Fashion-show on Sunny Beach
Bulgarian Sunny Beach is an international resort. But not in the sense that workers and collective-farm women vacation here. It is simply that representatives of the most diverse countries, ages, and incomes gather here. Of course, it is neither Ibiza nor Nice: there is little of the "golden youth" here, and there is no whiff of high-society snobs. The bulk of vacationers are the proverbial German families of about thirty. There are many Yugoslavs, Slovaks, Hungarians, and Poles. In separate shoals, tall and fair-haired Finns, Norwegians, and other Swedes drift along the beach. Now and then an English phrase flutters into the resort's polyphony, and a lean, athletic elderly English couple overtakes you. The great and mighty Russian language is heard rarely and surprisingly quietly. A puzzled gloating arises in the soul: have they really, finally, taught our "elder brothers" somewhere to speak half a tone lower than in their native Caspian steppes?
All this Babylon heads for the beach late in the morning, where until lunch the female half slathers an inordinate amount of various tanning creams on herself, and the male half the same amount of beer. By the way, a can of the local stuff costs 60-90 stotinki, a glass in a seaside café sets you back 2 leva, so people adjust to their finances: family fathers (regardless of nationality) carry their own, and bachelors periodically dive under café umbrellas. No one brings snacks to the beach—this is not Crimea, so you can't count on baklava, burnt patties, or sunflower seeds and shrimps. The West stylishly diets, while our people shyly crunch something from the provisions they brought along...
The beach at Sunny Beach is a separate topic. It feels as if someone overturned a turquoise bowl of sea in the middle of the native spruce Carpathians. A golden sandy strip stretches for hundreds of kilometers. The sand is soft and clean. Every morning a special machine shovels it, vacuuming up the trash left by evening. Contrary to the common hypocritical slogan, it is clean exactly where they clean, because tourists (both ours and not ours) still litter. Near prestigious hotels, staff collect trash by hand, not trusting such a responsible task to soulless machinery. Large beach umbrellas stand in orderly rows, and stacks of loungers languish in specially designated enclosures. All this gear can be rented relatively cheaply: 50 stotinki per hour or 4 leva per day. But many bring their own umbrellas—fortunately, there is enough space.
The sunbathing crowd is surprisingly quiet and taciturn. Even "imported" children don't screech as deafeningly as our own, but quietly fuss in the surf. The sea near the shore is so shallow that moms and dads don't even raise their heads when their child goes off to swim. Ladies of all ages and builds successfully sunbathe topless. In general, everyone vacations with zeal and concentration.
A separate word about the Germans. As for me, allowing Germans to engage in entertainment and work is not recommended: they can't stop. For six days, a German family sunbathed next to us in the same spot: dad, mom, and two little Hanses. Mom sunbathed topless to a deep tan, though this did not cause much delight among the men. And the kids with dad dug such a hole on the shore on the second day that it horrified even the lazy beach lifeguard. Both Hanses disappeared into it up to their heads. Dad was given a warning, and dad understood. From then on, they dug in the morning (to the same depth), and by evening they filled it in (and leveled it). Many came secretly to watch this show.
About the Bulgarian Paradise, Eve, and Adam
Our women traditionally hold the palm of primacy in beauty, the wildness of their outfits (in thirty-degree heat, a tight synthetic micro-dress and pointed stiletto heels—that's our style!), and the inability to behave properly (public scenes by tipsy "new Ukrainian women" in the evenings are also not uncommon). Bulgarian women are unattractive: squat and mustached. Perhaps that is why a beautiful Bulgarian girl makes an indelible impression: the dusky, aquiline-nosed face of an Eastern goddess, a slender waist, full hips, and pitch-black hair. I would venture to suggest that the origins of this exotic charm lie in the three-hundred-year Turkish dominion. But I cannot: Bulgarians still have a dislike for Turks. On the state level, this manifests in the fact that all low-paying and dirty jobs are typically performed by Turks: as they say, a small thing, but gratifying...
New Turkish trends have brought with them a fashion for beach boys. Bulgarian men, unlike Bulgarian women, are handsome, albeit somewhat small. Dark-skinned lifeguards lazily roam the beach, fiddling with their simple gear, professionally flexing their muscles, and casting expressive sidelong glances from under shaggy eyelashes at buxom Russian women and lean German fraus. I don't know how it is there in the happy fatherland, but among our hard-working Slavic women there are too many tired and lonely ones. And a week or two of the dreamed-of sunny paradise should be all inclusive: sea, fruit, and Adam...
