Nuremberg: better than it sounds

Nuremberg 

It was significantly cheaper to fly into Nuremberg than it was into Munich (an hours train ride away) but I thought it would be a good idea to check out Nuremberg.  More nazi shit!  Who wouldn't want an uplifting time in the place hitler loved the most?

Hitler had good taste in this regard.  Nuremberg is precious.  Our hotel is one block away from the old town walls, and walking across town takes about a half hour.  The airport is very close to the center of town, making it a very easy trip in.  We're right in the center of spielhalle (casino) central and it's like taunting Justin.  This is more shit that he likes that I hate.  And it seems that everywhere we stay, we're right smack in the middle of casinolandia.  Justin always says he wants to go in, and I really don't.  it's a mixed blessing because even though justin thinks gambling is fun if you just set a monetary limit of what you're willing to lose, he knows that he'd probably just lose all of it and be annoyed.  We have this back and forth a lot: justin saying he wants to go in, I say no, he's mildly annoyed, then I say yes, then he decides it's not a good idea.

We walk into the old town and there's musicians EVERYWHERE.  We just happened to pick the weekend of their annual 3-day international music festival.  when I say everywhere, I don't mean in a New Orleans kind of "oh there's so much music!" I mean that they're so close to one another that the dissonance of their musical styles is distracting.

Oh, and they pretty universally are terrible.  

Call me a snob, but as far as music is concerned, we really have everything in New York and the overall level is just really high.  This was not.  Especially jazz.  We unfortunately had to listen to a three piece ensemble who was certainly playing the notes, but just didn't "swing," and a Latin band that had no groove.

Justin's hungry so we sit down a traditional Bavarian bierstube and order some sausages.  Different regions of Germany are true to their own variation of sausage.  Nuremberg seems to be true to three kinds: weisswurst (white veal sausage with herbs), some kind of sausage that is pork and tastes like our breakfast sausage, and pickled sausage.  He orders the sausage plate for one with sauerkraut.

Would you like to know how many sausages Nuremberg thinks is an appropriate serving for one person? 

NINE.  Nine sausages.  I thought justin was going to keel over.

We walk off the sausages and finally hear something that sounds good on the bass guitar.  Justin and my ears perk up and make a beeline towards it... yeah, it's two black dudes.  Insert obvious joke here... let's just say there are not a lot of black people in Nuremberg, and finally the music sounds good....

It turns out that there are a handful of main stages in the festival, and everyone on the main stage we're pretty good.  It was the buskers on the street who were lackluster.  

We wait around for the two black dudes to start playing because even them warming up sounded better than anything else we had seen thus far.  They were scheduled to go on at 6pm.  At 5:59 an even organizer gets on to introduce the band.  

There's nothing I enjoy more about this country than their precision and impeccable and renowned promptness.  

I really loved the band.  It was a Mozambican drummer, a bahian bassist, and a white Dutch guitarist.  They were playing "Afro-Latin-jazz" and justin and I are bopping our heads to the beat... we look around and a large sea of white faces are not.  Just a bunch of Germans respectfully, quietly, and without moving any part of their body, listening and enjoying.  No one was dancing.

I'm sure Germans dance and move to the rhythm of music.  Just not here.

Next day, Sunday... the town is CLOSED.  Bavaria is very catholic, and has very strict rules about what can be open and what cannot.  There is nothing to do but more music festival, or the holocaust memorial just outside of town. 

It's so fucking hot out that justin can't take the idea of walking around outside looking at more nazi and war memorials.  I agree with him.  I'm done with it, too.  We spend the day taking it easy, trying unsuccessfully to stay out of the sun and away from shitty music.  

Justin makes a reservation at a quaint little restaurant for us.  We show up... his computer was set to the wrong time zone and he accidentally made the reservation for the night after.  No problem.  In the summer, it seems that everyone wants to sit in the tables outside in restaurants to take advantage of the short summer, and it's easy to sit inside.  We had almost and entire little room to ourselves. the waiter speaks in very good but very strange English.  Every time he walks away, he says "and here we go."  He's funny.

I order the sausages.  Yes, 9 of them.  "They're small," justin says.  Yeah, but they're still 9 fucking sausages.  I also had a rauschbier (smoked beer.)  SMOKED!  Awesome.

As we're ready to leave, there's a very loud heavy metal band we can hear starting up outside.  Justin says to the waiter, "so, how do you like having this music festival outside," showing obvious disdain.

He says, "Three days already of this fucking shit festival.  Every weekend, another fucking festival."

His English wasn't so weird after all.

Budapest II: Jews, dirndls, and cultural appropriation

Budapest II: Jews, dirndls, and cultural appropriation 

There's so much to see in Budapest but at this point in my life, I've seen so much shit that I barely every just go somewhere because people go there.  It has to seem like it will be special.  There are ruins in obuda (old buda) and i don't care.  There's opera and theater and concerts and churches and anything typically European one might like to look at but I'm just not terribly compelled to do any of it.  I always get to some point in a month long vacation where I'm just over playing tourist, and I think this is where it hit.  I want to get some sun and drink some wine and eat some Hungarian shit.

There's a couple of problems here.  There are plenty of parks but I hate sitting in the grass.  So there are benches, fine.  But I like being in the sun and the heat, and justin hates it.  So that's a little pointless.  Also, justin isn't a day drinker and I'm not a big night life person.  So that didn't really work so well, and it really wouldn't have anyway because even when I day drink I'm gonna have only one glass of wine before I just want to take a nap anyway.  Justin can drink with the best of them.  I just figured out that even though I'm not a crazy beach goer, I didn't plan enough beach on this trip... only the Black Sea a couple of weeks ago and a few days at the lake in Germany.  The beach Is the perfect thing for us because he can sit under the umbrella while I lie under the sun, and he can watch my things so I can swim.  

So we instead decide that the next day we'd go to one of the many spas in town.  They're old as fuck, well preserved and huge.  They have outdoor and indoor pools and hot tubs of varying temperatures, just like an ancient roman spa castle.  I pick the most expensive one, Geller, still costing less than $20 a person, figuring there would be the fewest number of nasty backpackers there.  Also, some of these places are segregated by sex but this one isn't.

It's amazing and clean and not too crowded and everyone is quiet and there are plenty of children but unlike spa castle, the kids don't treat it like a playground.  Unfortunately, it just happened to be the coldest and windiest day we've seen on this trip, only about 60 degrees, so my dream of lying on a lounge chair and working on my tan while justin hides from the sun with his Ursula LeGuin novel was thwarted. 

The one thing I really wanted and needed to see was the main synagogue, just steps from our Airbnb.  It's huge.  Often when I get to a tourist monument I look at the price and decide if  it's worth it.  We walked past it accidentally  and considering it was very hot outside, we decided just to go In.  Justin asks how much the ticket is.  I don't look and I don't care, because I'm going to this synagogue, but I joke that I'm sure it's a lot because my people are like that.  

