I have to come all the way to Sofia to see American jazz

Jet lag really is a bitch.  I wake up at 2 am, don't fall back asleep despite all of the sleep aids in my arsenal (sleeping pills, Benadryl, Brian eno) and wake up at 11, barely.  I need coffee.  I'm hungry.  I don't want to do shit, but I should probably venture off to the Boyana church, located in a Sofia suburb. I don't really want to.  But I've already seen basically all of what I'm supposed to see in Sofia and what the hell else was I going to do today.  Besides, I do love a good church, and being in this part of the world, maybe there will be an onion dome or two.

I skip artisanal coffee and go to the bodega with the huge coffee sign.  She doesn't speak English.  That's fine, cause coffee is pronounced "cafe" and I make a sign with my hands indicating that i want a fucking big one.  She gets me.  That shit was about 50 cents, and was strong, even if it did come out of a Nescafé machine.  It's black.  I don't even care.  This is my girl right here.

Properly caffeinated, I have a new lease on life.  I walk back to my banitsa lady.  It's late for banitsa, about noon.  There's only about 4 left.  I point to the one on the left, which I figure has spinach in it, because one says something, and the other says the same thing with an additional thing.  The lady says something that sounds like "spinnach." Victory!  I eat the WHOLE THING.  It is the size and shape of an intestine.  This is not going to end well for my own intestine.  But I am brave!  I will digest cheese like Bulgarians!  I will bite the head off the proverbial snake!

I am excited. I walk past the mosque and fill my water at the old ass communal fountains like all the old men here.  I don't know if they're supposed to be healing waters, or it's leftover communist mentality to get whatever that's free, but old people, all day, come with water cooler sized drums filling up with free water.  

I walk past the girl from the bar, who recognizes me and says "hi!  Are you going for a walk?"  I now have more friends in Sofia than I have at home.

I do a little research back at the Airbnb to go to boyana church.  There are three recommended options: minibus 21, and a couple of trams which connect to a couple of busses.  Sure, a taxi there will only cost about $15, but what fun is that?  I am caffeinated!  I want an adventure!  I want to walk in the sunlight!

So I walk about 15 minutes to the university.  No problem.  Little blue dot gets me there easily.  I'm supposed to talk minibus 21.  The only information I have is "get it on this boulevard."  I walk around and around.  For a good hour.  I am not annoyed, just stubbornly determined to find it.  I ask three people in convenience stores where it is.  They smile kindly and shrug, because they don't speak English and have no idea, even when I type it on my phone.  

I pass a couple of older tourists.  I say "are you looking for minibus 21?"  They're French, they don't speak English.  Ok, I pause and rework my brain to French, which, thanks to my shitty NYC public education, means that I got 5 years of perfect grades and never learned to speak.  My grammar was on point, but I'm basically useless.  "Cherchez-Vous autobus 23?"  I didn't even say vingt et toi.  Moron.  Anyway, no, they were not but we wished each other "Bonne chance" on our journey.  5 minutes later, they ran up to tell me the bus was across the street.  I thanked them, knowing these kind motherfuckers had no idea what the hell they were talking about, even though I crossed the street to show my faith and gratitude.

I see a tram that my guidebook recommends.  Tram 4 to bus 63.  OK!  the tram sign is completely in Cyrillic, and my guidebook is in English.  I successfully figure out the Cyrillic for "Russian monument" and that the tram is going in the right direction.  Fuck yes!  I am getting somewhere!  I get on the tram and pay the guy correctly, thank god.  I can't figure out how to validate my paper ticket.  I'll play stupid American if they catch me.  It'll be believable.  

The Russian monument plaza is roundabout with about 5 streets going into it.  And I walked every one of them, looking for signs for bus 63.  None.  I ask a tram driver where it is.  He unconvincingly points in a direction.  I walk and walk.  No luck.  At this point, I figure this trip around has taken me three hours.  I don't even really care.  This is normal for me anywhere, and I always marvel at how confused and how lost I can get, anywhere.  But I'm getting a lot of exercise, and the weather is beautiful and no one is bothering me.  At some point, the skies start looking gray.  I must be completely dehydrated because I haven't had to pee in hours.  I see another tram I recognize, hop on it, and follow the blue dot to as close to the Airbnb as it will take me and get home right before the rainfall.

