A journey is best measured in friends rather than miles.
-Tom Cahill
The Sultanahmet tram station in front of the Blue Mosque where I start most of my day's journeys. Nowadays this is thick with tourists coming to check out my neighbourhood.
“But I don’t want to go to Bulgaria.” I sat, slumped on the couch, arms folded across my chest in an indignant way. I’d had dreams of taking the Orient Express tracks to Greece for my first border run to renew my tourist visa. And here I was, stuck taking the loser cruiser bus to Bulgaria because my sister had to work.
“Email that girl back and say you’ll go with her. We’ll go to Greece next time.”
I sighed and reached for my computer. I’d started a thread on the Sublime Portal a few weeks before, asking if anyone was up for a little border adventure, as I knew a few of the expats were into doing “pork runs” and riding shotgun would allow them to up their quota of the forbidden meat. But instead, Reena had answered. She also needed a new stamp in her passport. We’d met briefly one night at a Sublime Portal gathering. A fellow Canadian, she seemed cool. I knew I was just being difficult about Greece.
“Wonderful!” Reena’s reply was swift. “A French friend will also be coming so that makes three of us. I’ll grab you a ticket to Plovdiv,Bulgaria when we go get ours. See you at the bus station!”
The entrance to the underpass to the train. Down under people try to sell you cheap socks, underwear, cheap clothes and plastic toys, among other things.
The next morning I got up and dressed myself in the most comfortable but warm clothes I could find. I would most likely be wearing them for the next sixteen or so hours on a bus. Sigh. Rene had found some pictures of old Plovdiv that looked quite nice, but it was too late. I already knew I had a return ticket to the armpit of the universe and no photo-shopped vacation photos was going to change that, “If you come back with pictures like this, I’ll have to kill you,” She joked. “That’s it then!” I stood at the door with my bag and shook my finger in the air. “The ONLY reason I’m going to Plovdiv is to take photos to make you jealous!”
The modern W.C.! As opposed to....?!
I took the tram to Aksaray, and transferred over to the train that would take me to the Istanbul Otogar (bus station). Reena and friend were waiting for me inside the Metro bus office.
The Turks are also Obama crazy, as he chose Turkey to be the first Muslim country to visit in his term. This bank ad is all over Turkey at the present. I wonder if Obama knows he's doing adverts for Garanti Bank?
In Turkey, Buses are a big business. When you go to the station, you choose your bus by the company rather than the time it leaves. Buses are leaving to all parts of Turkey constantly. Buses are clean and comfortable, and there is a bus attendant who squirts your hands with sanitizer, gives you little packaged cupcakes, water and tea, all free of charge. No bathroom on board though, so good thing bus facilities are everywhere too.
The three of us met in the office, shook hands and nodded hello, and French Guy then drifted off to the waiting bench. “Hmmm. I’m not sure what’s up with him today,” Reena nodded in his direction. “I know he speaks English, but he’s decided for whatever reason he can’t today. He just wants to speak French with me.” Hmmm. Well, considering we were about to spend the next 16 or so hours together, this could be a little awkward.
People in Turkey have a thing about respecting bread. It's not cool to throw it in the garbage, so it's not uncommon to see bread soaked in water and given to the birds or cats. Though I am pretty sure it's not a really healthy thing for birds to eat.
After the appropriate bathroom stops and supply buying, we climbed up on to the bus. French guy smiled and offered me the seat next to Reena, and folded himself into the seat across the aisle. In Turkish, the attendant announced we had to give her our passports, open to the picture page. She walked up and down with a tight-lipped serious look on her face, stopping to look at each, flip to our visa page, look us in the face to make sure we matched the passport and went on to the next person. Even though we knew there was nothing wrong with our documents, there was still a feeling of uneasiness while she glanced through our passports, and a feeling of relief when she passed.
After she handed our passports back, the bus began its slow journey to the border. Reena and I chatted away, taking turns listening to each other’s travel stories. It was so nice to be on the receiving end of interesting travel tales, both of us starting stories with, “Your story reminds me of the time back in….” I decided that heading to Bulgaria on a bus with kindred-spirit-Reena was quite enjoyable after all.
At the rest stops I’d make my pilgrimage to the toilet, and Reena would sit outside and speak French with French guy who would be getting a cigarette in before the next leg.
