SOFIA 4

It is Friday morning and we have approximately three hours to spare before making our way to the airport for a mid-afternoon haul back to Blighty. During that time we will pack, pay our city-tax, sip coffee, post postcards and have breakfast – in that order.
After checking out of our hotel we take the short walk over to Cargo, a café that we earmarked yesterday for breakfast, only to find that all it seems to serve is coffee, cakes and pastries. We stop for coffee regardless.
Determined not to fail in my self-imposed mission of sending home correspondence to friends and family (or just family in this instance – decent postcards are thin on the ground in Sofia), I make a dash for the central post-office, a building of which I have an address for but have been unable to locate thus far. With no obvious external markings visible, I’m forced to ask Bulgarians for directions, but find the post office I do and in posting my correspondence I succeed.
By the time I get back to Cargo Louise has ordered another coffee, so, not wanting to be out-drunk, I do to.
Pushed for time, I suggest we head over to Tsentralni Hall and take breakfast up on the mezzanine, to which Louise agrees.
Visually disappointed with the baguettes and baps on offer, we elect instead to enjoy a large slice of pizza. The results are pleasing.

The return taxi to the airport costs almost half as much as the one we took on our way in, the weather is humid, and the prefabricated blocks of flats we pass have seen better days. Mount Vitosha is as imposing as ever and, despite the fact that we have probably run out of things to do, I feel we could happily spend another day roaming the streets of Sofia, a city of few surprises but of perfect repose. I like Bulgarians, the pace of life, the changeable climate and the lack of expense. Sure, the place is a little shabby but most cities are.

SOFIA 3

At last we make it to the Art Club Museum, an outdoor cafe around the back of the Archaeological Museum. Precipitation again appears to be on the agenda and, for a moment, it looks as if we might have to pull up roots and move to another table beneath a parasol. The menu is limited and the middle-eastern themed sandwich we manage to extricate from it, decidedly average. However, the location pleases and the coffee is good.

NDK Cultural Palace is our first part of call, a communist built monstrosity that I have erroneously assumed houses a shopping mall. It does not and is in fact the largest multifunctional congress, convention, conference and exhibition Hall in South-eastern Europe. The Monument to the Bulgarian State, too, proffers disappointment. This bizarre piece of sculpture is to be found encased within the dual shrouds of scaffold and tarpaulin, and, such is its reputation for ugliness,I speculate as to whether the authorities are in the process of tearing the thing down. Whilst we are down this way we may as well check out City Centre Sofia, a genuine mall, but not one to write home about.
We have planned out itinerary carefully though, and so, despite drawing blanks thus far, it is a very straightforward a process to turn down Vasil Levski Boulevard and seek out Traditzia, a European Union-supported project purportedly selling ethnic handicrafts. Alas, it seems that Traditzia no longer exists (our guidebook is over a year into its print). Collectively these failed expeditions leave us in a bit of a quandary as to how to fill the rest of our day.
A thunderstorm, coupled with a real need to regroup, eventually force us to take refuge in a cafe called Onda, and our route there means that we are about 100 metres short of completing a grand circle of a tour. Onda sits opposite the Russian Church of St Nicholas, just along from Victoria where we took dinner on our first night, and resembles Costa, Starbucks, or any number of chain-based coffee outlets found almost anywhere in the world.

Deluge over, Lousie succumbs to my suggestion that we visit the Gallery of Foreign Art, possibly on the premise that it will take us within striking distance of another one of those funny shops she loves so much. The Gallery of Foreign Art turns out to be rather good – this despite the fact that the third floor is closed for refurbishment. African masks are legion, as are Japanese lithographs, and they have an exceptional collection of paintings by the French artist Roland Oudot. There is also a work by Gustave Courbet that, by my estimation, must seem like quite a coupe to have in its possession.

The weather is glorious now – I reckon it must be about 25 degrees – but Louise’s shop disappoints, their stock being mainly geared towards the very young. Fortuitously there turn out to be another boutique very near that delivers exactly the sort of thing Louise likes to stumble upon and bring back from any vacation she takes.
From there I drag Louise through a park housing the Soviet Army Monument and on to the National Stadium. I look for a way in but to no avail. 'Man, we’ve covered some ground today,' so we he head on back to Sofia Garden City and to the café we drank at on our last visit there.

