The train passes through Bucharest's ugly suburbs; still, some modern Orthodox churches command respect.
The landscape in the plain following the rugged Carpathian mountains is very green despite winter. The obviously bare trees have their feet covered in snow.
Here I am already in Constanța; the train arrived on time. From the train, I walk about three kilometers to reach the center of this city loaded with history and prehistory. For the first time in my life, I see the Black Sea. How noisy nature is! Gulls like those in Lisbon, an extensive beach, and a wild, inhospitable sea. The scant snow where the high tide never reaches will survive a few more days. I see some ships on the horizon. People on the beach: not a single one. I imagine the ancient Greek merchants who ventured by sea, when Constanța—formerly Tomis—was an important city in the Delian League. After being annexed by the Romans, the poet Ovid lived here for the last years of his life. And even before history began, complex civilizations lived in this region. Tomorrow I'll see Constanța's famous archaeological museum.
What a disappointment. The city is very expensive despite the low season. I paid more than 25€ for a goulash with salad, which they sold me as if it were a local specialty. I found the streets dead, the bars without personality. Honestly, I didn't like the people much; I found them uncultured, not very admiring of the historical legacy they possess, not very enthusiastic about talking to a tourist like me: they see me only as a wallet to exploit in this endless low season that turns Romania's Ibiza into a city resigned to a windier-than-cold winter. I see depression on people's faces and, I had already gotten that impression in Bucharest, women disappear into their makeup—I suggest an Erasmus program for the women of Wallachia. One thing is to subtly use a touch of lipstick or some other artifact, another is to dunk your face in a jar of makeup. Do whatever you want, there's no moral judgment from me here—just aesthetic: they gain in eroticism and vulgarity what they lose in elegance and personality.
Blessings to Angels Café for the Romanian pancake (which was a French crepe) and the two fingers of genuine conversation I exchanged with the owner and some customers. It's not a café where culture is breathed; but the owner didn't see me just as a customer. It wasn't a café where you could talk about Constanța's historical richness; but I prefer ten times more a space where the owner and staff show genuine interest in talking about football, than a refined space but devoid of human magic.
I didn't quite understand what this is supposed to be, but I found this pyramid in Constanța's shopping mall.
I'll say it only once, so there's no misunderstanding. There's everything everywhere. But that on average people in Copenhagen are less materialistic and care less about appearances than in Constanța, I can't see how to deny it. And once again, it's not any moral judgment—I'm not critical, I just say I don't want to spend much more time here.
Let's be positive: tomorrow I'll see the rich archaeology museum. I wake up to gulls singing over the roof. After my breakfast, I finally go to the museum. I feel almost anxious, but quickly that anxiety is replaced by disappointment. The museum is closed for renovations.
I heard that excavations are hard to do because the modern city was built in the same place. I have a suggestion, which the reader will easily guess is somewhat drastic to solve that problem.
I buy a bus ticket directly to Varna. At the station, I met several Bulgarians, Turks, Ukrainians; in fact, half the passengers on my bus were from Odessa.
3...2...1... Bulgaria! I raise my arm on the bus—what a shame it's already night in these short winter days.
Arrival in Varna
Varna is another well-known Balkan seaside resort. Unlike the Romanian one, it's a relatively large city, so it doesn't live exclusively on summer tourism. People are much more talkative, much more committed to not forgetting that life persists during winter.
On February 7, I slept a lot before having brunch in the apartment I rented. The temperature is mild, with scant clouds and a fresh breeze. I visited the archaeology museum. I can't compare it to Constanța's; I can only say it's quite good. Varna was a Greek colony called Odessa before being conquered by the Romans. Like Constanța, it knew civilizations that worked bronze before many others, and I saw Middle Paleolithic stones. The Roman baths are the largest in the Balkans, but honestly I expected a bit more beauty; it was enough to fill the eyes but I didn't find them stunning. Stunning is the Cathedral of the Mother of God—what a sight, what a church! I had always been of the opinion that churches from neoclassicism onward are flimsy, not assertive, insecure, as if asking permission to exist. I maintain the same opinion for Catholic and Protestant ones, but the Orthodox... I saw some brutal ones in Romania, but Varna's Cathedral of the Mother of God wears the gold of its domes without asking permission: traffic, get out of the way. And the large blue stained-glass windows match perfectly. The said church was inaugurated at the end of the 19th century.
I didn't remember that Bulgaria used the euro. They use both currencies, but they even prefer the euro, because as I understand it, Bulgarians have until the end of this year to exchange Leva for euros. The police seem serious here: they went to ask something from a poorly dressed young man who was simply sitting on the bench. I was curious. After moments of some tension, the young man left and the police disappeared. I have no more data.
