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I started writing this on a train from Plovdiv to Sofia, kept on writing on a plane, then on a balcony in Athens overlooking a tangle of other balconies. Not, mind you, your terrible question. If you asked it, please know that I asked it first. Multiple times. Because, I mean, of course Bulgaria. Their fascinating political history is unlike any other.
They have their own alphabet and language and struggle to save them—which they have done against great odds and centuries of oppression. They have their Bulgarian Orthodox priests and National Revival heroes, their poets and artists, their old women walking to market and neighbors drinking coffee in the square and couples pushing strollers past memorials to their war dead.
To ask Why Bulgaria? One could, perhaps, make a value judgment on whether the food is better in Italy or the scenery is superior in, say, Switzerland, and I suppose there may be some kind of jaundiced point to be made there on that kind of narrow gauge of tourism. Bulgaria is a country that feels both utterly in the moment and outside of time. Bulgarians keeping folk dancing alive every Sunday evening at the end of the pedestrian street in Plovdiv. Near that is the monument to those who died under Communism, and near that is a monument to heroes who rose up against the Ottoman Empire.
Through it all, they decided to keep dancing. I thought about the nature of time a lot in Bulgaria. This question feels even more pertinent while traveling, when I can hear more clearly the rhythm that space and time beat out together. I realized that when I asked Why Bulgaria? I was asking for those weeks of travel to be optimized, to be productive, to prove their value over some other use, some other destination. To go to Bulgaria is, maybe, a small step toward reclaiming time, toward refusing to make time perform for you, or you for it.