Louise has marked the cards of two restaurants that serve what is described in our guidebook as archetypal Bulgarian cuisine, and we have settled on Manastirska Magernitsa. First we will stop for a drink at one of the many roadside bars on Vitosha Boulevard, just because we like the idea of doing so
Manastirska Magernitsa does not disappoint. Occupying a 19th century tenement and kitted out in traditional Bulgarian regalia, we order the most expensive meals that we have ordered thus far, with only our visit to Victoria offering a challenge in the ‘billage’ stakes. Louise has a sort of lamb moussaka type affair, while I identify the nearest thing to beef goulash I can find, and, aided and abetted by a think hunk of fresh bread, it goes down very well indeed. My only concern now is being able to drink on top of the stuff.

It is dusk by the time we leave Manastirska Magernitsa and about to rain too, which is fortunate timing considering we just ate outside. We dive into some weirdly simple Irish bar whilst the weather does its thing.
More aimless wandering fails to throw up any interesting drinking holes, or indeed anything as utilitarian as And Why Not, so we return to Toba and Co, an establishment that has proved to be a reliable staple of our trip, both day and night. The music is better than before and we spend the majority of our last evening there before popping into Dada Cultural Bar for a nightcap.

SOFIA 2

There is a bar pictured in our guide book that we had not been able to find on our initial stroll along Vitosha Boulevard. Instead we spotted the thing on our return journey, only after we’d taken coffee elsewhere. So we have decided that Upstairs might be a nice place to have breakfast, utilising its second floor status to watch the world pass on by below.
The bar itself is a little bit of a disappointment, as are the horrendous tunes being pumped out at this completely inappropriate hour, but we are sat on the veranda and immune to such distractions. The food is half decent, although, like at Victoria, a bit more expensive than one might find elsewhere.
What’s more, our balcony perspective provides the perfect vantage point from which to take in the bizarre spectacle of a completely unexpected city-wide couple of minutes silence in honour of Hristo Botev, a poet and national revolutionary who resisted Ottoman rule and was shot dead in doing so on 20 May 1876 – or 2 June using today’s calendar. Blitz style sirens wail and everybody stands motionless for a while, before resuming whatever it was they were doing beforehand.

Churches and the like are the order of the day and Sofia has many, its piece de résistance being the grand old Alexander Nevsky Cathedral located in what might be described as the heart of this modestly sized metropolis. The sun is shining, the weather warm, and so we head causally through Sofia’s grid defined streets in the vague direction that we need to go. Such an approach reaps splendid rewards; an interesting mural on Georgi S Rakovski Str. and a curious statue of Stefan Stambolov are both stumbled upon before finally arriving at the foot of Alexander Nevsky Cathedral.

Completed in 1912, the cathedral looks older than it actually is, aping Byzantine styles of long ago - gold and copper domes the most obvious signifiers. The interior is unreasonably weathered and one might expect some sort of restoration work to take place some time in the near future. Still, the sheer scale of the building welcomes some time spent wandering around the thing.
Across the road there is the older, simpler Sveta Sofia Church, which is also worth a look, and then, back across the road, there is a flea market selling average paintings, mostly, with a few communist-era trinkets thrown in for good measure.

The sun submits to the clouds being spewed forth from Mount Vitosha’s brim, a temporary meteorological blip that has subsided by the time we have returned to Sofia City Garden for coffee. It is a lovely spot to drink and take the proverbial five, before heading briefly back to the hotel – for no particular reason other than that we happen to be passing that way – and then moving on to inspect a Mosque, a Synagogue and Tsentralni Hall, a large indoor market separating the two.
The Mosque appears to be closed, although we don’t think it actually is, given the shoes deposited outside, so we try out the market first. I very much like the market. I have been to ones similar in Barcelona and Budapest, although I recall being less enamoured with Budapest’s take on the concept. Have I changed in the intermediate period or does Sofia’s version offer up a fresh interpretation on the subject? It is both lighter and airier than Budapest’s effort, and there seems more in the way of facilities too. Indeed, I make a mental note for us to return to one of the many cafes up there on the mezzanine.
We make the Synagogue with half an hour to spare before closing time. As it happens, half an hour proves ample - respite from a particularly heavy shower being the most significant benefit of our visit. Half a minute would suffice in the Mosque, the exterior belying the blandest of interiors.
Next up a café: Louise entertains the drinking of a beer but backs out at the last – coffee it shall be, then. Briefly back to the hotel, then to Classic Pizza just down the road and opposite the aforementioned café, which is a little disappointing; back to the hotel to change into footwear more capable of coping with return of the showers that have been a hallmark of the day thus far, and then to Dada Cultural Bar in the hope that the ballroom dancing has taken a back seat.