A Walk into the Past
The most romantic and original place in Bulgaria is the medieval town of Nessebar. Its history begins in the mossy 11th century. Its old houses survived the Turks; they will also survive the invasion of tourist crowds. It gleams on the sea like a tiny antique gold coin. The sea surface around this peninsula is of a strikingly blue color. In the labyrinth of narrow, cobblestone-paved streets, romantics can easily lose themselves. Many little shops and antique stores delight the eye with the variety and originality of souvenirs.
In Nessebar, a fairy tale can unexpectedly appear around the corner. We were passing by a gate entwined with grapes. From the inner courtyard came a spicy and pungent smell. Rudely peeking inside, I saw a hook-nosed old woman who was intently stirring a black brew in an ancient tin can right on a gas burner. Nearby, on a stone bench, a scruffy black cat watched the ritual. Both the grandmother and the cat seemed to remember the Turkish janissaries. Seeing my gaze, she silently splashed something into a clay mug and handed it to me. Coffee! It smelled of ginger, cinnamon, and dried rose. The grandmother disapprovingly looked at my too-bare legs in torn shorts, took no money, and slammed the gate shut. Nowhere and never have I drunk such coffee.
From Sunny Beach to Nessebar you can get in half an hour and 50 stotinki simply by city bus. But as a rule, the first trip (by taxi) costs unsuspecting tourists 6-10 leva.
Papa Gyuvech, Mama Sour Milk, and Kids Kebapcheta
Bulgarian cuisine is praised by those who were lucky enough to vacation at a "family pension." In restaurant execution, all national dishes lose their piquancy and approach a certain average tourist product. The dishes are quite simple: for example, Shopska salad (a mix of tomatoes, cucumbers, sweet peppers, herbs, onions, and feta cheese), even a left-handed housewife can make it. Meat is often grilled until slightly charred. In almost all menus you will encounter kebapcheta (lula kebab), shishcheta (shish kebab), or kyufte (meatballs). By the way, Bulgarian shish kebab is not marinated in advance. You can have a quite tasty and undoubtedly filling lunch of gyuvech (stewed meat with potatoes and vegetables) or musaka (a home-style roast covered with a flap of omelet). Personally, I liked "chushki pulneni" (peppers stuffed with carrot-and-cheese filling).
With all dishes, Bulgarians traditionally serve their famous sour milk. It’s tasty, but few will dare to try the cucumber-and-sour-milk soup. Instead, I advise you to hunt for Bulgarian-Turkish sweets. Tiny pastries and cookies are soaked in honey-sweet syrup, sprinkled with nuts, raisins, and ground ginger. Their names are impossible to repeat, but the taste is amazing.
Meat in Bulgarian restaurants is usually represented in two types: "svinski hapki" (pork pieces) and "pilešti hapki" (chicken pieces). And in general, a monument should be erected to grilled chicken, along with Pavlov’s dogs and the fruit fly: it has become the symbol of a single worldwide tourist cuisine.
On Foot Over Hot Stars
About Bulgarian nestinari - barefoot firewalkers - only a completely lazy and incurious tourist has not heard. This magical craft is passed from generation to generation by the inhabitants of the mountain village of Bolgaro, where we arrived in early twilight.
With music and wine, we tasted meat grilled on the wire rack and began to wait. A large bonfire was burning down next to our tables. Evening was falling. The stars grew larger and cautiously peeked into our glasses. The nestinari - two mustached men and an elderly woman - appeared unnoticed. They businesslike examined the fire, quietly said something to the master of ceremonies, and went to have a bite to eat. They ate quite a lot and matter-of-factly, as if they had no intention of entering a trance and calling upon the forces of the universal aura. The bonfire went out by itself, and the coals were spread in a thin layer into a large circle. It gave off a wave of heat. The barefoot nestinari grew serious and approached.
To simple music, they moved smoothly along the edge of the hot circle, gradually quickening their pace. Then, in single file, also unhurriedly, they crossed the circle through the center, turned around, and stood in a tight trio right in the middle, where under their feet there was a solid red glow. There they began to dance, stamping their bare feet firmly. With each stamp, a small flock of sparks flew up.
