The Hostess With The Mostest!

Thursday, June 21, 2007

My writing on my time in Sofia would not be complete without a hats off to Rositsa – truly the Hostess With The Mostest! She was one of only three CS requests I sent to Sofia. From her profile I could see she was an interesting lady, my age, quite active in the CS community, and a published writer to boot. I knew I would enjoy meeting her. She wrote me that unfortunately she already had two surfers and could not host me. A few hours later she wrote again, offering the other bed in her own room if I didn’t mind sharing a room. After spending several days with her, I would safely bet she would give someone the shirt of her back if they needed it. I told her I would stay with the family that had accepted my request and we agreed instead to meet for a tour of Sofia along with her other surfers the night I arrived.

I stepped out of the taxi before the imposing Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. It sits all alone in the middle of a vast concrete plane that separates it by a fair distance from the major roads and market-filled garden areas that surround it. Standing on the steps before this sea of concrete were Rositsa, Eldad, and Evan. Rositsa tossed me a cheery wave and a bright smile as I got out of the cab. I shook hands all around taking in my new companions.

Rositsa was my age, about my height, a little heavier set, with penetrating though bright eyes and short hair. Well, not short exactly, short to her shoulders but lots of it. It seemed like hair that wanted to stay a step ahead of her, to explore, as did her mind and the rest of her. She is a speech therapist and spends time both teaching and working with orphans. Her heart is as open as her mind and when she discovered CS it was love at first sight. In the ten months since she joined, she has hosted dozens of people. A testament to both her inexhaustible hosting and impressive intelligence, she learned English in those ten little months entirely from her CS interactions. She has not taken classes or even traveled to an English speaking country and yet has excellent comprehension and communication skills. For those of you who have not learned a foreign language as adults, that is impressive!

Evan was a young man, just 21, tall but not lanky, with rag doll like movements and the kind of eyes a young girl wants to crawl into forever. He reminded me a bit of Ethan Hawke in the movie Before Sunrise. He attempted to hide his age, and perhaps nervousness, behind a stream of chatter which dissipated through our time together as his comfort grew. He spoke with an accent I never could place, though he was born and raised in California. He claimed he picked up the accent from his three months in Germany, though I wondered through our time together if it was an accent he had intentionally cultivated. Regardless, it gave his voice an unusual and pleasing tonal quality. Evan had an impressive story for a man of just 21 years of age. I would come to be quite taken with him as a person when I later learned what had brought him to the road.

Eldad, was older, 34, from Israel. Everything about him was chiseled - his jaw, his facial features, his personality and sense of humor. He had sharp green eyes that could strike or seduce without shifting either emotion or another part of his expression. A geo-political tour guide in Jerusalem, he was well-educated, well-informed, and quick to judge others if they were not. Yet there was some soft spot within him, some desire for connection that constantly eluded his quick-slice interactions with the world. He could not understand how I kept in contact with so many of my hosts and those I have met on the road. I could not understand how he had hosted and been hosted dozens of times and not kept in touch with anyone. In the pictures he posed for he always looked hard, composed. In the candids there was a wistfulness in his eyes that never showed in his personality. But his intelligence was captivating, his wit keen, and an undeniable undercurrent of strength in his character – all qualities I admire.

The road makes fast friends and we were chatting easily before we had stepped off Nevsky’s concrete sea to the grass area beyond where the last of the antiques from the street market were being packed away. I would later walk through the market when it was open, astounded by the variety of war paraphernalia – Russian medals next to German ones next to Turkish, drinking flasks, uniform badges, military hats, everything you could imagine. It really brought home the upheavals caused by history that we as Americans are blessedly and unknowingly so oblivious to.

Rositsa was trying to explain Sofia history between Evan’s excited chatter and constant questions. He had the boundless energy of a pup, skipping ahead of me as he talked, turning back to ask this question or that. You could tell he had worn Rositsa out a bit with his eagerness but I found him absolutely endearing. Eldad was the quieter one, silently assessing me and my value as an American. I find out more and more how little most of the world thinks of us as a people. It is always a shock to me to find a new country that is prejudiced against us. Looking at us from the other side of the world though, I do understand. We have more, use more, get more than any other people in the world and yet we complain more and do less (in terms of staying informed or effecting change) than most cultures, at least that I have seen. It is a paradox that persistently perplexes me.