It has and, save for some truly awful artworks adorning the wall, it is a very pleasant environment to drink in for a while.
It might have been an idea to stay longer because from there we struggle to find a half decent bar to ply our evening trade. Eventually we stumble upon And Why Not, a local’s haunt of rare delight. Ramshackle and dominated by young males, it is not a hectic as I imagine it might be on days more conducive to drinking than a Wednesday. The bar tender, a bulky guy somewhere in his twenties, speaks little English, smiles even less, but is still as polite as his limited grasp of communication, of any kind, allows him to be. What is more the large bottles of Becks he seems quite prepared to serve for as long as we ask for them, are cheaper than any such consumables we have encountered so far – and for that reason alone I would highly recommend a visit.

SOFIA 1

The spectre of any disruption resulting from British Airways strike action failed to materialise, and the transition from abode to airport and, finally, to aircraft, was a smooth one. The only incident of note was a thwarted effort to obtain batteries for my trusty film-utilising Pentax.
A very helpful member of staff volunteered to break open a packet of the envisaged batteries required to operate my camera, and, when they failed to kick start that the thing of beauty into action, did not in any way expect me to purchase the now corrupted goods for the their allotted £3.80 charge. Was it my camera that was at fault or was the type of batteries the incorrect means of energy transfer? I hoped it was the latter prognosis that applied.

Turbulence as bad as I’ve witnessed; clouds were legion. Sofia looked bleak from the window of our airplane but I was not loaded with preconceptions that rested upon the view being anything much in particular. The airport itself was functional, and the acquisition of a taxi to take us to our hotel, straight forward. The air was humid and the traffic heavy, without being too much of a drag. Our driver could not speak much English but his effort to furnish the passing landmarks with names and explanations was appreciated.
Hotel Arte, on Knyaz Dondukov Boulevard, was what I expected – a tenement of rudimentary convenience we booked for its location above all else. And so we finally hit the streets by about 15.00, Bulgarian time; two hours ahead of GMT.

Vitosha Boulevard is a long street running south from Sveta Nedelya Square, and it is where Louise and I look for somewhere to make our first coffee stop. The weather is clement and the lack of people makes for the perfect introduction to this holiday. Louise eats because she was somehow overlooked when sandwiches were handed out on the flight over; a strange oversight on any flight but one possibly attributable to BA having to employ cover for their striking employees.
Initial impressions are positive then, and those first digital photographs I am able to take from the middle of this oddly sedate artery will turn out to be some of the best of our trip; Vitosha Mountain shrouded in cloud providing the focal point beyond where Vitosha Boulevard vanishes from view.

To the galleries! First up is Sofia City Art Gallery, quickly followed by the National Gallery on the opposite side of Sofia City Garden. The former is almost a waste of time – although it is free – whereas the National Gallery throws up some very interesting artefacts, the early 20th century Bulgarian paintings being of particular note.

Clouds are jostling for position with the sun; a state of affairs brought about by the proximity of the mountain ranges that surround much of the city. It is warm though, and Toba & Co, situated just behind the National Gallery off Moskovska Street, is a delightful place to park oneself and drink coffee - if one so desires.

Inbetween there is probably a little more wandering than my missive so far might suggest, but before long we are heading back to the hotel to prepare for our first evening out, making a mental note of any potential venues we pass along the way – Dada Cultural Bar, in particular, catching our eye.