Soon we were at the border. We got off the bus and waited while the Bulgarians went through first. Then we stood in line and one by one had our Turkish visas cancelled. We then had to join the group who stood aimlessly in the middle of the pavement waiting for the rest to finish before we all collectively began the next phase of entering Bulgaria. “Look at them!” Reena laughed. “Doesn’t it remind you of some strange grunge album cover?” It totally did.
The next phase included getting back on the bus for a thirty second ride to duty free (Reena and I covered it in less than a minute, nothing but booze and cigarettes- no thanks!) and standing in more line ups to cross to the Bulgarian side. Our bus inched along beside us and went through a customs check. Reena and I were apparently quite special, as our Canadian passports were kept behind in the customs control while everyone else got theirs back right away. Our bus attendant,who was now speaking Bulgarian instead of Turkish, assured us with hand movements she would bring them on the bus for us. We felt uneasy about getting on the bus without our passports, but she was true to her word. We never did find out why our passports were separated from the rest.
Another two and a half hours to Plovdiv. The name that sounds like a puke, I decided at a particularly low bus moment. Tired, Reena and I sat in silence, watching the run down houses of Eastern Europe pass by. "Is it just me, or does Bulgaria seem to have no electricity?” I asked, looked at the dismal black shapes of windows. “Nah.” Reena joked. “These people just aren’t back from their seaside mansions on the coast!” “Yes, that has got to be it!” I laughed, appreciating a sarcastic yet funny travel partner.
“I don’t know why he won’t speak English with you.” Reena addressed the elephant on the bus. “I think he’s just tired.” “It’s okay.” I said. French Guy wasn’t impolite. In fact, he seemed a little shy and embarrassed about his refusal to speak English with me. “He just doesn’t understand that as a Canadian you wouldn’t speak French.”
“Well, He does know I’m from the West, right? The non-French side?” “Yeah, I told him that, but he’s still not going to speak English. But he’s a really nice guy. I think he’s just maybe going through something.”
Proof we had reached Bulgaria! Cyrillic street signs.
Finally we pulled into Plovdiv at 8:30 pm. I was exhausted from doing nothing and hungry. I had eaten my simit and my apple and without any Bulgarian money, I was cranky and hungry. We arranged our return seats for 10:30, and decided to scout out a place where we could eat something before getting back on the bus for our Midnight Express back to Istanbul, a place I really missed at that moment.
French Guy took out some cash from an ATM. We had no idea what the exchange rate was. We hoped fifty Bulgarian lev would feed us.
The Plovdiv Bus Station.
If I could base my whole opinion of Bulgaria on those few streets we wandered, I would tell you Bulgaria was a very communist-looking place, with unattractive buildings, cyrillic writing, and more seventies looking casinos that restaurants, or stores, or anything else for that matter. Big neon signs flashing casinos named after cultural empires, we passed the Greek Casino, the Roman casino, and a very interesting looking Egyptian casino. A few dodgy looking men hung outside for a reason unknown to me. Apparently I missed the cops harassing the prostitutes as I took pictures, but Reena and French guy saw it all.
Chinese Cyrillic! And Chinese characters below.
And in the middle of all the casinos, I spied a large, spherical red lantern. -A red Chinese lantern! And this was no casino. Could it be? Yes! A restaurant! Reena clapped her hands and laughed. “Oh yes! It’s got to be done! Chinese food in Bulgaria! Lets do it!” And she turned and said it in French to French guy who nodded in agreement.
Is it just me, or does this Chinese cyrillic seem to be saying something dirty in English?
Inside, we sat down in the dingy hole-in-the-wall restaurant. A bored looking Asian waitress in her twenties tossed some menus on our table and sauntered away to the one other table that occupied the restaurant.
“Oh no! The menu’s in Cyrillic!” Reena flipped through the pages with no pictures of food for illustration. Our only clue to what the food was in what section, was the animals whose Chinese zodiac picture accompanied the name of the dishes. Beef, lamb, pork and chicken and fish were all represented in red Chinese paper cutout motifs throughout the menu.
This would be the beef section of the menu.
“I think I might have this one covered, I grinned.” I called the waitress over, and spoke in Chinese. “Ni Hui Xuo Zhongwen, Ma? Do you speak Mandarin?” I asked, much to the surprise of French Guy. With a bored look, she collected our menus and wandered away. A few seconds later, she threw English versions of the same menu down and we all breathed a sigh of relief. “Maybe she didn’t hear you speak Chinese.” Reena smiled empathetically. “I used to run into this all the time,” I answered. “Chinese people sometimes get a little weirded out when foreigners speak Chinese to them.”