This would be one of only about a million inappropriate jokes about Jews justin and I make on this trip, under our breaths.  This is my birthright, and justin has been with me long enough that he gets permission by association.  

I wasn't wrong.  I don't remember what it was but I for Budapest it was pricey.  Reparations don't come cheap.

So there are signs we have to cover our shoulders and our legs, and of course this is the one day I haven't packed my Pareo that I carry around for this purpose.  Right then there, of course, on the day I didn't bring my pareo for covering my bare shoulders or legs.  They sell a blue paper surgical gown to wear that covers you from neck to ankle.  At mosques they just loan you something.  But of course, my people charge for it.  It's only about a dollar.  But still.  Dicks.

The tour (in multiple languages) of the synagogue and small grounds and memorial comes with admission.  We latch on to the already started English speaking tour.  This poor young guide.  He's giving an explanation of what happened to the Jews in Hungary and he's being interrupted by some Polish dude who feels the need to give his own historical perspective including an anger-tinged explosive "we had it worse than you!  In Poland they destroyed everything!"

That was our cue to leave that tour, free or not.

The synagogue is spectacular.  The architecture is mostly moorish, but it's not a Sephardic synagogue.  The designer wanted there to be a mix of styles, which we learned afterwards.  Justin and I had just decided the Jews just found some nice abandoned church or mosque and took it for themselves.  

Inside the synagogue, There are different countries' flags placed intermittently that represent the language the tour is given in.  An older man is giving another tour in the English area, and he has also already started, so we sit down quietly and out of the way so as not to disturb him.  He's in the process of explaining what Shabbos is, and what the rules are for having and using no electricity during that time.  I'm guessing that this discussion went on for some time before we arrived because one girl asks, "what about texting?" And the guy responds incredulously "NO!  No TEXTING!  No.... just... no texting.  No texting!" He repeated it over and over like he couldn't even believe this moron would ask.  It was a true Larry David moment.

Budapest is truly lovely.  We drank at a "ruinspub," an outdoor pub made out of a space that was formally abandoned.  We went to the parliament, one of the most spectacular buildings I've ever seen and watched the sunset.  

Justin also found us a really awesome bar next to the bridge that felt like a grittier DUMBO.  It is where i learned I do not like schnapps.

I decide to look for thrift stores.  I love them.  So does justin.  But Im Pretty sure that there's nothing I'm going to like here.  The thing that makes Manhattan thrift stores so great is that there are really rich people who really love excess.  So there's usually really great shit that rich people have gotten bored of, or have barely ever worn.  But I have a feeling that there's a lot less of that here.  I find a branch of Humana, one of the European chain goodwills, and I go there when justin is sleeping.  So I get up bright and early and get a Slice of Esterhazy torte and gently place it in my purse for later. And I walk to the store.

My suspicions were confirmed.  Very clean; not one of those vintage stores that smell like funk and moth balls.  Just not my taste. It was a hipster paradise: long old lady print skirts or multicolored polyester tops that totally could have been thrown together artfully if you're into and good at that.  But I'm not.  And this particular location's pricing scheme is as follows: every 5 weeks stock is rotated.  The first week, everything in the store costs one fixed price.  I don't know what it is, but stupidly cheap.  Then as time passes, the price goes down.  The day I arrived, everything in the store was $4. Didn't matter if it was a skirt, a blouse, a dress, or an army jacket.  Hipster paradise.  But not for me.

Except one thing catches my eye: A DIRNDL.  you know, that German dress that has the corset up the front with a plunging neckline that ladies wear at Octoberfest? 

Now, I LOVE a costume.  I collect them and recently I've taken any opportunity possible to wear a costume at work to commemorate any holiday.  When I decided we were going to Germany and Austria, I told justin not to worry: I wouldn't be shopping for dirndls.  Because as cute as they are, I've done my research, and those beautifully made traditional dresses can be a good couple of hundred dollars.  I'd make that shit myself for that price.  I even have a pattern that I saved long ago for a dirndl blouse, which I actually made, still have, and never wear, and leiderhosen at home.  

But a $4 dirndl?  One that looks like it's never been worn?  Yeah.  I'm into that.  And they've got a number of them.  Only a couple of them have that lace up front, all way too big except for one that fits me at the waist but not even close at the boobs.  Way too small. (Justin later says: pretty sure that's a kid's dress.  He's probably right.). I decide to get it anyway, because a quick inspection shows a good 1-inch bias-tape bound  seam allowance along both sides.   seam allowances are the parts of your clothes on the inside that are "extra" after sewing the seams of the fabric.  On cheaper clothes, they are not bound, and usually the seam allowance is only about 1/4".  The generous seam allowance on this dirndl indicates that the manufacturer intended for it to be let out for the inevitability of that person growing out of it.  Fuck, even if i can't manage to alter it myself, I'll give it away.  It's FOUR DOLLARS.  I like to consider myself cheap, but generous.

Fitting me perfectly is a dress that looks a little more "renaissance fair" than than dirndl, but it's got a tag that says "rose dirndl aus Bayern" so I figure I just don't know shit about dirndls.  The bodice is flaxen-colored linen, embroidered, and off the shoulder lemon yellow sleeves and a full yellow skirt.  It's amazing and so well made and I must have it even though i really don't know anything about what I'm buying.

And I snag one of those white blouses for under the dirndl, even though it's a size 42 European and I'm probably a size 34 and even if I were a size 42 I'd never have the tits it would take to fill this thing.  I can just pin it in the back.  It's adorable, and now I know that a traditional dirndl blouse is actually a crop-top and has a gathering string down the cleavage to show a little more if you wAnt.  This is important research.  

And for some reason, there's a magnificent, calf-length, 3/4 sleeve, scoop neck African multicolored dress that is so gorgeous, fits me so perfectly, I have to have it.  Also, FOUR FUCKING DOLLARS.

**Aside but important: I LOVE LOVE LOVE African dresses.  Like, when I see one, my heart actually skips a beat.  Every year, I go to the annual Dance Africa show and bazaar and there's so many (mostly) people of color who come in traditional African dress or African fabrics made into modern dress, and I am so jealous.  I just think everything is so beautiful.  But I stop myself from buying anything, or making anything from the fabric (which is very easy to get in Manhattan) because there's a whole cultural appropriation stigma about white people taking traditional brown people stuff and claiming it for their own.  When I do African dance, I wear an African print lapa (sarong) because that's what you're supposed to be wearing but I've always stopped at buying an actual dress because I don't want to be THAT white chick.  I don't want to disrespect people who I have a great amount of respect for.  I like to think of myself as "woke" enough but in reality I don't think I deserve or should wear something African.  

But at this year's african bazaar I finally broke and bought not one, but two, African cloth sleeveless tops because they were just too cute and fit me too well, so I bought two prints that looked the least "african" so maybe no one would call me on my cultural appropriation bullshit.  