Victoria, a restaurant off Tsar Osvoboditel Boulevard, sounds like it might be a nice and turns out to be very busy – normally a reliably positive harbinger of the food that is to come. The décor is almost right, wavering somewhere between gaudy and rustic, and the subterranean nature of the environment sets the mood off nicely (As the holiday progresses it will become apparent that the prices are a little on the steep side, relative to the cost of food on offer elsewhere, but it serves decent fodder and the staff are most welcoming).

Our decision to follow up dinner with a visit to Dada Cultural Bar is nipped in the bud when, on walking back to said establishment, we find the place overrun with what appears to be people ballroom dancing. So we return to Toba & Co just around the corner, which proves to be a good move. Cocktails are reasonably priced, although the beer a little steep, and a DJ plays a set that only starts to dip around the same time we decide it might be prudent to try elsewhere.
Back on Knyaz Dondukov Boulevard the bars do not appear to be offering much in the way of atmosphere, so we look for tips from the lady working in the local off-license. Having spent some time living in London herself – and sporting a Union Jack emblazoned t-shirt as if to prove the point – she is thrilled at the prospect of helping us out. Alas, not even a phone call to a socially active friend of hers bears great fruit and all she can offer us is vague directions to an establishment she thinks is called the Buddha Bar(?).
We reach Garibaldi Square and still no sign of any oriental-deity related establishments. Louise gainfully asks two passing actors, on their way back from rehearsing a local stage production of The Full Monty, if they know of the Buddha Bar(?, or indeed anywhere else that might fulfil our needs. Having established that Irish themed pubs are not our thing, the younger of these two thespians offers to take us to a place he hopes we will find to our liking. Failing that, he knows of somewhere else – neither will take him very far out of his way.
He need not have worried about formulating a plan B. Taking a turn down a dark alley and knocking upon an old wooden door, we are ushered into what looks like was once an old stable. Candles provide the light and missing rafters reveal the eves of this run down husk of a building. It is absolutely spot on.

We stay for three beers on what we intended to be our earliest night of our stay, but ends up being our latest.

ATHENS 3

There are not the crowds that were gathered in the breakfast area as there were yesterday, but nor is there the salami. I seize upon the last three slices and a grab a boiled egg to make up the difference.

I have persuaded Louise into having coffee at a café on the corner of Ermou and Evangelistrias, a pedestrianised thoroughfare right in the heart of Plaka. I figure it will be a good place to watch the world go by and gain a richer understanding of what makes the average Athenian tick.

Piraeus is today’s destination, a municipality on the periphery of Athens itself and the last stop southbound on the ISAP Line 1, seven stops on from Monastiraki. We will actually abscond after six stops at Faliro so I can check out Georgios Karaiskakis Stadium, home of Olympiacos FC. Alas, there is no way in to inspect the ground’s interior and the exterior alone provides little reason to hang about, and so we are left with a long walk along the coast, passing through the harbours of Mikrolimano and Zea Marina before reaching the heart of Piraeus itself. The thing is, it is these very harbours that supposedly give Piraeus its character and I am not overly enamoured with either of them. They are meant to be lined with ‘buzzing cafes and bars,’ according to our guidebook, but there does not seem to be anybody about. The area in and around the town hall is vibrant enough but the cafes are all rather pedestrian – and full too, providing little incentive to stick around.We end up grabbing a slice of pizza each nearer to the Piraeus Metro itself, which is actually very tasty but not what I had envisaged coming here for. Having said that, I feel like we have experienced a side to greater Athens hitherto unbeknown to us and do not for one second regret our strange visit here.

