Ancient Artifacts And Abundant Arbors

Every building in Plovdiv has a grape arbor attached. This is beneficial not only because there is an abundance of grapes, but also of grape leaves so that we may never worry about a shortage of dolma.

Speaking of dolma, if I eat anymore I will need to throw my suitcase out the window and start draping myself in a bed sheet. Armenians can eat.

Last night I was told that when a group of Bulgarians get together they’ll have liters of liquor and one small plate of cheese. When Armenians get together they’ll have a table of food and a few sips of liquor. When you get Armenians and Bulgarians together, you’ll have a great time and never want for food or drink. Luckily my family is made up of Armenians living in Bulgaria, and exhibit both tendencies regularly.

Today, after eating only peaches and coffee for breakfast, we went out to explore Polvdiv and the surrounding country.

Plovdiv is the oldest living city in Europe, perching atop ruins predating the Thracians that once inhabited the area. You can hardly turn a corner without discovering some active or else abandoned archaeological site littered with the remnants of ancient civilizations. The city is set to be named “European Capital of Culture” in 2019.

After a treacherous drive up into the mountains we arrived at Assen’s Fortress which was built in the 9^th century and had since been repurposed and renovated and restored by each new conquering peoples. The walls inside are speckled with brilliant frescos that reflect the incomplete faces of mournful saints. Swallows have built nests in the corners of the alters and swoop and dive over head, ambivalent to the centuries of history they are pooping on.

A short and winding ride away is Bachkovski monastery where I slacked the persistent thirst I’ve felt for three days now with the mineral water fountain that bubbles up from the spring beneath the ground. Inside, visitors are clad in typical modern clothing, and due to the heat, many women wearing short shorts and tank tops. They must borrow pieces of cloth to wrap around their indecent shoulders and collar bones before entering the chapels. Monks wearing yards of black vestments shuffle back and forth, casting angry glances at girls who either don’t care or don’t know to cover up. 

In the courtyard I make friends with a sheep until my mother reminds me that he will be sacrificed and his days are numbered.

In the village outside of Plovdiv, the family has a plot of land where they have a small orchard of peach trees. Among the roots of the trees they’ve also planted potatoes which poke through the earth like little bald headed gnomes peeking to see if it’s safe to come out.

The corners of the plot are alive with the buzzing of several bee hives. Bees in Bulgaria seem smaller than American bees and the relatives laugh about how our people are bigger, our cars are bigger and now our bees are bigger too. I enjoy watching them work and listening to our cousin explain the process of harvesting the honey and wax. He tells me you can’t go into the hives angry or else the bees will know it and they will eat you (it’s a rough translation). I do believe he’s right about how the bees are very sensitive to the person who is collecting their honey. Think of every person you know who loses their mind and starts running around, screaming and swatting at the air the moment they see a bee. Doesn’t the bee seem to follow them? This has more to do with the fact that visually they are stimulated by the movement of your flailing limbs and screaming lips than anything, but I like to think it’s because they’re laughing at you. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.