But this dress.... it's full length and has 5 bright as the sun colors and it's so obviously African....  I thought about it all day.  Will I ever have the balls to wear it?  It's completely appropriate at dance africa because it's Brooklyn and I think it's understood that even a white woman wearing the print is showing respect, admiration, and paying homage to the incredible event tradition of that event.  

I work in a Westchester town that very mixed racially but kinda in a Westchester bubble and not super "woke."  I'm guessing that most kids, even the vast number of African-American kids we have, will even know that the dress is african fabric.  I'm sure most of them will think that I'm just wearing a dress that has way too many bright colors all at once.

I bought it and I'm going to wear it, I've decided, and I'm going to be a wreck the whole time.  I have a traditional Vietnamese ao dai that I wear without self-criticism, why is this different?  Just the other day, the internet blew up over a white child dressing up as a geisha for a japanese tea themed party.  I see both sides, and I think it comes down to the fact that there's a very fine line between homage and appropriation.  I'm just hoping my colleagues of color will give me a pass on this one.  It's not like I'm wearing a traditional suit with the matching turban and corn rows?  I'm crossing my fingers and apologizing in advance.  At least I'm culturally appropriating the Germans, too, right??**

Ok, back to dirndls.  Bargain hunting is like a drug... once you find something great, you need more.  So try to find other branches of humana for more $4 dirndls.  The next day I try, but it's in vain, because the one listed on google doesn't even exist.  In the meantime, I do some dirndl research and it seems that dirndls are just traditional costumes (trachten) and come in many forms, not just the lace-up kind.   Salzburg, Austria seems to be the dirndl capital of the world, and Bavaria (Bayern) is where my yellow one came from.  And, as I figured, there's all sorts of levels of quality to be had but they're worn by ladies in restaurants, Oktoberfest participants, and by other people unironically for reasons I just don't know.  

So I go back the next day.  Same store, more dirndls.  Looks like they keep re-stocking.  And the price has gone down.  $3.  At this point, I'm buying dirndls without even trying them on, and buying one that is clearly cheap costume-quality because I'm going to give it to my school's German club as a gift to wear at their fundraisers.  They hold a popular fundraiser every year, selling pretzels and sausages and one kid gets to wear a dirndl and another, leiderhosen.  Now they'll have more. The German teacher is super nice and really well loved and has invited me to sit in her class to learn with the kids and I bet she'll love having this for her kids.  I somehow manage to find some restraint and not buy all of them, but mostly because I figured that kids aren't going to want to wear the single colored, full length, non-lace-up dirndl.  Also, I only brought a carry on.  

At this point, no exaggeration, my bag is half full of dirndl and African dress.  Good thing I pack light.  

Later in the evening, Justin spots a restaurant called khachapuri, named after a type of juicy, large, Georgian dumpling.  We love Georgian food, and it seems that we find a georgian restaurant almost everywhere we go.  Justin is really excited because they have chacha, a kind of Georgian eau-de-vie that he loves and is almost impossible to find in the US.  Justin orders a khachapuri appetizer, and a chicken stew for his main.  I picked a salad and The same main.   Justin, who's been to Georgia, is a resident expert and bitches every time something isn't right.  It's the most foodie he gets.  He gets annoyed when I pronounce khachapuri wrong (which I always do), he gets annoyed when the meat doesn't taste right, when I eat the nipple-looking top of the dumpling he's discarded (they're doughy and my favorite part... in Georgia you're not supposed to eat them.  Thats how the waiter keeps track of how many you've ordered, like toothpicks in a tapas bar in Spain.).  Our mains come, and justin asks about the khachapuri.  The waiter scoffs and says "I know," even though it didn't come before the chicken dish.  The khachapuri arrive moments later.  He totally forgot and tried to play it off.  In the meantime, the group of Russian tourists behind us are arguing that they ordered fried dumplings and not steamed ones.  Justin scoffs at their choice of fried over steamed.  My salad never comes.  We have to practically beg for more wine and chacha.  I'm positive from what justin tells me that THAT never happens in Georgia.  It first seems like this guy hates us... we change our minds and decides he hates his job.  

That was the only time we got bad service anywhere in Hungary. 

We wind up at a karaoke joint back in our neighborhood.  The joint is JUMPING.  Every backpacker and stag party member was there, and us.  Songs are picked from an iPad left unattended in the middle of the room.  Everyone is singing, so no real point of getting up to the mic because no one can hear you over anyone else.  No matter.  We can't quite figure out which buttons to pick after our selection, so justin never gets to sing his song (a jazz standard that he would have killed but would not have been appreciated by the consortium) and I pick a couple but only Rihanna's S&M comes up.  I run to the mic, and so does some pretty young girl.  I said "did you pick this too?" she says "no, but I like it!" Ok, girl, in America that shit wouldn't fly but I'll give this one to you.  When in Rome.  It's a crowd pleaser.

If you go to enough karaoke bars in New York, you see very quickly that no matter who is there, it is guaranteed that you'll hear the same karaoke hits.  Someone will have probably picked your song, because your song is everyone's song.  And in Europe, it seems, the same rules apply, but for completely different songs.  Justin says it's because the English is easy to understand and learn.  All I know is that a whole room of presumably straight dudes were unironically belting out Cher and Madonna.  Europe is a place where your gaydar compass is just completely off, and this is only one of the reasons.

Karaoke alley is also arcade alley, and we got a real kick out of playing some DDR-like game that replaced dance pads with conga drum pads.  And my favorite, air hockey, which justin always indulges me in.  I guess I'm old-school.

Inexplicably, there's a conveyer-belt sushi place in the gaming arcade and justin is super excited about the prospect of going there.  Our beloved conveyer-belt sushi place across the street from our apartment close a year or so ago, and we used to go there about once a week.  A devastating loss.  

There's literally not one person eating in there.  I tell him he's crazy... we're not eating at a sushi restaurant with sushi already made ono a conveyer belt that no one goes into.  He protests... maybe it's not the right time, maybe it's a late night thing, yadda yadda.  I roll my eyes.  These aren't fights, not even heated discussions.  But a lot of poor Justin's vacations are spent with me telling him he can't eat here or there for myriad reasons. Sometimes I let Him win and I am forced to admit that his decision was a good one.  

But this one, I put my foot down.  We were leaving the next day...was it really worth risking food poisoning just to eat sushi at this empty restaurant??  He really wants to argue with me on this one. 

FINE.  At least a drink.  We'll go in for a drink and look. 

We get to the bar.  There's literally no patrons, no workers.  The two workers are sitting at the conveyor belt, completely unfazed by our presence and in no rush to serve us.  It was if they themselves couldn't believe anyone would want anything.

I give justin a look... he looks at the dishes going around the belt... there's nothing in them and there's a small case with a couple of sad looking pieces of sushi.  He's finally convinced.  We walk out, and no one stops us.  Justin then thanks me profusely for not allowing us to eat there.