The dance was short. At the very end, one of the men scooped up a little tourist girl sitting in the front row and - ah! - pretended to drop her, catching her right above the red-hot coals.
By the way, the exotic excursion costs $20-25 and includes, besides watching the ritual of walking on red-hot coals, a plentiful village dinner and tasting of Bulgarian wines.
And Something About Thorns
There is no point in being a hypocrite - the Bulgarian rose also has thorns. First of all, the hotels. Poor tourists are usually housed in the still "Soviet-era" "Baikal", "Balaton", "Balkan", and the like. They have been lawfully assigned two stars, with all the ensuing consequences. The rooms are renovated, but the bathrooms are tiny and stuffy, the towels changed daily are always gray, and the TV remote is given out only against a deposit of 20 leva.
As a rule, all these hotels offer BB accommodation - bed & breakfast. They feed you a buffet, and quite well: sausages and ham of three or four kinds, various cheeses (mostly very salty), cucumbers and tomatoes, fried potatoes, beans in sauce, toast, jam, butter, tea/coffee/juice. Always fruit: slices of peaches and oranges, wedges of watermelon. The whole problem is the dining clientele: if most of your neighbors are Westerners, you won’t have any problems getting to the "trough" and filling your plate. It’s worse when our mothers with children are around. Our people, after all, for their hard-earned money tend to have breakfast for two days ahead, heaping onto the plate everything their child could possibly eat. It’s even worse if the child stands next to mom and gives instructions: I won’t eat this, but maybe this... But that, as they say, is your problem, Bulgaria has nothing to do with it.
When going on vacation somewhere beyond your native Katsapetovka, you must remember one iron and unshakable rule: a tourist is a sucker by definition. Don’t agree? Then remember the feeling with which you yourself, in your hometown, look at foreign tourists gazing in rapture at a half-ruined church that just two years ago was a regional vegetable storehouse. Therefore, all over the world, along with the resort fee, there exists an unspoken "sucker tax" levied on all those who dared to disturb the peace of the local residents.
We got from Varna Airport to the bus station by taxi in ten minutes and for 15 leva. But what to do if the airport only has taxis and transfer buses? On the other hand, when six days later we made the return trip by city bus (there is such a route, it turns out!), we, already almost locals, spent the same ten minutes and... 80 stotinki for two.
When leaving the beach, you always want to have a snack. This natural tourist desire is also taken into account accordingly. The price of absolutely everything sold by the piece and edible (fruit, buns, etc.) smoothly decreases by one and a half leva the farther you get from the beach. The same applies to cafe prices. So remember the advice of Dosi “Why pay more?” and boldly go “to the people.” At any resort there are places where local residents live and, accordingly, eat. There are small dairy and bread shops, vegetable stalls, mini-markets, modest cafes and restaurants. You will be offered all the same things as in the expensive seaside restaurants, but significantly cheaper. It is there that you will meet most of your western neighbors on the beach: they also do not like to overpay.
The choice of excursions in Sunny Beach is rich and varied. The most expensive can be considered the excursion to Istanbul. Its average (I emphasize - exactly average) price along the coast is $50. This includes transfer by bus to Istanbul and back, breakfast and lunch, a sightseeing program, and free time. We decided to go. But quite unexpectedly, on the outskirts of our resort we found a travel agency that offered the same excursion for $40. Upon learning that we had found a similar excursion $10 cheaper, our manager, smiling sweetly, offered a discount. At the same time, Zlatka solemnly assured us that the excursion program would remain unchanged, that it was simply a gift from the company. But in Istanbul it turned out that we were going on the so-called shortened program - without breakfast and lunch. A Polish family that was added to our group experienced the same kind surprise. Having paid an extra ten “discounted” dollars, we got both breakfast and lunch.
But all this has nothing to do with the sun, the sea, and the lazy charm of unpretentious Bulgarian leisure. Today, when the wind drives withered grass along the sidewalk and a summer downpour rustles outside the window, I sort through, like dried rose petals, memories of a short vacation. There, at Varna airport, a Bulgarian rose nodded goodbye to me with its lush scarlet head...