I meant to write this post waiting for the train in Sofia. But I was tired. I meant to write this post on the 7 hour train from Sofia to Bourgas. But I fell asleep. I meant to write this post waiting for my WizzAir flight in Bourgas. But I was tired. I meant to write this post on the plane to Warsaw. But I was the extremest opposite of conscious as soon as I sat down.
So here I am, on the final leg of my journey in Warsaw. Im still tired, but my hostel bed won’t be ready for another couple of hours and I feel it strange for people to strut into this hostel to check in and be greeted by a unshowered, unshaved, long-haired, grimy ruffian passed out on the couch. Im about helping. And that doesnt strike me as such.
Sofia was wild. I only utilized my first day. All I really wanted to do the second day was head out to Mt Vitosha but it just didnt work out. To help, I felt lousy. So with motivation low and the promise of a night of bad sleep ahead of me, I decided to watch the hell out of some Arrested Development. YES.
I did have one of the most amazing meals I can remember at a tiny cafeteria style restaurant called Trops:
Remarkable? No. Delicious? Beyond the capability of mortal expression.
I did a good deal of walking around, seeing such wonderful sights as this:
Maybe its the Bulgarian sun, but my body reacted in a much more normal fashion to the heat. Another thing Ive noticed is the drastic reduction in my belly button lint production, a fact which both relieves and saddens me. I was only a couple weeks of good belly lint away from finishing my scale replica of Michelangelo’s David. I suppose he’ll never receive that chiseled jaw line. Although I was a little worried/skeptical of my ability to capture the emotion in his eyes with a mixed palette of lint.
Anyways, as I was strolling through the city, I found myself walking down a large sunny street. A friendly looking man, snazzed up in a business suit and wielding a professional looking attaché case, turned to me and asked something in Bulgarian. I chuckled, as is my normal course of action when I dont know whats going on. Realizing that I didnt speak Bulgarian, he apologized and said he was looking for a certain street. Blah blah, we exchanged pleasantries and I walked off. Before getting too many steps away, however, the man called out to me and said “You know, since we’ve already… well, while we’re at it, Ill give you my card.” With that, he smiled and turned the other way.
This is his card. This is the professional friendly man’s card:
But I guess it is a pretty good hourly rate. You know, if I had any kind of reference on the subject.
Other friendly Bulgarians I met were two ancient (but spry) women on the train. We spoke our respective languages at each other, unable to understand but somehow able to understand. You feel me? We realized that we were all in the wrong seats and one woman helped me find my seat because I, too, struggle with numbers and orientation. The other said farewell to me along with a word that sounded like modesh (which, unfortunately, I have no idea how to spell and thus Google is worthless in providing me an answer). I hold that this word means something like cutie or handsome. She was a fun old lady.
But now, after one of the worst nights of “sleep” of my life and a 2 hour WizzAir flight (which of the discount airlines, sucks theleast) I am in Warsaw. My first impressions are simply that it is huge. The streets are huge. The buildings are huge. But the weather is awesome.
I might try to swing over to Prague for a night or two, but Im not sure if I have the fiscal resources or time to do that in a meaningful way.
Returning to a place where Prague (my most recent home) is a viable option, stirs in me a certain feeling. Ive let myself slip into the dangerous position of counting down the days (5) until I get home. This is dangerous, not because of what I look forward to, but because looking ahead draws my attention (and potential enjoyment) away from the here and now. As far as homesickness goes, Id say Ive got something like the homecommoncold. Certainly not the homeflu or homebola that Ive seen others contract. Its not bad, but Im certainly not homehealthy.
You follow all that?
Meanwhile, Im going to fall asleep to the Polish news playing in this lobby. Little Marski is running around Paris right now and I cant wait to see her again.