Instead, we go to an all-you-can eat restaurant that I also previously said no to.  It's about $22, and includes all the beer and wine you want, which is a pretty good deal if you really want to eat all you can eat.  I never do, and "all you can drink" for me is 2, maybe 3 glasses of wine before I am a disaster.  But, justin did the research, said it seemed good, and we really hadn't tried a ton of Hungarian food at this point.  Also, the place was packed, and by the time our 40 minute wait was up, I was starving.  

We are and drank like we hadn't in a week.  They come out and ask us if we want pizza as an appetizer, and Justin's eyes light up like a kid in a candy store.  It was surprisingly delicious, a little like a fake DiFara's with less cheese and sauce but thin with a really good crust.  They had soup, cold cuts, and everything else was some form of meat in heavy sauce and potato or dumpling side.  It was above average cafeteria food but with excellent service.  Our waiter, at the end, asked us where we were from, and when we said New York, he brightened and said "oh!  Do you have an American car?  I have one! " I don't remember what it was but it was from the 70s and he was super excited about it.

And then I drunk dialed my parents for my dad's birthday.

Budapest was lovely.  I leave feeling like I've left some things  unfinished, like I didn't party enough or see enough shit or spend enough time baking in the sun at a spa.  I would enjoy a return trip.  

Prague, where I won't let justin have a cheeseburger

Prague

Prague is where I meet up with Justin!  I was happy to be on my own for a while, but now I'm ready for a companion.

I'd been to Prague before: 19 hours.  It was probably a little more than. 10 years ago, and I basically didn't leave the old town.  I checked into the nastiest 4-bed hostel I'd ever stayed in.  It must have cost something under $20.  I had no plan on even staying there; it was just a place to clean up and drop off my luggage while I got to see everything I could.  I remember there were 4 small beds. There was an Asian lady was washing her underwear in the sink and drying it in a makeshift clothesline she strung over her bed.  No one in the room spoke English besides me, it was coed and smelly and no one really acknowledged each other.  But this situation did force me out into town.  I really made the most of my time there: went to a museum (the sex machine museum... it was really cool!), had a meal in a traditional Czech pub, went to a jazz club. Crossed the famous Charles bridge to see the Disneyland-looking church on the hill.  I still really can't say it, but it's basically what Borat says in the movie all the time. Djen-kwee or something like that.  I tried to go to the Jewish quarter but it was either late or Saturday because everything was closed.  I peered through the windows to see tiny Czech glass figurines of Orthodox Jews praying.  They were adorable.

So this time around, I wasn't gonna do that again.  I booked a hotel in the vinohrady district.  It used to be covered in vineyards and now it is an upscale neighborhood where every building looks like it is on Central Park west; ornate with high ceilings and a rainbow of pastel exterior.  It's a simply beautiful neighborhood.  It's known for having a nice concentration of fancy coffee shops and cocktail bars, diverse cuisine, if you count vietnamese and Italian "diverse."  in Prague, I think that's about as diverse as it gets.

I'm a huge believer of eating traditional food when I go somewhere.  And Prague is no different, but I distinctly remember the last and only meal I had in Prague was a gut-buster.  Beef or pork slabs in a rich brown stew, sweet and sour red cabbage (braised in pork fat, I'm sure) and dumplings.  Prague dumplings are like bready dense matzoh balls that are served sliced so that they soak up more gravy.  It was tasty, but I remembered how heavy it was and that I didn't think that was something anyone should eat a lot.  In summer.

So I was super excited for Vietnamese food, especially since it was right next to the hotel.  It was good enough, enough to eat there twice mostly in order to balance out whatever else I was going to do to myself while I was there.  But you have to lower your expectations for eating food you're familiar with that's been imported into another country besides your own; it's always different because it's adjusted to suit local tastes.  The summer rolls filled with beef and the beef curry were delicious but way too salty; in contrast the pho was not nearly seasoned enough.  Justin ordered sushi, but I wasn't fucking with raw fish from a landlocked nation on a Sunday when most shit is closed. He loved it.  "And it's so cheap!"

It's all relative.  Prague is considerably cheaper than New York, everything at least half price.  But considerably more expensive than Bulgaria.  An entree in a mid-range restaurant is about $12 here, and in a traditional eatery, less.  But in Bulgaria, $5-8.  Its strange how quickly you grow accustomed to price differentials.  Beer here is about $1-2 for a half pint and a shot of local brandy about the same.  And that's what Prague is known for; the word "pilsner" comes from the town of plzen in the Czech Republic.  I was pretty sure we'd be spending most of our time drinking beer around town.

We get here on a Saturday afternoon, and get the old town out of the way.  Justin is pretty jet-lagged, and I would like to see it again, but briefly.  It's a quick metro ride away.   

The metro, tram, and bus system in Prague and is extensive and comprehensive.  It's on an honor system.  You buy your ticket, either 30-minutes worth, 90-minutes worth, or a day/multiday pass.  It's 24 Czech koruna for the 30 minute ticket, which is probably about 50 cents.  But the problem is that the ticket machines, which are everywhere, only take EXACT CHANGE.  And there's very few ticket sellers, so everywhere you go you see throngs of tourists crowded around these damned machines desperately trying, in vain, to follow the rules and buy a ticket.  Or, when you encounter the one ticket booth, you have to wait in line for 10 minutes to buy one.  Because also, mostly tourists, who haven't quite figured out which coin is which yet and everyone is trying to conduct the transaction in their second, maybe third language.  It's a mess.  We grab a couple of tickets at the counter for the future and start hoarding change.

The old town was exactly as I remember it, but it has to be one of the most crowded tourist destinations I've ever visited.  Maybe only Florence, Italy and Times Square at home are worse. Terrible.  Beautiful, but we basically ran through it, noting all of the places I remembered correctly before, saying "oh FUCK no" to the picturesque but claustrophobic Charles bridge.  I don't know a lot about physics but I'm pretty sure this quaint pedestrian bridge was NOT meant to support this much foot traffic at once.

We walk to the Former Jewish ghetto neighborhood of Josephov.  It's decadently beautiful.  Top of the line international stores line the periphery.  Jewelry stores (naturally.). And it, too, is PACKED.  I'm pleasantly surprised so many people want to know about Jews.  I'm unpleasantly surprised to see that there's a long line to get into the Jewish cemetery, noted for being so packed full of dead people they had to be stacked 10 deep,  I look at the line, and say to Justin that I grew across the street from a cemetery packed full of dead Jews.  I wasn't paying AND waiting in line to do this.  He laughs at me.

We walk a little further.  There's a pack of cops, just sitting there, watching.  "They're not gonna try to round us up again, are they?"  Justin looks down and shakes his head.  He's not even Jewish

We walk a little further to go to the "old-new Jewish synagogue."  It's about $15 to get in, and is a separate ticket from all of the rest of the Jewish sites.  Ok, fine.  

