WELCOME TO BULGARIA

Inside the bus station, a large muddy outdoor car park damp with anticipation, framed by ticket booths run by the variety of competing bus companies and a number of small café’s, I sat drinking coffee waiting for the Body Valley bus for Tsarevo in the warm dark shadows breathing in the petrol fumes, warm coffee and the anticipation of a journey to the coast.

The Bus eases its way into the humid bus station, Царево, ‘Tsaravo’ in printed Cyrillic stuck to the screen, this is my bus. I grip ticket and wheel my luggage toward the driver. I feel damp in the sultry heat of the Sofia evening, exited too by the smells and the prospect of the journey.
I find my seat and sink into the prospect feeling for my bottled water and MP3 player, Soon the bus weaves its way through a busy night time Sofia, groups of people joked and talked outside a restaurant, splashed by the street lights, as the bus was held by the traffic lights. A babushka begged for money, her sad face a passing comment, as the lights changed the bus turned down a side street, catching a pretty girl walking a dog, momentarily framed by the headlights. Headphones on, I provide the soundtrack……………..

“Can you see, I’m not well travelled?”

I feel warm and safe and wrapped in a pleasant melancholy, feeling ultimately that my position is hopeless.
Out on the motorway Vitosha Mountain began to recede and the heavy clouds grew dark and threatening. As the bus turned South East, avoiding Plovdiv, the ground seemed to growl opening up into a rolling barrage as the heavens split open and torrents of water fell from the sky. The landscape of rolling hills, the Balkan range, was suddenly starkly exposed by great streaks of jagged light. Against this dramatic dialogue, my first introduction to a Balkan thunderstorm, I travelled across Bulgaria in the darkness passing through Stara Zagora, and Nova Zagora, where we stopped.

After a cigarette in the cool damp air the warmth of the bus induced sleep and I dozed, covering my head with the light cotton jacket.
I awoke in Bourgas, Natasha’s home town and the third city of Bulgaria, a thriving sea port. In the sleepy darkness its empty streets seemed nakedly at rest, the light exposed only us, night time travellers as we stopped in the coach station. Others rose for air or a cigarette; I clung to the warmth of my seat, clung to the window and the view of the deserted bus station.
It was still dark as the bus pulled into Tsaravo, this was the last stop and here I was to be met by Bobby. The driver pulled away, leaving me and a middle aged woman in a grey anorak. The woman made her way from the bus station and I stood in the cool morning air, still groggy and stiff from the journey. Of anyone to meet me there was no sign.
I waited beside my heavy luggage for ten minutes feeling increasingly uneasy. I had my mobile phone and found the number I had for Bobby.

His voice carried a relaxed easy going quality that I was to grow to know so well.

“Hi Alex, I will be with you in about ten minutes, don’t worry!”

It left me feeling foolish ever to have doubted that he would be there. The feeling that it left me with, that I was too stiff, to over anxious and rigid in my worldview, was also to become very familiar too me.
He pulled up in what had obviously once been an impressive car in Bulgaria. Now however it could only be a source for alarm. It looked like it was falling apart.
Bobby positively bounced out of the car, wearing a white T shirt and shorts. About five foot five, carrying a little extra weight unshaven, but exuding bonhomie from a round smiling face with deep set, drunken looking eyes, he bounded toward me with outstretched hand.
“Hello Alex, welcome to Bulgaria. I hope you did not wait for long, is this all you luggage?” We shake hands, I, pleased to see him, curious about the man, about the car, his obvious command of English spoken in a curious accent with clear American influences.
He drove, foot flat down on the accelerator, along the narrow pot holed road, the car rattling and shaking as an incredible dawn broke over the southern coast.

“So you like Bulgarian women?”

The sun rose over calm water, a fishing boat making its way home as the sun scattered ripples of orange and gold over the even sea.

“It’s a beautiful morning!” I spoke for both of us, for the enfolding scene struck us both. He nodded, as we turned into Achtapol.

“You are tired from your journey?”

“A little, but this is wonderful,” I indicated the sea and sky, “it seems a shame now to think about sleeping.”

We swerved violently to avoid an oncoming truck, as I felt anxiously for the non-existent safety belt. But Bobby drove on unshaken, unstirred, nonchalant and quite obviously a little drunk. He exuded charm and enthusiasm, an infectious and reckless panache.
The winding road took us past the signpost for the border area, Sinemoritz was the responsibility of the Border police. Senses over sated I tried to take in the village as the car jumped, swayed, on what passed for a road.
I lifted down my luggage and took in the surroundings of the Villa California. It stood on a hillside overlooking the sea three floors high, in decked layers, though the upper floor was obviously unfinished, with unglazed window frames and ladders and working materials scattered on the upper decking. A small patch of grass stood at the rear of the building, with a border of flowers. Pot plants were dotted around the concrete forefront at the side of the building, which led to a door bearing the legend Bobby’s Bar.
I waited for Bobby who had disappeared into the hotel, taking out a cigarette I felt an immense wave of self satisfaction, I have arrived.

Watching the sunrise over Sinemoritz I am lifted gently skywards I ask for my breakfast out on the decking. The sky is everywhere only blue.