This certainly seemed the case, as the Chinese mother came over to take out order. She didn’t speak English but was very curious about my Chinese. Her family was from Shanghai. We chatted about the city, one she hadn’t seen in decades of living in Bulgaria. I was shocked at how easy it seemed to be to flip back into Mandarin , -a language I had barely spoken in two years. I forgot the word for “teacher” (laoshi) though, and laughed about it later- the one word that should be etched in my brain forever!
The Leftovers! French Guy's 50 Lev was enough to buy us a huge amount of food, which we later sorted out was quite cheap compared to Turkey.
After our order was in, Reena high-fived me. “Yes! That was so cool that you spoke Chinese. They are totally going to give a us a discount now!” she laughed and headed to the bathroom, leaving me completely alone with French Guy for the first time.
An awkward silence passed, then he said in English, in a nice Parisian French accent, “Zoooooooh. Are you sure you don’t speak French?”
“Pretty Sure.” I smiled back.
“I’m Zorree. Today, I’m not in zeee mood to talk. I ‘ave problems with my girlfriend.” He smiled weakly.
“It’s okay, don’t worry.” It really was. Despite his quietness, he was polite and sweet, and I didn’t take any of it personally.
He looked at his hands. “Her family is Muslim, they don’t accept me, a non-Muslim. It’s really hard, I don’t know how to explain.”
One of the many casino signs around the bus station in Plovdiv. The only thing lively about this place was the sign as it was closed. The first bus station I've ever been to with it's own casino!
“You don’t have to.” I smiled back. Oh God boy, you don’t need to explain this one to me.
“In Abu Dhabi, I had a Muslim boyfriend too. It didn’t work out for much of the same reasons. It’s a big part of the reason I am in Turkey now. Really, you don’t need to explain.”
Proof Bulgaria is stuck in a time warp. Poor "Merilyn". I wonder if they know she died. Maybe not the best celebrity to promote an addictive habit.
I understood the silence, the examining of the hands, the reluctance to connect with others at a time you really would rather spend alone, lost in your Ipod, alone with your thoughts. French Guy looked at me, really looked at me for the first time that day. “Really?” He said. I nodded. We didn’t talk at anymore for the rest of the trip, but we needed to understand was understood, and we were content in the silence.
The one picture of me in Plovdiv, and the bus station sign of where we could go if we were a little more fancy-free. Mmmm. Pizza in Italy......
French Guy and Reena trying to decipher the bus station coffee machine.
Your guess is as good as mine!
My finished sweet as syrup coffee with milk, compliments of French Guy. Thanks, French Guy!
On the bus we got seats to ourselves and I curled up much like a cat and tried to sleep to the hum of the bus, which was difficult on such a curvy road. If one year ago someone had told me I would be back to a life of sleeping on buses on sixteen-hour border runs I would have thought they were crazy. But in some ways, I felt complete, not dependent on anyone or anything, I had my autonomy, regardless of where it was leading me.
We reached the border at one A.M. and did the whole thing backwards again. Reena and I had to pay for our new Turkish visa, and in my sleep-deprived state I was still able to catch the border guy trying to shaft me out of ten Lira. Back on the bus, I fell asleep and woke up at 5:30 am as we pulled into Istanbul.
The Metro platform at six am sharp. You can see the sky is getting lighter out there.
I waved goodbye to my new friends at the train platform. “Call me! Let’s do coffee!” Reena and I agreed. They were waiting for a bus to the Asian side of Istanbul. I waved goodbye and felt like I would somehow miss them. The train platform had just opened, and I was almost completely alone as I waited for my train, knowing French Guy and Reena were sharing a tea upstairs without me.
I watched the dawn light change from purple to pink to orange over the city of Istanbul as the train rattled along. The air was crisp and new, freshly scrubbed faces were appearing on the streets to welcome the new day. The familiarity of the ancient stone walls, mosques and street vendors reassured me I was back in the Bull.
The sun over Sultanahmet, and the one other guy I saw out there at that time. I would have run around and taken more pictures if I weren't so tired.
In Sultanahmet I followed the sun between the minarets to capture the beauty of the dawn sky before the sun turned to vibrant yellow. A few steps past the Hippodrome and I was home.
Rene met me at the door, rubbing her eyes after a full night’s comfortable sleep. “How was it?”
“It was alright.” I said.
“But next time, Greece!”
XXMelanie