We ask the lady to buy a ticket.  She cuts us off mid sentence and barks at us to go to the store outside.  She was like the soup nazi.  NO TICKETS FOR YOU.

We get the tickets, back on the line.  Some young person presents her ticket.  The lady scans it.  She says YOUR TICEKT IS INVALID.  ALREADY USED.  The girl tries to protest.  It is of no use.  The lady says ONLY ONE ENTRY.  INVALID.  The girl must have tried to take turns with a friend.  This lady must have to deal with this all day long. We hand her our ticket, she hands Justin a paper yarmulke without incurring her wrath.

It's one room.  Sparse.  Painted Hebrew letters saying who knows what on the walls.  There's wooden seating on the perimeter. There's a podium.  That's it.  Completely devoid of grandeur or real decoration.  We get up to see the rest.  Oh. There is no rest.  Unless you count the outside of that room, where the women sit because, oh yeah, during services they sit outside and listen through the holes in the walls.

I'm unimpressed.  I'm sure at this point Justin doesn't even know what to do with me.

Back to our neighborhood.  It's dead quiet.  The streets not too crowded with people or cars.  Whatever people are around, in the street, in the park, on public transport, in cafes.... quiet.  It's surreal, and amazing.  For as crowded as the old town is, the rest of Prague is so peaceful and so civilized.  And I don't mean civilized to suggest that I used to think of this place as Barbaric; it's a comparison of how I feel every day I'm at home, surrounded by the cacophony of other people, suffocating in the crowds, waiting in line and yet being in a hurry for everything.

We get to one restaurant which looks very charming,  quie.  Everyone speaks in whispers.  I know I am loud as fuck but I swear I'd be more quiet if I didn't have to listen to other loud assholes all the time.  He'll is other people.  I order the traditi meal roast duck with dumplings and red cabbage.  So basically the same meal I first time I was in Prague, just swapping out the protein.  That was fine by me.  Justin gets something vaguely similar.  It's great. But I knew better than to eat a lot of it.  So I eat about half and am thrilled about the prospect of leftovers for lunch tomorrow.  I love leftovers. And that red cabbage was divine.

The very effusive proprietor comes over.  Imagine the Swedish chef, but Czech.  He speaks to us in great English.  He looks bothered that I didn't finish my meal.  I told him it was wonderful but I can't possibly finish, and I would like it to take home.  Ok!  He joyfully takes away my meal and asks us if we want drinks.  Justin asks about a digestif.  He looks at us and says something indiscernible to him and points to me, and says something else.  We figured out that he got the manly schnapps, I got the less manly schnapps.  To be honest, I don't mind my boozing to be anti-feminist.  That shit is strong. I think he got the silvkovicz and I got the becherovka, because his smelled like plums and mine of herbs.  Anyway, this guy got it right.

We're there for a bit, and my food doesn't come back.  "I'm not getting it back, am I?"  Justin says no.  I am sad, but really only because of that red cabbage because it was incredible.  I'm not going to get upset about what amounted to probably about $1 worth of ubiquitous cabbage but man I wanted to eat that tomorrow.  He comes back and I ask him about it and he completely ignores me.

It became obvious as I tried ordering another drink and failing that this very well meaning guy was only output,  o input.  He was able to speak to us in perfect restaurant English but couldn't interpret anything other than a simple yes or no.  

We saw an organ concert in a church.  We went to the Rudolphinum building on a Sunday and heard a pianist play in a cafe with almost no one else.  We took a stroll in the park and the only voices we heard were ours.  Once you get away from the old town, everything is basically yours and yours alone.

I was ready at some point for a traditional Czech pub and some beer.  We went to the neighborhood called žižkov, adjacent to ours.  It's described like Williamsburg or bushwick might have been at some point: a place for artists, communists, working-class, students, blah, blah, blah.  And just like Williamsburg or bushwick, what that means now is that there are bodegas juxtaposed with over-the-top gentrified coffee shops and quaint charming modern hip eateries and bars.  And graffiti in the park.  There's an old tv tower that has, for some strange and disturbing reason, been decorated with enormous metal babies crawling up the side of it. It's art; I'm sure it means something to someone.  To be, it's weird as fuck.

We go to a pub called u sadu and it's packed with locals and tourists,  There's an extensive drink menu and the harried waiter swiftly comes by.  I've noticed that they're in real hurry to take your order, swift to bring your drink, but not to bring a meal or a check here.  That's fine,  justin is a simple man, when it comes to drinking at least, and he just orders a pilsner without looking at the menu.  I still have the menu in my hand, and I put one finger up and say "give me a minute."  

Nope, in Prague that means "I'll have one beer."  Dude comes back with two identical beers.  This happened more than once.  I didn't want that beer, but justin happily drank mine, too.  I order a grapefruit beer, a summer favorite of mine.  He tells me the grapefruit beer is non-alcoholic.  I know they're usually low-alcohol, but none?  Im wondering if he's equating "low alcohol" with "none" and I never did figure that out.  

Justin and I are a little hungry.  Emphasis on "little."  So we order for the "bar snack" menu instead of the "dinner" menu.  He orders a sausage.  The waiter questions.  "Only one?" Yes.  And I order a bohemian potato pancake stuffed with smoked pork and cabbage.  

I don't eat potato pancakes, or latkes, at home because they're usually really greasy and I can't digest that shit.  Also, liquid smoke makes me sick, so I usually stay away from things that are smoked unless I know they're not artificially smoked.  But YOLO, when in Rome.  I can shit my brains out once on this trip.  I've been safe so far.

This pancake shows up and it is enormous.  Greasy, salty, thick, crammed full of chives, folded over like an omelet.  The pork is smoky and the leanest thing on the plate.  The cabbage, sadly neither red nor sweet. Is caramelized in pork fat.  It also might have been one of the most delicious and satisfying foods I've ever eaten.  This is soul food.  It could have used a contrasting lightening agent like sour cream, but it was amazing.  Yeah, I said sour cream would have been "lightening."  You get the picture.  I am a fast eater.  I ate every bite with a prayer, it took me forever, and I barely made a dent.

Justin, in contrast, had ONE sausage swimming in a pool of gravy.  That one sausage was about a hot dog and a half's worth, though.

This meal ends and we stumble back to the hotel, punch-drunk on animal fat.  The 5 or 6 drinks we each had seemed to have no effect.  They probably never even made it into the bloodstream, confronted and conquered by pig meat.

Justin wakes up a new man, I feel like I won't be able to eat for days.

I am the foodie between the two of us by a long shot, but every now and then I ask justin what he might like. Justin has a wide range of food that pleases him.  We've been to 11 Madison park and momofuku ko.  He'll eat any ethnicity's cuisine as long as it isn't replete with onions.  But left to his own choices and devices, justin will usually pick the nastiest, worst-for-you food possible.  Microwaveable pizza.  7-11 hot dogs.  And just passing by a msdonalds will make him talk about burgers for an hour.