Evan seemed to sense he was causing tension in his host and dropped back a bit in the conversation. He reminded me of a pup who had lost its bone to its bigger brothers, which only served to accentuate my fondness for him. We did a short walking tour of Sofia, admiring the grand architecture along the glorious King’s Road – the original yellow brick road paved in 1917 with bricks gifted to the city by Vienna. An address on the King’s Road, Rositsa explained, was a sign of wealth and posterity. We passed the lovely Church of St. Nikolai with its gilded onion domes, the National Art Gallery, and numerous other buildings of notable architecture. After the Liberation of Bulgaria from Ottoman rule in 1878 and the establishment of an autonomous Bulgarian monarchy with its capital in Sofia, notable architects were invited from Austria and Hungary to give the new capital a worthy appearance. This effort resulted in quite the impressive “neo-mix” – new-Baroque, Neo-Rococo, and Neo-Renaissance, with a little Neoclassicism thrown in. Given the dilapidated communist concrete block apartment houses that stretch as far as the eye can see outside downtown, the center is a pleasant and unexpected display of architectural beauty.

The boys ran off to see if they could acquire a map leaving Rositsa and I to chat a few minutes. For reasons beyond me, Bulgarians are very stingy with their map making. It is impossible to find tourist maps in the small towns. Not even the hotels have them, nor do the tourist agencies. You can buy a huge big fold out map, all made by the same company, at any news stand for any town for five lev. Considering a pack of cigarettes costs less than one lev. five lev for a map is highway robbery, excuse the pun.

We continued our walk, strolling the trolley street, passing the daily book market, admiring the National Theatre, and the highly-touted ethnographical museum. Every city in Bulgaria boasts its own ethnographical museum, an English word I had never heard before coming here. According to the dictionary, it is a branch of anthropology dealing with the scientific description of individual cultures. My guess is it is more like a subdivision of our natural history museums though I didn’t explore any to find out. As the sun was setting, Rositsa led us down a narrow alley and through a small opening that led into a lovely lattice and vine roofed beer garden. It is one of the many advantages of couchsurfing, being in the company of locals who know the quaint hidden restaurant, the best pub in town, or the most happening disco. We settled into a table by the cool stone wall. Rositsa ordered an array of Bulgarian tastes as we drank beer and got to know one another.

I was most taken with Evan’s story. He spent his life grossly overweight. At 19 he weighed in at over 300 pounds, passing the days of his adolescence in his parents’ basement playing video games and wondering about girls. It was hard to believe looking at him that such an attractive, vibrant young man had immerged from a 300 pound sloth. I raised a questioning eyebrow at Eldad who responded, “It’s true, I’ve seen the pictures.” Over the next day together I would occasionally glimpse the overweight, outcast, young man hiding in the dark inside this outgoing, easy, attractive man embracing life in the faraway look that overtook him when he spoke of his past. He told me that one day he decided he had had enough. He set his mind to lose the weight and did. When he found couchsurfing, he gathered up a little cash and set off for the other side of the Atlantic to see the world and learn how to interact with the people in it. He makes the admirable habit of staying with a different host every night. “Ah, it is an important responsibility, entertaining one’s host” he says, in his strange accent with twinkling eyes. For him, time spent with his host is the most important thing, the sights and monuments are secondary.

I admired and envied this young man who at 21 years of age had given himself the gift of empowerment. Too many people spend their lives living the words “I have to” and “I can’t,” never learning that underneath the “have to”s are choices and desires and underneath the “I can’t”s are needs and fears. Evan decided what he wanted and made it happen. One day I hope to cross his path again and see where he has taken life for I’m sure he will ride life rather than letting life ride him.

It was nearly 11pm when Rositsa won the struggle for the check, as she would almost always do over the next few days. We hailed a taxi and headed our separate directions having planned to meet again in the morning for a day trip into the mountains of Bulgaria.

We were off early the next morning, stopping first at one of the “garage bars” that fill the streets of Sofia for coffee and pastries. Rositsa explained that there was once a shortage of space and so people began converting actual car garages into small cafes and bars. They are rustic little delights, with old antiques hanging on the walls and tables scattered around the sidewalk out front, and burly old men serving juice and coffee and beer.

