around town. Over all, the city still felt impoverished. A block from a huge Orthodox church, a flea market stretched for blocks, shabby people of advancing years trying to sell whatever treasures they'd managed to find or acquire. We bought a flask adorned with the hammer and sickle for our grandson.
Palm Sunday lighting of candles We watched red-uniformed guards prance in front of the presidential palace, passed a department store that once was a Stalinist government building, explored a couple of subway stations in which Roman ruins had been uncovered (in one of which three middle-aged women in shabby coats and kerchiefs were playing accordions, a dish for donations by their well-worn shoes), and wandered through a busy 19th century central market, two levels supported by a forest of steel pillars, a glass roof above. Sherrill found a Bulgarian edition of Alice in Wonderland at a little bookstore. Our stroll ended at an Easter Egg festival in a small park, the first of many holiday events during the next weeks. This formerly atheist country, it seemed, had embraced religion and especially took the Easter rituals to its collective heart.
The next day was Palm Sunday in the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, which we and our friends acknowledged by dropping in at services in the multi-domed Alexander Nevsky cathedral that Sherrill and I had passed the afternoon before. The streets around it now were lined with people selling flowers that the faithful could take as offerings. In the dark cavern of the giant church, we found crowds of people, mostly women, lighting enough candles to illuminate all of Sophia.
The next day was Palm Sunday in the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, which we and our friends acknowledged by dropping in at services in the multi-domed Alexander Nevsky cathedral that Sherrill and I had passed the afternoon before. The streets around it now were lined with people selling flowers that the faithful could take as offerings. In the dark cavern of the giant church, we found crowds of people, mostly women, lighting enough candles to illuminate all of Sophia.
Colorful rituals and elaborate costumes, we discovered, were an important part of religious expression in Bulgaria, many of these traditions extending far back in time to before Christianity. We saw examples of this when we visited a museum in a former palace: after a room of gorgeously decorated Easter eggs, we were startled by an exhibition showing mummers known as Kukeri, men who put on animal-like costumes and skirts of cow bells each spring—except for some who dressed as brides—and paraded and danced through villages and towns to scare away evil spirits and guarantee a good harvest. The elaborate costumes and masks were on mannequins, but we saw videos showing actual mummers in rowdy and obscene action. A month later, the day before Sherrill and I left Bulgaria, I stumbled onto the actual event in Sophia, an astonishing spectacle, more like a giant frat party than religious ritual, but one that I was glad not to miss.
St. Lazarus Day dancers I'm sure we didn't miss a single religious holiday while we were in Bulgaria, including St. Lazarus Day, which we observed in a mountain village with costumed young people singing and dancing about Lazarus rising from the dead and the yearly rebirth of the land. Driving through Bulgaria almost to the Greek border, through forested mountains and past hillside farms, blossoming trees, and wild flowers gave us a new appreciation for the natural rebirth that happens every spring. We stayed in converted old houses in tiny villages, along the way dropping in at churches and monasteries to admire scenes of the damned in Hell.
When I think of Bulgaria, now, I see a parade of fantastic frescoes, some in small country churches, others in remote monasteries, and some in large urban churches and cathedrals. These paintings graphically dramatized the joys of Paradise, the horrors of Hell, and the struggles of mortal life leading to one or the other. A short drive to a mountain church introduced us to these passionate warnings with surprisingly three-dimensional 12th century paintings that had abandoned—pre-Giotto—the flat Byzantine style.
Orthodox Church priest at Rila Monastery,
surrounded by frescoes.
Orthodox Church priest at Rila Monastery,
surrounded by frescoes.
Mountain village of Pirin "Mysterious Singers" welcoming us Young people were fleeing to the cities from Bulgaria's villages, leaving them to the old and dying. A highlight of our trip was a day in Pirin, one of those villages, where we were welcomed by eight old women who were fighting to save it. The women, all widows, known as the Mysterious Singers, had performed around Europe singing deep in their throats in a traditional style seldom-heard now, wearing antique dresses covered with felt, lace, and embroidery that had belonged to their mothers and grandmothers. They welcomed us with the traditional bread and salt and sang while we ate lunch on the wide porch of a restored house.
Village men: no jobs, no place to go Forty-five widows, we were told, still lived in this shrinking village and at least 30 houses had been abandoned, but the women hoped to get young people to return and restore houses and save the village. When I walked around the village, I saw many once handsome old houses in various states of collapse.
"Look at the men." Sherrill nodded at a row of old men sitting on benches in the village square near the river that cut through town.
She was right: the old men looked tired and bored and content to sit around complaining and gossiping while the old women tried to change what was happening to their village. As we traveled through the country, we saw this in other villages, too. Maybe the women would succeed, but it wouldn't be easy.
"Look at the men." Sherrill nodded at a row of old men sitting on benches in the village square near the river that cut through town.
She was right: the old men looked tired and bored and content to sit around complaining and gossiping while the old women tried to change what was happening to their village. As we traveled through the country, we saw this in other villages, too. Maybe the women would succeed, but it wouldn't be easy.