So this is what he wanted.  A burger.  

When you've been out of your element for a while, I totally get just wanting a taste of home.  When I go to Spain, I have Jamón and cheese and bread every day but at some point you crack and you just want something your body is used to.  I get it, truly.

But he's only been here for 2 days.  So this burger desire is met with a large eye roll.  But I said "you know what?  Anything you want."  And I meant it.  I am so controlling of the food situation and justin is always so patient, waiting for me to choose the "perfect" place that he gets no say in.  This is his vacation, too, and I need to compromise.  He can have a burger.  I'll eat something else.

Justin always teases me about my "research."  So he does research, consulting all internet channels available to him, cross-referencing and reading all the comments.  And he picks, "and it's in walking distance!"  A place called... Bad Jeff's Barbecue...in English.... on "American street."

The burger is more expensive than almost any meal I have seen in any restaurant so far.  Granted, that's about $14.  But $14 for a burger? In PRAGUE??   He argues it's a good deal because it's $17+ at home.  I argue that it's ridiculous to go to an American style restaurant and pay basically American prices for a damn burger.

The biggest problem I had was that I wasn't going to eat a burger, and the only other options were ribs and mac and cheese.  I really didn't want to eat American barbecue.  

I just couldn't do it.  Justin is a prince for giving in.  But he talked about burgers for days.

Anyway, we went to a really nice place called u bulinu and enjoyed a lovely meal in a garden with generous portions of modern Czech food.  It was so nice that justin didn't mention a burger once.

I never had red cabbage again.

Final lights on Bulgaria

Final thoughts on Bulgaria

It's pretty fucking great here.  Most of the restaurants are large by New York City standards and have multiple seating areas that encompass the indoors and outdoors.  In general, there's a lot more room at any given restaurant than patrons.   everything I have eaten in Bulgaria, aside from one nasty bus station banitsa, is tasty and inexpensive.  And I don't mean a little; In the city, i haven't paid more than $12 for any meal including a beverage or two, and in the resort area, $20 including a couple of glasses of wine.  

I've only been to a couple of (relatively) large cities and the Black Sea coast, but I get the feeling that bulgarian food isn't very varied.  That might be a drawback.  There's two cheeses: white sirena cheese, like feta, and yellow kashkava.  Maybe it's shredded, melted, grated, and of differing salinity, but it's two local cheeses.  And it's In almost everything.  The stuffed pepper I was just served is stuffed with the same, albeit amazing, cheese i had in my morning crepe.  No meat or rice, just as much sirena cheese they could cram in there.  A lot of fish if you're on the sea.  kofte, kebab, dried and fresh sausage, meatball, pasta and risotto, common to neighboring countries. I'm guessing this is changing, but maybe slowly.  

It is probably the biggest bang for your buck anywhere in Europe.  The service is reportedly really bad, but I've found that everyone goes out of their way to try to help you even though many people don't speak a lot of English.  Europeans in general do not provide you with the "service" you'd come to expect in the US, Because they're not reliant on tips.  They're also not reliant upon turning over as many tables as possible to get those tips, so no one rushes you.  As someone who is generally impatient as fuck, Im saying that as a traveler you have to recognize that this is an important cultural difference and you should appreciate that you can order a $1 soda and sit comfortably for hours, and that sometimes you have to beg for the check.

Not one person has been rude or dismissive since I've arrived.  Maybe it's because I'm the smilies asshole here.  I feel like they're doing me a favor, and the stupid permagrin on my face expresses that.  Not a lot of Americans here and I feel like I have to go out of my way to not be a dick,  Everyone is interested in why i've chosen Bulgaria, and they laugh when I tell them.  They really like craft beer and there's plenty of it, and it as well is stupidly cheap.  They're proud of their wine, and it's inexpensive as well.  fresh juice places abound, and you get a big one for $1-2.  

Bulgaria Is somewhat  far south; the sun doesn't set in the summer until 9:30.  It's hot but dry.  It's not fancy like Paris, despite the fact that this foie gras appetizer at one nice place in Plovdiv exists, and costs only about $9.  It's not jam packed full of ancient history like Greece or turkey, but there's plenty.

To me, it is a joy to be in a corner of Europe that enjoys classy modernity coupled with ancient history, affordable pleasure, Nice people and still yet relatively undiscovered.  I have found this experience very unique and special.  I've been here over a week and I've heard one other American accent.  People started going to the Croatian riviera when Italy became overrun.  Slovenia is already moving on that path.  Im guessing Bulgaria will be next.

Or maybe not.  To me, Bulgaria doesn't seem to be actively vying for your business.  It's not "instagrammable" in the same way Italy or Greece is.  It's unfamiliar, and although I appreciate it's understated beauty, There's no white-and-blue-washed architecture, gothic cathedrals.  It's lovely, but not in the same way,  and not as "accessible" as France or England.  Aside from a random pelmeni, borscht or English breakfast, they don't  seem like they're trying to cater to Foreign tastes.  They're confused as to why I'm here at all.  But it seems that the brits, Germans, and Russians at least, have figured out that there are great beaches and cheap luxuries to be had, and that means that Americans are not too far behind.

Bulgaria is a reminder that modern electronics make many things easier, but it is really important to LEARN things, and to be able to rely on your brain in times of trouble.

Bulgaria is a reminder of what immigrants in America have to go through EVERY DAY, for a very long time, often without the cushion of extra cash to throw at a situation to make it instantly better.  

Bulgaria is a reminder that understanding English is the ultimate privilege. 

And despite our very real problems, Being American is the ultimate privilege.

So maybe this isn't for you, but it certainly is for me.  I can't wait to tell my Bulgarian student how wrong she is about her country.

Plovdiv: no one wants an accidental sausage

Plovdiv

The real answer to "why bulgaria?" Is my friend Lili.  She's Bulgarian.  I asked her about it, and she had nothing but great things to say.  And Lili is cool as fuck.  That's all it really takes for me.  It's like complimentary racism.  I know one Bulgarian, she's cool, I should go to Bulgaria.  Especially if I don't know a lot of people who have gone to Bulgaria. I gotta go.  This is how my brain works.  Lili's from Plovdiv, and she says I'm gonna love it.

I also have a student from Bulgaria.  I excitedly told her I was going, and she goes UGHHHHHHH DONT GO ITS AWFULLLLLL I HAVE TO GO ALL THE TIMEEEEEE.  She's horrified.  I say, "let me guess.... you're from a small village and there's no cell phone service?"  YES ITS AWFULLLLLLL.  21 years of teaching and I really understand the young teenage brain.  I spend the rest of the year taunting her with my excitement for my trip.  "Hey, kid, you wanna teach me Cyrillic for community service hours?" UGH NO ITS AWFULLLLLLL.  

I set my alarm to wake up at 9 am to get out of Sofia.  I liked it here, but it was time to get the fuck out.  I was so excited about my awesome evening that I couldn't unwind or sleep until 4 am.  Get the fuck up and sleep on the bus.  No naps for you.  Get it together.