By 10am we were on the road, Rositsa and her boyfriend, Emil, up front, me in the middle between Eldad and Evan in the back. The boys had already met and developed an obvious fondness for Emil. He was, to me, the quintessential Bulgarian with a thick graying mustache set in a square-shaped face, and intense, intelligent eyes that looked at you with kindness from beneath bushy brown eyebrows. He reminded me of a movie supporting actor, the unexpected good-ole-boy who figures out the mystery and shows up in the nick of time to save the protagonist. He never went more than an hour without a beer or five minutes without a cigarette. Eldad was obviously taken with his intelligence and Evan with his kindness.

As the car wound its way alongside the Balkan mountains for which this peninsula is named and into Sredna Gora, Eldad, Evan and I slipped into a jovial conversation about traveling and couchsurfing. Before long we were teasing each other, querying who had hooked up with who, where and whether the other had surfed a bed instead of a couch. Couchsurfing protocol is that it is not to be used as a dating site. But of course people are people and when they are attracted, they are attracted. With our admitted follies, the ice was thoroughly broken between us three. For the rest of the day the conversation slipped repeatedly into sexual innuendo, discussion, and joking, much to the entertainment of Emil. I felt like I was back in middle school, those days when you could erupt into giggles with your friends over any word that a mere raise of the eyebrows could somehow twist into a sexual innuendo. It was fun verbal play, light and easy. Such camaraderie on the road is one of the precious gifts of traveling.

Emil and Rositsa interrupted our casual banter to tell us about the Valley of the Roses as we were passing through it. As the name suggests, the region is filled with roses, boasting over 14,000 square miles of lush, beautifully scented Rosa Damascena (Damask Rose). The height of the season had passed before us yet there was still a soft scent of rose in the air. The festival of the roses has been celebrated for nearly a hundred years during the mass harvesting that takes place in villages like Karlovo and Kasanluk. Traditionally dressed boys and girls dance and perform folk songs and music, miming the process of harvesting the rose flowers and extracting the famous Bulgarian rose oil. There is not a tourist shop in Bulgaria that does not proffer a fine selection of rose scented bath products and the intricately painted or carved wooden trinkets that contain a small vile of the precious oil. It is not only a tourist trinket, but has been a major industry since the 17^th century. Bulgaria is the second largest producer of rose oil in the world. One ton of rose oil is exported annually, mostly to perfumery and cosmetic companies in France, Germany and the USA. Pretty impressive when you consider it takes 3000 kg of rose petals to distill just one kg of rose oil!

After the Valley of Roses we came to our first stop, the little town of Koprivshtitsa. Set in a hollow in the heart of Sredna Gora with a population of just 3,200, it has been declared a museum town, a historical preserve, and a national architectural preserve of international significance with almost 400 architectural monuments from the Bulgarian Renaissance. The houses were lovely and varied though I was most taken with the almost round stone bottomed houses on which sat a second story of beautiful deep dark wood. Sometimes the wood was painted with beautiful designs or in vivid colors. The town claims the heritage of several great men from Bulgaria’s history and numerous homes have been converted to museums.

We wandered through the cobblestone streets snapping photos at every turn. Evan, who is traveling on the tail end of a shoe string, bought what he thought was a sweet honey and was sad to discover was a regional specialty made from attar of roses. It is the taste and texture of extraordinarily sweet cake icing. Though we were eating it by the spoonfuls, it is actually intended to be used as a drink. A small dollop slipped into a glass of water creates a sweet, slightly rose scented drink. I actually think it would have been wonderful in coffee though I never did get to try it.

Rositsa and Emil are both fountainheads of information on the history and folklore of Bulgaria and shared their knowledge with us as we strolled leisurely through the quaint and surprisingly empty village. As we passed a wild, leafy plant, Rositsa plucked a stem telling me it was their plant of good health and fertility. It is worn in the springtime by men seeking mates. Rositsa explained that in times past, if a married woman was unable to get pregnant, her mother in law would arrange lovers for her. The woman would wear the leaf through town indicating she was, for lack of better terms, available and ripe. Men approved by the mother in law would come to her that night wearing wolves masks (to keep their identity secret) and bed her. She might have five to ten lovers in one night. (hmmm…) On the other side of the folklore spectrum, if a woman’s bedsheets were without blood stains on her wedding night she would be placed on a donkey backward and stoned to death (doesn’t seem fair to the donkey). Ironically, anal sex was not considered a de-virginizing act so young women in love or lust could have a little “back door” fun without the worry of being stoned to death. Quite the array of conflicting moral standards by our Puritanical and Victorian mores!