The problem I'm learning is that my guide book is in English, but all of the maps I've tried to read are in Bulgarian.  Google maps will show you either the English, or the Bulgarian, but usually not both.   Most of the public transportation on google isn't showing up in English, so even when I got back to the Airbnb, I couldn't even figure out where I went wrong.  I had a much easier time with Rome2rio.com, which showed me exactly where I was supposed to be.  I was about 1 block off, but there really was no way for me to know this.  

Back to my fancy coffee place, and I order a double macchiato.  I'm not fucking around with the coffee situation.  The guy smiles and suggests the Columbian.   It's strong.  He tries to get me to buy the cat art framed in an actual window when he sees me snapping a photo.  He is lovely and now he knows how I like my coffee.  I like it here.

I go back to the same restaurant as last night.  Same waitress.  Kebab and dilled potatoes, water instead of raki.  She gives me a bottle room temperature instead of cold.  I'll have to learn how to say "cold water."  Same cats.  There's a private party, a teenage birthday party or something, at the restaurant next door and there's a young boy, maybe 15, and every 10 minutes or so he comes out with this girl and furiously makes out with her, as he grabs onto her ass.  And not just her ass, he really crams his hand right in between her butt cheeks.  It's broad daylight, and they're right in front of me, and they don't give a fuck.  The girl seems more interested in playing with the cats at this restaurant than with her date.  My waitress has no interest in bringing me my check.  Time has not been of the essence for any part of today, which is just fine.

I don't know if this is lame or not, and I don't really care, but even when I fuck up, if I'm just wandering around, looking at foreign street signs, advertisements, trying to figure out the lay of the land, I'm happy.  I don't need to see anything in particular unless I really have my heart set on it.  I have nothing to prove to anyone, not even myself, and the great thing about going away for a month is that I'm not pressured with time to have to do anything in particular.  I can be exactly who I am and do exactly what I'd do at home, even if it's nothing at all. And not spending a ton of money going to all of the things and doing all of the things and treating myself like a queen on vacation is not everyone's idea of vacation, but it's mine, preservationist in nature,  it's the only way I can afford to be away for a month, so luckily it works for me.

I found out that there's a big Jazz fest this weekend, which is pretty funny considering my boyfriend is a jazz musician and we see very little jazz at home.  But the headliner Saturday night is Robert Glasper, who is pretty famous and award winning and all that crap and from New York.  I don't know much about him except that he's good and popular.  So I try to buy tickets.  I happen to catch my Airbnb hostess, and she tells me it's very crowded but the metro nearby goes straight there, only two stops, and the concert is free. 

OH, THERES A METRO.  RIGHT NEXT TO ME.  Google maps is now officially on my shit list.  Thank god for her.

I get to the concert.  "Crowded" by Bulgarian standards isn't the same as New York.  There's a lot of people there.  But I got up to almost the very front for most of the concert.  And it's amazing.  There's a guy in front of me recording on Facebook live for 45 MINUTES.  I counted.  This isn't America, where every douchebag does this, either.  He was the only one.  And only 2 of his friends were even watching it.  I almost said something, but I'm the tourist here.  And I can't presume everyone speaks English.  The couple in front of me, a half an hour in, starts making fun of him, in English.  She's Bulgarian, he's a Spaniard.  I join in.  They're super nice.  The Spaniard says "he doesn't even have any friends watching!  We spend the next half hour laughing at him, in English.  When he finally stops, my Spaniard friend lets me stand in front of him, knowing I won't fuck it up for them.  I'm right in the front.

The concert is so good I don't even pull a phillips and leave before the end just to beat everyone out to the station.  As soon as it ends, I bolt out of there to catch the metro which I think is done at midnight, because i forgot to take out more cash before I left and I only have about $6 left in my pocket, probably not enough for a cab to take home.

I was smart enough to buy a return ticket to make sure I had enough to get home; not smart enough to know that the tickets you buy expire after an hour.  Another $1 fail.  My failures have been cheap here.

