I share a draughty compartment with two Dutch guys who, for reasons that remain thankfully unknown, are content to talk loudly about sex in English for most of the night.
At Bulgarian passport control I am handed a form by a tired looking officer, belly straining at his belt-buckle, with instructions for visa control. Clause 2.1. states that, "You must presnt this fork whenever prompted by the autharities."
Fortunately, Bulgaria's cutlery centric immigration policy must have been relaxed, for soon we were scudding through the foothills of the Balkan Mountains as a spectacular electrical storm raged on in the distance. Windows, usually rammed open as far as possible in these hot and dusty trains, have to be wedged shut to stop the torrential rain from soaking our papery matresses.
I awake in Sofia, which is fine. The Dutch guys alight and I wait for the train to crank painstakingly into motion on its continuing path the Belgrade. Only it doesn't. My carriage attendent, a new best freind owing to my modelling of Fenerbahce's new away kit, informs me solemnly that there is engineering work taking place on the way to Serbia. It seems nowhere, not even 500 miles from the Euston-Rugby mainline, is immune to the dreaded replacement bus service.
I decide to make the best of the now ten hour delay by seeing a bit of Sofia. Sofia struggles against its mightir northern neighbours of Budapest and Prague, but this little and unlikely fourth capital of Bulgaria (when made capital in 1879, the town had a population of less than 12,000) is engaging and pleasantly strollable.
I have a look at the mosque, the synagogue and a Russian Orthodox church before stumbling, almost literally, across the impressive Alexsander Neksi Cathedral. As I walk pack across a scruffy park, pavement cracks beneath my feet I spy a soviet memorabilia market with soem true gems for sale.
I can't help thinking my friend of Taras 'Not all of Stalin's ideas were bad' Goat as I wander between stalls selling anything from reclaimed cigarette cases to a 1:4 scale broze bust of Stalin. I briefly entertain buying Uncle Joe but my bag is feeling heavy enough without 20kg of dictator weighing it down.
I eat a late lunch in the Sofia Gardens, an attractively quaint strip of lush, landscaped grass ringed by playful fountains, which the locals are not shy about derobing for in order to cool off. Most of Sofia's young are here talking, laughing and comparing mobile phone ringtones as the old men of the town look on disapprovingly over a game or ten of chess.
I trudge back toward the train station actually thankful for a ten hour delay. If something like this had happened in England I would most likely be either apoplectic or incarcerated by now, but Sofia is a worthy entertainer for a day. It's creamy Baroque parliament buildings have a naturally calming hue (even when some protesters sit on the outside steps playing 'Ride of the Valkyries' over an improbably loud PA all afternoon) and its boulevards are thronged with a mixture of shopping women and cafes populated with soothed locals.
Definitely worth a longer visit in the future not least due to the ridiculously low price of food and drink (think 20p a beer).
Back on the train I share my compartment with a longhaired German with one of those really shit, wispy goatees who is, in all seriousness, called Herman. I try to make myself scarce and listen to music as another almighty storm cracks its cheeks, but Herman is clearly not known for his subtlety.
I try to read for a good half an hour as he insists on explaining the inner workings of MP3 files and it takes even longer after I have obviously stopped even grunting a reply, turned off my light and got under the sheets before he relents.
"Do you like any German authors?" he says, spying a book of mine. I answer that I don't know as much as I#d like in terms of fiction, but all the philosophers have their moments.
"Yes, I really like Schoepenhauer."
"I think we'll leave Schopenhauer for another time, Herman," I reply and turn out the lights.
At Bulgarian passport control I am handed a form by a tired looking officer, belly straining at his belt-buckle, with instructions for visa control. Clause 2.1. states that, "You must presnt this fork whenever prompted by the autharities."
Fortunately, Bulgaria's cutlery centric immigration policy must have been relaxed, for soon we were scudding through the foothills of the Balkan Mountains as a spectacular electrical storm raged on in the distance. Windows, usually rammed open as far as possible in these hot and dusty trains, have to be wedged shut to stop the torrential rain from soaking our papery matresses.
I awake in Sofia, which is fine. The Dutch guys alight and I wait for the train to crank painstakingly into motion on its continuing path the Belgrade. Only it doesn't. My carriage attendent, a new best freind owing to my modelling of Fenerbahce's new away kit, informs me solemnly that there is engineering work taking place on the way to Serbia. It seems nowhere, not even 500 miles from the Euston-Rugby mainline, is immune to the dreaded replacement bus service.
I decide to make the best of the now ten hour delay by seeing a bit of Sofia. Sofia struggles against its mightir northern neighbours of Budapest and Prague, but this little and unlikely fourth capital of Bulgaria (when made capital in 1879, the town had a population of less than 12,000) is engaging and pleasantly strollable.
I have a look at the mosque, the synagogue and a Russian Orthodox church before stumbling, almost literally, across the impressive Alexsander Neksi Cathedral. As I walk pack across a scruffy park, pavement cracks beneath my feet I spy a soviet memorabilia market with soem true gems for sale.
I can't help thinking my friend of Taras 'Not all of Stalin's ideas were bad' Goat as I wander between stalls selling anything from reclaimed cigarette cases to a 1:4 scale broze bust of Stalin. I briefly entertain buying Uncle Joe but my bag is feeling heavy enough without 20kg of dictator weighing it down.
I eat a late lunch in the Sofia Gardens, an attractively quaint strip of lush, landscaped grass ringed by playful fountains, which the locals are not shy about derobing for in order to cool off. Most of Sofia's young are here talking, laughing and comparing mobile phone ringtones as the old men of the town look on disapprovingly over a game or ten of chess.
I trudge back toward the train station actually thankful for a ten hour delay. If something like this had happened in England I would most likely be either apoplectic or incarcerated by now, but Sofia is a worthy entertainer for a day. It's creamy Baroque parliament buildings have a naturally calming hue (even when some protesters sit on the outside steps playing 'Ride of the Valkyries' over an improbably loud PA all afternoon) and its boulevards are thronged with a mixture of shopping women and cafes populated with soothed locals.
Definitely worth a longer visit in the future not least due to the ridiculously low price of food and drink (think 20p a beer).
Back on the train I share my compartment with a longhaired German with one of those really shit, wispy goatees who is, in all seriousness, called Herman. I try to make myself scarce and listen to music as another almighty storm cracks its cheeks, but Herman is clearly not known for his subtlety.
I try to read for a good half an hour as he insists on explaining the inner workings of MP3 files and it takes even longer after I have obviously stopped even grunting a reply, turned off my light and got under the sheets before he relents.
"Do you like any German authors?" he says, spying a book of mine. I answer that I don't know as much as I#d like in terms of fiction, but all the philosophers have their moments.
"Yes, I really like Schoepenhauer."
"I think we'll leave Schopenhauer for another time, Herman," I reply and turn out the lights.
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