We stopped at the end of our little town tour for a snack at a charming little café. Bulgaria is overflowing with cafes that boast wooden picnic tables on astroturf-covered patios shaded by large umbrellas sponsored by the big beer companies, namely Kamenitza and Zagorka. Our tummies satisfied by the light snack, we headed back on the road, stopping by a Roman ruin on the way to Hissarya, a town known for its mineral springs and spas. It was a lovely town, fairly wealthy, with parks and fountains where residents walk every morning to collect the waters from the fountains for whatever it is that is ailing them. We settled at another little café for beer and coffee and ice-cream and lingered in the afternoon setting sun.

The two hour drive back to Sofia flew by as we wound our way through the mountains, sharing stories from our past and admiring the quaint countryside with its rickety homes and horse drawn carts. We dropped Evan back in Sofia where he was meeting a new host for the night with tight hugs and promises to keep in touch.

On Thursday, Rositsa, Emil, Eldad, and I met up again, this time for a road trip in the opposite direction to Rila monastery, Bulgaria’s most popular tourist sight. Emil entertained us with translations of the names of towns we drove through – “under the dick” “woman’s hole” “frog’s croak” and our beer-break town called “cleaning up the ram poop.” Hmmm, makes you wonder about the Bulgarian sense of humor. “Cleaning up the ram poop” was a small and dilapidated town but not without a certain charm with its fading color washed houses, each crowned by one or more storks’ nests. After leaving the town, we crossed a large plain then found ourselves winding upward to Rila mountain.

The monastery sits in the heart of the Rila Mountains under the watchful eye of Mousala, the highest peak, and at 2,925 meters, the highest point on the Balkan peninsula. The monastery is believed to have been founded by a hermit, John of Rila, in the 10^th century and has enjoyed great respect and privileges ever since it was established. The residential buildings, containing over 300 monks’ cells, form a closed irregular quadrangle creating an inner courtyard in which rises an impressive stone tower aside a breathtakingly beautiful five domed church painted with glorious renditions of biblical stories in bright, vivid colors. Sunlight glistens off the gold domes and bright paintings but the beauty of the outside does not begin to prepare one for the opulent interior. I walked, mouth agape, through the shafts of falling sunlight, amazed by iconography, the rich wood and golden glow emanating from every direction.

Another beer at a little café at Rila, after all it had been more than an hour since the last one, and we were back on the road. Perhaps it was the influence of the oddly named towns we were driving through or the middle-school banter with Evan the day before or just one of those suspended moments in time between travelers – whatever the cause, the innuendo talk unexpectedly transformed into an out and out flirtation between Eldad and I, making for quite the scintillating ride to and from Rila monastery as we teasingly ate cherries and shared a few discreet kisses. I must say it was the most fun I have ever had in the backseat of a moving car! Our paths would part before the teasing could be properly consumated, but it sure made for a great memory and a permanent photo in the Sherry archives.

It was evening when we returned to Sofia. We parted ways with Emil, thanking him for his kindness, and made our way to the couchsurfing party in town. Rositsa was the mother hen at a table filled with beautiful young ladies and two men. As I looked around the table I was struck by the fact that not one of the women at the table looked anything alike although each had some element of striking beauty about them. I never did spot a common characteristic among the Bulgarian women except their long-waisted and very womanly bodies. We drank beer and chatted the evening away until the group had dwindled to a handful. The last of us made our way to a live music bar where a Jamaican band played Bob Marley and Red Hot Chili Peppers while we danced the night away. I was about half lit when I stumbled out of the taxi and managed only a half hug to Rositsa from the back seat. I will have to return one day to give her the hug she deserves for her amazing generosity and kindness of spirit and for showing me so much of the beauty that is Bulgaria. Thank you Rositsa. You are indeed the Hostess with the Mostest!