Ali and Carmela in Muslim village * * *
"There's no work for us," Ali told us. "because we're old."
L., our new Bulgarian friend and guide, was translating. Ali and his wife were only in their fifties, but considered themselves old—and, to be honest, their hard lives had aged them prematurely.
We had driven much of the day on narrow mountain roads to this Muslim village in southern Bulgaria. The women all wore the traditional Muslim Pomak dress of pantaloon-like pants with long jacket, apron, and kerchief. Sherrill smiled at a local woman as they met on the narrow hillside street. The woman hesitated, looking confused by our appearance. They never saw foreigners in that village. L. stepped up, explaining who we were. Shy, but friendly, the woman invited us to her home nearby.
Carefully inching on muddy steps past a lean-to animal shelter, root cellar, and storage area, we entered a one-room house hanging on the cliff side. She asked us to sit on the two narrow beds against the walls and brought a bucket of goat's milk, which she poured into small glasses, and homemade feta cheese. Ali, her husband, joined us.
"Life is more difficult, now," L. translated for Ali.
At least, he said, under Communism they had jobs. He drove a tractor then and his wife worked in the tobacco industry. The switch to free market lost them their jobs and they couldn't find new ones. With their goats, growing vegetables, and producing some tobacco, they managed to earn only about 3000 lev a year, about $2000, and prices were higher, now. She also sewed and wove, making most of their clothes, as well as gifts, carriers for babies, and felt slippers to sell.
"Young people do better, Ali continued. "They have hope. Not old people like us."
"There's no work for us," Ali told us. "because we're old."
L., our new Bulgarian friend and guide, was translating. Ali and his wife were only in their fifties, but considered themselves old—and, to be honest, their hard lives had aged them prematurely.
We had driven much of the day on narrow mountain roads to this Muslim village in southern Bulgaria. The women all wore the traditional Muslim Pomak dress of pantaloon-like pants with long jacket, apron, and kerchief. Sherrill smiled at a local woman as they met on the narrow hillside street. The woman hesitated, looking confused by our appearance. They never saw foreigners in that village. L. stepped up, explaining who we were. Shy, but friendly, the woman invited us to her home nearby.
Carefully inching on muddy steps past a lean-to animal shelter, root cellar, and storage area, we entered a one-room house hanging on the cliff side. She asked us to sit on the two narrow beds against the walls and brought a bucket of goat's milk, which she poured into small glasses, and homemade feta cheese. Ali, her husband, joined us.
"Life is more difficult, now," L. translated for Ali.
At least, he said, under Communism they had jobs. He drove a tractor then and his wife worked in the tobacco industry. The switch to free market lost them their jobs and they couldn't find new ones. With their goats, growing vegetables, and producing some tobacco, they managed to earn only about 3000 lev a year, about $2000, and prices were higher, now. She also sewed and wove, making most of their clothes, as well as gifts, carriers for babies, and felt slippers to sell.
"Young people do better, Ali continued. "They have hope. Not old people like us."
Sherrill in historic hotel, Plovdiv In Sophia and Plovdiv, the second largest city in Bulgaria, younger generations did seem to be embracing new opportunities. We saw new businesses ranging from internet cafes to boutique hotels to shops selling electronics.
"The Militia belongs to the people and the people belong to the Militia."
L. translated it for me from an old sign on a wall. An ominous message, attributed to Todor Zhivkov, the Party leader in Bulgaria,1954 to 1989.
Getting around the hilly city of Plovdiv with its streets of oversized cobblestones was difficult (even painful, as Sherrill discovered), but the old city was fascinating, especially the Ottoman mansions with their overhanging second and third floors, beautiful woodwork, and painted decorations. Once upon a time, before Communism, fine craftsmanship was appreciated. We also found, hiking along Plovdiv's hills, the remains of a Roman forum and amphitheatre. There seemed to be no place in Europe where they hadn't left their mark.
"The Militia belongs to the people and the people belong to the Militia."
L. translated it for me from an old sign on a wall. An ominous message, attributed to Todor Zhivkov, the Party leader in Bulgaria,1954 to 1989.
Getting around the hilly city of Plovdiv with its streets of oversized cobblestones was difficult (even painful, as Sherrill discovered), but the old city was fascinating, especially the Ottoman mansions with their overhanging second and third floors, beautiful woodwork, and painted decorations. Once upon a time, before Communism, fine craftsmanship was appreciated. We also found, hiking along Plovdiv's hills, the remains of a Roman forum and amphitheatre. There seemed to be no place in Europe where they hadn't left their mark.
Villagers welcoming us, Easter Sunday Sunday, a couple of days later, was Orthodox Easter. L. and our friend Hala had arranged for us to spend the day in a small village in the hills between Plovdiv and the Black Sea. Roma (gypsies) who lived in the area were, we learned, now fully integrated into the village. (Very different from when Sherrill and I visited Communist Romania in 1988, where they were total outcasts.) We were welcomed with the traditional bread and salt and shown around the village. A little later, we saw the lamb that had been cooking for eight hours in a brick and clay oven at the house of one of the Roma men.