I didn't explore Varna's famous nightlife much. Yesterday, after dinner, I explored Varna's center streets. There was quite a bit of movement, but I only entered one bar—the Kultura Speakeasy Bar. They serve only unusual cocktails but seem to know what they're doing. It's a hidden bar, and I think it's more fun not to tell you how to enter. It's cool, but I don't recommend it for the solitary traveler, unless they really want to try a new cocktail—but for a couple, it seems nice.
I know I talk a lot about cafés and bars, but that's because I have the following superpower: I challenge the reader to kidnap me, blindfold me, and remove it only when I'm in a café. I bet I can guess the country I'm in, and even the city if it's in Europe.
Varna's nightlife isn't my style but I don't deny it has its charm. But what to say about that beach in Varna's port? The thermometer reads 10°C, the sky is completely overcast, it rained a few drops a while ago. You feel the fresh breeze hitting the body. Some people take advantage of this Sunday early afternoon to walk on the sand as a family. The carousels are closed as is most of the cafés. On one side of the lighthouse, the infinite Black Sea on the horizon. Three days' journey separate it from Georgia, two from Sevastopol. On the east side, I spot the Bulgarian navy. Three and a half frigates, if I'm not mistaken.
The sky suddenly unraveled. A thick fog but little higher than a frigate heads toward us. Above the fog, small mountains intermingle. I have no words and send a photo.
Be careful, dear frigates! Fog to starboard! And don't relax attention with the tribe of ducks to port... The frigates are about to be swallowed by the fog... 3, 2, Actually I think my eyes deceived me: that fog that seems more solid than cloud is still kilometers from the frigates... Let's go drink coffee instead.
I'm liking Bulgaria. It would be a shame not to visit another city. From what I've been told, Burgas, which follows the coastal route, is similar to Varna. I'd like to see the Bulgarian mountains. Sofia is far away. After talking with Margarita, I decided to head to Plovdiv. I leave tomorrow on the night train. I'd like to see the landscape but in the morning I have work and the afternoon train would get me to Plovdiv too late. So I have one more full day to enjoy Varna.
As usual, I woke up to the storks; it rained in the morning and the temperature hovered around 0°C. Now in the afternoon it's 2°C, not much difference. Yesterday's fog disappeared but the wind blows strong. My raincoat has come in handy.
I'm at the municipal library, where I'm spending part of the afternoon writing—and I've never seen such a library. I don't even know where to start. The building is gray, bland, clearly a Soviet legacy. The interior is perfectly structured, with corridors that invite student discipline. All well and good, but where are the reading rooms? I enter one room and come upon several staff celebrating, probably a farewell for one of them. I enter another room, ask for a place where I can work. No success; is there anyone here who speaks English? At least if they don't stop looking at me curiously because of my luggage, they don't mind letting me explore this curious library that looks more like a document archive. Finally, on the top floor, I find a small nook that almost fits what's expected in a normal library. Some tables with lamps, a paper with the Wi-Fi password written in English, a comfortable sofa placed on a Sporting green-painted wooden pallet. A monochromatic emerald green.
If the power goes out, a gym bike is connected to a device that turns mechanical energy into electricity.
Ah! I hadn't noticed the Orthodox stained glass right to my right. The Virgin Mary carries her son Jesus while protecting the reader. Why on earth are people downstairs taking numbers? I think they tricked me and I'm in a citizen's shop that happens to have a library. I swear I'm in a library; a while ago, before finding this delightful nook, I saw a lady checking out a Schopenhauer.
Sorry for the exhaustive description of this multi-purpose building—I'm incredulous. A man with a stepladder just passed by to enter a warehouse full of cards with televisions. To accompany the religious fresco, we have a clearly contemporary painting, abstract-figurative; bodies are recognizable but deformed and fragmented. I send a photo. Welcome to Varna's library: where the sacred and profane coexist, where organization and chaos live under the same roof, where rurality and urbanism meet. Where it's possible to read Ivan Vazov while waiting to pay the gas bill. Thank you. I have some sausages in my backpack; who knows, I might still find a kitchen.
A while ago I picked up some 1970s archives out of curiosity, and they simply thought I must be a researcher—wish I were a thief. A man with whom I exchanged a few words earlier just asked permission to fetch the water bottle he hid yesterday among the plants. Wait... could it be... does the gentleman live here? I'll go crazy if I stay in this library. I couldn't figure out if the library closes at 6 PM or 7:30 PM because I found conflicting information. Suddenly, silence fell.
What a thrill leaving the library! I see the Cathedral of the Mother of God one last time before catching the night train that will take me to Plovdiv. It started snowing.
I walk toward the train station and stop at the first open café I find because the snow had begun to cover my two bags with a light white layer.
No comments:
Post a Comment