The only black guy I've seen in this country comes up to me to ask me if the train was going to the station I was going to, in accented English.  I tell him that I think so, but I'm not from here.  he's from Congo, "in Africa," he tells me, like he's used to people asking where Congo is.  He's here getting a masters degree in nuclear security, whatever the fuck that means, and he's super nice.  He tells me he's lived here since last February and it dawns on me that there's no way he doesn't know what side the train he's on.  He's trying to pick me up or make friends, and I'm not really interested either way, but I'm not going to NOT talk to the only black guy I've seen here besides the Robert Glasper Experiment band.  After 15 minutes he asks for my information and he laughed when I told him my boyfriend wouldn't allow new male friends.   I'm always surprised and confused when people are so friendly and unafraid to seem interested in a woman, because living in New York is so unfriendly and the dating scene is so difficult.  As soon as I leave, I feel like the most attractive woman in the world.  

I get out and give a very strong "very nice to meet you, goodbye" sendoff to my friend and he happily leaves me to go.  

Or so I think.  All of a sudden, I'm a New Yorker.  I'm crossing streets erratically, looking behind me.  Maybe he's following me.  He's not.  But I notice that this central, well lit area is only populated by men.  It's midnight, and there's a pack of dudes outside the mosque.  I cross the street to avoid them.  There's a pack of dudes in front of the water fountains.  I cross the street to avoid them.  I'm crossing and crossing on the 10 minute walk home in order to avoid everyone.  I have felt so safe and comfortable here up to now, and although no one even tried to come close to me, I have to remember I'm a woman alone, and it's best to keep my guard up.  Don't tell them where you're staying.  Don't tell them where you're going next.

My dad later tells me black guy was the only one I should not worry about.  In a city with no blacks people, he quickly notes, what would happen if he DID do something?  They'd find him right away.  "What did he look like?" "He was black, from Africa."  "Oh, THAT guy."  Dad is wise as fuck.

I go to the Muse bar where my  bartender friend works.  She's there and recognizes me.  I order a Campari soda, cause I'm in Europe and that's a popular summer drink here.  She points to a little sign they have and explains that they do a special Campari tonic with lime, and some pickle flavored potato chips because they really bring out the flavor of the lime.  Sure.  I never eat chips at home, but bring it on.  The guy next to me tells me she crumbles them up and puts them in my drink.  He's fucking with me.

At this point, I just want to enjoy my drink and write.  There's maybe 8 people at the bar and there's lots of spaces to sit.  A couple of seats at the bar.  Some communal tables inside.  Some picnic tables outside.  Also outside, a tiny little bar, space barely for two, overlooking the picnic tables.  Perfect.

I'm there for 10 minutes before some guy sidles up right next to me in this tiny space and asks if he can sit there.  What am I going to say, no?  Sure, you can sit here.  Sure you can smoke.  He was polite about it and I did my best to ignore him.  He's not creepy.  Just too close, and I'm not in the mood for more friends.  Another 10 minutes later and he notices my drink is empty, and asks me if I needed another, and it was on him.

Suddenly I am reminded why I like New York so much.  No one buys you a drink without at least preliminary conversation, so before you accept that drink you can at least decide if the person is worth talking to.  Anyway, no one I don't know already has bought me a drink in as long as I can remember in New York.  

I tell him that yes, I need another, but it's ok, I can get it myself.  He insists, saying it's the least he can do after subjecting me to his smoke and his presence.  Ok, fine.

I know the feminist in me should have just said that I was interested in my writing and was enjoying my time alone, but he was certainly non-threatening and it wouldn't kill me to talk to a stranger.  He knows the bartender and my Airbnb is right next door.

Anyway, he's french and naturally speaks perfect English and is really nice and like every other European I've ever met is really interested In Discussing comparative American politics in incredible and intelligent detail.  He's not hitting on me, which I appreciate, and at about 2 am I decided that was all the friendly I could muster.  I pay my bar tab which was under $3 and I awkwardly tip the bartender way too much.   Should I have just told her to not give me the change?  Do I leave the tip on the bar?  In her hand?  I hate tipping abroad.  I always feel like I'm doing it wrong... if I tip by local standards I feel like they think I'm getting away with something.  If I tip by New York standards I feel like a moron.  

On my way out, the two guys from the beginning of the evening ask me why I'm leaving so early and try to get me to stay. 

I'm wearing zero makeup and an amorphous sweater and my hair is pulled back in a sloppy lazy ponytail.  I feel so... popular.  Is it because everyone is so friendly here?  Is it that they smell fresh meat?  Am I just the only woman alone?  I don't know, but I sense it's hard to feel lonely in Sofia.