I walk to the bus station with my backpack and the tiny carry on I brought for the first month long trip ever.  I feel so free!  It's so light!  I'll walk! It's only 20 minutes!  I love walking!  Yeah, I get there and it's adjacent to the metro.  Google maps, you've failed me again.

Rome2rio, which I trust a lot more, tells me there's three different bus companies that go to Plovdiv, each about 3 times a day.  So I want to get there Early because I don't know when it will come.  Wrong again.  There's an express bus which comes every half hour, even on Sunday.  There's got to be a better way to find information in English.  

I go to get some food, and I skip the coffee so I can sleep on the 2 hour bus ride.  All of a sudden, I realize I can read and understand a lot more Bulgarian Cyrillic.  Banitsa: the pastry everyone eats.  Sirena: the feta-like cheese.  Restaurant. Spinach. Fresh. Classic croissant. Kashkaval.  Don't ask me to spell any of these things.  I can't go backwards.  Unrelated: No parking. Garage.  People are really protective of the space in front of their garages.  This sign is EVERYWHERE.  I guess a lot of Bulgarian words are similar to Greek, even if it looks more like Russian than Greek.  A lot of English words come from Greek, and many languages "steal" from English because  it's "cool...". I can't say anything right but I'm starting to get what some stuff is.  The human brain is magnificent when it works.  And clearly my mind is more geared toward language acquisition than orienteering.

Three days in, I'm already over starting my day with a pound of phyllo and salty cheese.  So I point to the banitsa that's oblong, a little more like bread than phyllo on the outside.  She tries to give me the regular cheese banitsa; she doesn't understand me.  I ask two more times, pointing.  I'm determined.  I order a fresh orange juice.  Orange juice is "portokal" and I have heard this before in some other language.  Don't remember which.  I look it up later.  Turkish.  Man, I've been to a lot of  places.  The girl behind me and tells the lady that I want the other banitsa.  Everyone is super nice.  I thank her in English.  Why can't I say "thank you" in Bulgarian yet?

Three giggly teenagers get in the tiny elevator.  I motion they should go on without me.  The boy says to me in perfect English "come on! Come in! Push the button!  Do you need help with your luggage?"  I tell him it's small!  He giggles and translates to his female companions.  I realize he's just excited to practice his English, which clearly he learned as a bell hop in a hotel.

I sip my fresh squeezed orange juice.  It's a little sour and super foamy.  Not bad.  I tear off the tip of the banitsa (for some reason I almost always tear my handheld food instead of biting right into it) and the tip pops off.  There's a hot dog inside.  Sort of.  Like a huge Viennese sausage.  I did NOT want a surprise sausage today.  I took two undesirable bites and throw it away.   Let's call this mistake #2.  So far, all of my mistakes are ringing in at about $1 each.  I'm not mad about it.

The bus passes what seems like miles of dense, ripe sunflower fields, standing at attention, facing the same direction, like perky and pretty yellow soldiers.

I take a taxi from the bus station to the Airbnb. I don't even try to mess around with public transport today.  I'd be taking taxis more often but I've been warned about taxi scams and I really hate feeling out of control.  Like, what am I going to do if he drives me around for an hour?  Tell him he's wrong? In what language?  Anyway, the cab ride is less than $3 so I'll file that under "not scammed" today.

The Airbnb in in the same building as a bodega.  The store owner excitedly runs out to greet me in broken English.  He owns the store and lives in (owns?) the building.  His son runs the Airbnb situation.  He walks me THROUGH THE BACK OF THE STORE into a very clean, efficient if small, perfectly appointed studio with its own bathroom.  It's got air conditioning and it was about $18 a night.  I'm really living large here.  He makes me a cup of coffee from the store.  "On me," he says.  There's a "tavern" in the basement that's all traditionally folksy and shit.  No one is there.  I think the Airbnb only has two or three rooms so I am not sure who's gonna hang on in this amazing underground tavern that I would love to have in my home.  I love this man and I love it here.

I do my typical walking around with little aim.  I'm right at the edge of the old town.  It's beautiful and desolate.  There's hardly anyone there.  Everyone is gently harkening me into their store to look at overpriced shit.  Im walking around with a Brazilian flag Pareo wrapped around my purse handle.  You never know when you're going to lie in the park, or need to shield yourself from the rain, or cover up to walk into a church.  As a result, random strangers shout out "brasileira!" At me. I pass one mask maker in the old time a good five times on this trip and it's the flag pareo that sets me apart.  Anyway, It turns out that they're actual artisans with real functional craft studios and not just tourist bullshit.  but as lovely as the lady in the ceramic store who explained the whole firing was, I wasn't buying her 50 euro Jesus plate. 

I wander into the part of town called "капана."  I'm pretty excited to say "kapana" until someone corrects me: "karpana."  I don't understand where the extra "r" comes from.  They translate it into English to call it "the trap." Pretty sure it's called that because the labyrinth of winding streets makes it hard to get the fuck out.  Like a new but flat "old town." It's a bohemian neighborhood with shops, coffee places, restaurants.  Colorful bunting marks the boundaries of the quaint neighborhood that is what williamsburg would have looked like back in the day were it quaint and underpopulated.  Three quarters of it is closed because it's Sunday.  I wander and wander.  It's cute. I want to see everything when it's open.

I realize I haven't eaten anything since the hot dog incident.  And in my classic summer form, I'm completely dehydrated because it's 90 degrees but dry so you don't feel it until you realize you're dizzy and taste like the ocean.  I find a gelateria.  Sure, gelato seems like an appropriate first meal of the day.  This wouldn't be the first time gelato replaced an actual meal.  So I order a large cup, mascarpone and pistachio, which is sold by weight.  It's over 4 lev, which is only notable because a double scoop in a cone was 2 lev.  That's a lot of fucking gelato, which I polished off without regret or incident.  I'm realizing I can only digest dairy properly on the other side of the Atlantic.

I stumble back to the Airbnb to cool off.  Upon second visit, i notice that it smells a lot like cat pee.  From the outside, thankfully.  In a town populated with a lot of feral cats, cat pee perfumes the air all over.  I'm unfortunately intimately familiar with that smell, as my beloved cat Vespa had a small habit of peeing on anything crumpled up in the apartment until we learned not to crumple things.  You don't train cats, cats train you.  Anyway, cat pee smell means only one thing!  New cat friends to meet tonight!  I'm excited!

It takes me a long time to muster up the strength to go back out.  It takes another cup of coffee "on me" from my friend.  I wander to this gorgeous garden, full of people, next to the popular "singing fountain."  Like at the bellagio in vegas.  I decide to wait for it, with another beer I don't really want, at this restaurant in the park.