Roma villager with Easter lamb With great ceremony, he cracked open the hardened clay that covered the opening of the brick oven, releasing delicious waves of rich aromas, and brought out two huge pans, each with half of a golden-brown lamb. He carried them to a horse cart decorated with streamers and flowers, then at least half of the villagers, with our little group, paraded behind the cart as the decorated horse pulled it to the hall where the rest of the Easter feast was waiting.
And a feast it was: all homemade dishes prepared by the villagers, plus local wine and rakia—a homemade brandy popular all over Bulgaria, different in each region, but always lethal. About half way through the feast, which went on for hours, the songs started. Then the speeches between the songs: they made speeches, we made speeches, we toasted each other. They took photos of us, we took photos of them. We took photos of each other together. Everyone was enthusiastic and happy.
And a feast it was: all homemade dishes prepared by the villagers, plus local wine and rakia—a homemade brandy popular all over Bulgaria, different in each region, but always lethal. About half way through the feast, which went on for hours, the songs started. Then the speeches between the songs: they made speeches, we made speeches, we toasted each other. They took photos of us, we took photos of them. We took photos of each other together. Everyone was enthusiastic and happy.
"Nobody will be able to walk," Sherrill whispered to me.
"We have the pony cart!"
It all was touching because they were completely sincere and happy that we were there, sharing the day with them. Nothing like this had ever happened in their village before. It was hard for any of us to get away.
Vocalizing village woman at
Easter Sunday feast
"We have the pony cart!"
It all was touching because they were completely sincere and happy that we were there, sharing the day with them. Nothing like this had ever happened in their village before. It was hard for any of us to get away.
Vocalizing village woman at
Easter Sunday feast
During the next days, we visited a Neolithic settlement from at least 5500 BC, then a Thracian town that became a Greek colony and later a Byzantine stronghold, and several other historic towns along the Black Sea, but it all seemed tame after our fantastic Easter celebration—or maybe we still were suffering from hangovers. Sherrill, however, did enjoy a day at the summer palace and gardens of that royal eccentric, once the darling the press, Queen Marie of Romania. Terraces of flowers in luxuriant spring bloom cascaded down the hills toward the sea.
"See what you can do when you have a money and a staff?" Sherrill told me.
"You have me," I pouted.
"I know, sweetie." She patted me on the cheek.
Sherrill and 9th century frescoes in
Sveti Stefan church in eastern Bulgaria.
A UNESCO World Heritage Site
"See what you can do when you have a money and a staff?" Sherrill told me.
"You have me," I pouted.
"I know, sweetie." She patted me on the cheek.
Sherrill and 9th century frescoes in
Sveti Stefan church in eastern Bulgaria.
A UNESCO World Heritage Site
Part of women's exhibit, Rousse museum Sherrill and I had visited the Bulgarian city of Rousse on the Danube, directly across from Romania, back in 1988, when these countries were still Communist and we took a cut-rate cruise on a Bulgarian ship from Rousse to Vienna. The town was grim and depressing then, but this time it was lively and its 19th century art nouveau buildings were being restored to their former beauty. A large house in Rousse had been transformed into a museum dedicated to the strength and power of Bulgarian women: women as mothers, caregivers, teachers, and artists; women as movers and shakers, scientists and social leaders; women as the foundation of society. The women of the village of Pirin would have approved. Sherrill certainly did.
Village priest singing to us The Bulgarians were fine hosts, almost too good. This was proven again when we visited Koprivshtitsa, a village of brightly painted houses, stone bridges, wooden gates, and cobbled (of course) streets. The village priest and his young wife gave us dinner in their home. (Apparently, Orthodox priests must be married.) He was about 50, square-shaped, with a wide florid face. He began by admitting that he is known for drinking—then proved it. He brought out a huge bottle of homemade rakia—the strongest we'd had yet. Then homemade red wine. His wife served a very good dinner, but he preferred singing and drinking to eating and urged us to do the same. We actually poured some of the rakia in our glasses into flower pots.
Sherrill and I extended our visit in Bulgaria for a couple of days, moving to a smaller hotel in Sophia. On our last day, while on a walk I came to a large plaza swarming with scores of men. Some men wore skirts of big bells to frighten away evil spirits, several young men were dressed as brides, and others in animal outfits with horns and antlers, masks and elaborate headdresses were joining them.
 Mummers gathering on St. George's Day, |  Sophia, Bulgaria |
These were mummers dressed in the costumes we'd seen in the museum at the beginning of the trip. Eventually, they formed into a lively parade, moving across the plaza, dancing and throwing candy, shouting and singing. I was sure that I saw some bottles being passed around, too. The hotel receptionist later told me that it must have been for St. George's Day, usually only celebrated in villages, not in Sophia. Originally a pagan celebration to guarantee a prosperous spring, it had evolved into a quasi-Christian celebration. Whatever its intent, past or present, it seemed primarily to be an excuse for a jolly good time.
Sherrill in Royal train car, Rousse museum The people of Bulgaria hadn't completely left behind the gloom of Communist days, but they were working very hard at it, one way or another.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you -- including, a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you -- including, a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
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