There's a certain Eastern European club thing that you have to see to believe.  It's not like New York. I've never been into big clubs, and I've never been to Miami, but I presume it's similar to a Miami vibe.  Just more... Well, if you've been there, you know, and if you haven't, well, i really just can't explain it.  Club wear, tight and flammable, music that I call doosh-doosh-doosh because that's how it all sounds and that's what the guys look like.

Anyway, this one is spectacular in its cheesiness... lavender and white, pretty but tacky, multiple sections to give a different vibe in every section of this very large bar and restaurant.  

Now why don't I like this shit?  I don't know, there's nothing like listening to the moody drum and bass remix of "everybody dance now " for 25 minutes at a time.  But the breeze is lovely, no one is bothering me (certainly not the waitress) and I'm wearing a tank top I got that says in huge block letters "rio, Ibiza, Venice" and I realize I'm one hookah, unironic cosmo glass, and pair of cheap neon heels away from fitting right the fuck in here.   Who am I to judge?  There's families, packs of dudes, old people, and a pack of 15 year olds drinking a pitcher of mojitos. Even this asshole American is welcome here.  So yes, I'll listen to the extended extended extended remix of "with or without you" for a while longer.

The singing fountains don't sing on Sunday.

There's an Armenian restaurant near my Airbnb.  It's called "bellagio."  I've barely touched upon Bulgarian food but I've never had Armenian food and it's practically down the block. The restaurant has an outdoor garden and I sit alone.  The man knows just enough English to tell me the menu is only in Bulgarian.  Fuck, I might have had better luck with Armenian.   The menu is extensive and I'm prepared to spend a lot of time trying to figure shit out.  The man seems in a hurry.  Or he's attentive.  Can't figure it out.  I tell him I'm reading, slowly.  He doesn't understand me.  He leaves.  The menu has a few pictures, and I know enough to recognize quickly that they have food that looks Georgian, which Justin and I eat often at home.  I butcher the pronunciation in both Armenian and Bulgarian, I'm sure, but I order pelmeni and khachpuri, even though it's not necessarily what I want and I'm sure a hell of a lot more food than I should be ordering.  I shook under pressure.  Anyway, the guy asks me an almost indecipherable "where are you from" before he walks away.

It's good.  The pelmeni is the same as any other, but there's a lot of them.  I barely make a dent.  And I've ordered this khachpuri, which is a bread boat filled with very salty rich cheese and an egg mixed in for extra richness.  Traditionally, the Georgian bread is made from a very specific dough and a very specific Georgian cheese.  I'm pretty sure this one is made with the same two Bulgarian cheeses that are everywhere.  Whatever, if it ain't broke... Bulgarian cheese is amazing.

I realize in retrospect that I might have ordered from the international section of the menu because it was the only part that had pictures.  So much for my foray into Armenian food.  I'm an idiot.

Bill is 12.30, he rounded up to 15 when he gave me my change.  Good.  A like a guy who's worked out the tip situation for me.

I walk down the street back to the Airbnb and start tossing extra pelmeni to random feral cats.  They are all skittish.  They do not wish to be my friend.   Nor do they seem to want my pelmeni.  Fools.

I wake up the next day.  I can't sleep at all.  I think it's because I end my evening in my bed lying down fucking with the internet and my body can't make the transition to "it's time to sleep."  I need to fix this.  Well, I guess I don't really need to fix anything.  It's vacation, what do i *really* need to do?

I wake up at 11.  I had thoughts of visiting a monastery in a closely town, but I wasn't really up for adventure.  I'll see the roman sights of Plovdiv and go back to Karpana during the day.

Day 2, Plovdiv

Ok I'm starting to feel like a complete fucking moron.  I keep returning to google maps like an abuse victim.  "This time will be different."  ITS NEVER DIFFERENT.  I had one small plan: go see the roman forum in the old town, go to the trap to sit and relax with some coffee.  Let's just say what should have taken me a half hour TOOK ME THREE HOURS.

This is not an exaggeration.  I'm not mad, just incredulous.  How is it even possible I can get THIS lost?  In this walk, for all of you Fitbit enthusiasts, I had already walked over 12,000 steps.  Well, to make a long and very arduous story short, at the end of the day, I finally figured it out.

1. Google maps doesn't seem to understand this region in English, and it isn't set to understand ELEVATION.  So, when I think I am taking a direct path to a very well-known area, it's not, because maybe you have to climb some fucking stairs.  Today I walked along a big boulevard, which no one else was doing (first hint there, genius) and under a huge arcade before I realized that the forum was ABOVE me and google wasn't figuring that out.
2. Signage isn't so great.  I finally gave up on google, and followed instead the tourist signpost that pointed to the forum, 500 meters.  But there was only ONE sign along the way.  The rest you had to figure out.  I walked in circles,  I wish I had mapped my path; it was like "Big Ben! Parliament! Can't seem to get left!"
3. When I finally gave up and said "fuck it, ask the Bulgarians!" I don't think they quite understand how confusing it is.  I pass the information center in the old town.  He says, in perfect English, "it's easy!  Go down this one street (he gives me a map) and there's an underpass that goes under the big street.  It's right there."  40 steps later, there's a fucking fork in the road.  LEFT OR RIGHT, GODDAMMIT?  Yeah, I picked the wrong fork tine.
4. What they don't tell you about the underpasses (there are a few) is that there are MULTIPLE tributaries inside.  Which way am I supposed to go?!?  The answer was simple: follow the giant graffiti lion against the Bulgarian flag.  That would have been helpful.
5. I spent a lot of time trying to go around the old town instead of through it, to avoid stair climbing.  It wasn't worth it.

Anyway, it's my fault.   I should have been paying more attention to landmarks than a blue dot for two days.  As soon as I did that, simple.  Just in time to leave.  I'm sure I'll return to my abuser in the next town.  I'm slow to learn a lesson.

After hours of confusion, I remember IVE PAID FOR INTERNET DATA.  I'm seriously stupid.  Or just spectacularly dehydrated.  Probably both.  I'm rewarded with, after logging in, a traditional restaurant where I order a tarator soup (chilled yogurt, garlic, dill and cucumbers) and an enormous grilled trout (a Black Sea specialty) and a side of cucumbers and tomatoes (the tomatoes are amazing) with drink for about $9.  It's just insane what fresh food is here and how little it costs.  I got a fresh squeezed honeydew juice that tasted more like honeydew that I've ever had.  I found a delightful coffee place; no cacophonous Murray hill assholes cackling  on their phones, disturbing everyone's peace.  In fact, unless Bulgarians are drinking, they are quiet as fuck.  I decided to get a little fancy for Dinner, which I couldn't believe I was even hungry enough for.  I got pan fried chicken breast stuffed with figs and Brie, carrot purée.  It was still about $6.  The ambiance is spectacular, the service is attentive and kind, the place is beautiful. 

Now that I've figured it out, it's time to go.  Time to sit on my ass on a beach chair on the Black Sea.  I'm sure I'll find a way to get lost doing that as well.