We are now faced with a problem as to what to do with the rest of our day – I really had anticipated that Piraeus would have occupied our time more extensively. Louise would like to visit the National Archaeological Museum but I really cannot be bothered with it. I will walk her there however, and do so after stopping off at out hotel to pick up a spare roll of film, which I will not use.
Omonia, the area the area standing in our way, is Athens at its most utilitarian and provides us with our second alternative vision of Athens in one day. Louise successfully deposited at the museum, I take the opportunity to wander down alien streets, popping in to the Central Market when I happen to come across it. A local market selling foodstuffs for local people, the meat section is best avoided by those of a squeamish disposition.
Disappointedly, my best efforts to lose myself take me down a road that brings me out almost directly opposite my hotel. Ponder and decide to take the short walk back to Monastiraki in search of postcards or any random souvenirs that might catch my eye. Neither found, I seek solace in more coffee before heading back to Plaka to take photographs in the more forgiving light that was present on that first late-afternoon spent there.
Now I find postcards of a suitable enough quality (or not: I like to find postcards that appear to be at least 15 years out of date), before making my way back to Ermou where a 74 year old Athenian gentleman attempts to persuade me join him for coffee. I politely decline, offering my impending rendezvous with Louise as my excuse.

Mitropoleos is a pedestrianised street lined with identical restaurants selling identical food. Their speciality is souvlaki, made up of grilled meat (lamb mostly] hot pita bread, raw red onion, tomatoes and tzatziki; a sauce made from cucumber, yoghurt, lemon juice and mint, amongst other my minor ingredients. With chips on the side, the whole thing is a must-eat and its simplicity makes for a very cheap meal too.
Food consumed, we are back to Gazi via the metro. We start off with A Liar Man, which sort of pays off despite the expense, and then move on to The Hoxton Bar on Gazi’s main drag where the beer is more reasonably priced. There is a good vibe about the place, for sure, but that souvlaki is slowing us down. What is more, the clientele seem a little young and intoxicated and after three lagers we decide to head back to The Vintage Bar for another nightcap.

ATHENS 2

Good morning.
The breakfast room is full so it is decided that we will return to our room, shower and try again in 20 minutes or so, running the risk that supplies may very well be depleted on our return. Fortunately the gamble pays off and, given that we have not eaten since the previous day’s mid-afternoon lunch, it is a most welcome feast.

The sun is tussling for supremacy with the nocturnal cloud cover, but seems to be winning. By the time we reach the northern edge of the Acropolis victory will be total.
Navigating the steep slopes is rather confusing. One minute you are passing Hadrian’s Library, the next you have found yourself down some crumbling back alley with only stray cats for company. Subtle signage instructs you as to whether you are on the right track, as do larger landmarks such as the vast and verdurous Ancient Agora one inevitably passes, should you decide to attack the Acropolis from its northern face. We stop for refreshment at this very juncture. Dioskouri has nothing much to offer, other than the view, and exploits its location en route to antiquity by charging good money for rather average coffee.

From there the views just get better, and so too does the temperature. Research suggested highs of 20 degrees were in order, at best, but by the time we have reached the summit it is comfortably higher – as much as 24 perhaps? On the downside, the higher one climbs the more people one has to contest with. This is not surprising and might only be avoided if one were to visit in, say, January, during which time the temperatures would not be so kind. You see the dilemma?
The effect, then, is slightly diminished. It is also affected by the scaffold-assisted restoration going on about the place. The Acropolis also suffers from a terrible familiarity. It is hard to appreciate it for what it is when its image is so firmly engrained within the European imagination, be it through films, art, travelogues or the general conveying of the historical significance of antiquity. And, surrounded as it is by the Athens itself, it is rather difficult to appreciate how progressive it might have once appeared occupying its natural habitat. Imagine Stonehenge, perhaps, located in the middle of Regent’s Park and I think that is what I might be trying to get at.
The views, however, compensate for any sense of disappointment, and besides, I’ve never been one for paying too much lip-service to the past for sake of doing so. Indeed, I rather like the effect of the scaffolding. It's like a scene from Jesus Christ Superstar, the movie.
Next up is the aforementioned Ancient Agora, a garden of sorts littered with plinths, pillars, busts and other classical remains. There is a museum too, a few stoas – or stoae – a couple of temples and several security guards ready to pull you up if you get dangerously close to anything of value.

......................................Street scene near Acropolis


We are to go Gazi/Keramikos for lunch, an upcoming distract just west of Monastiraki. Built on an old gas works the area is now seen as something as a hangout for the young and the hip but, amidst the gentrification, I can sense something of an edge.
A Liar Man puts such thoughts to bed. A lovely café-come-bar stuck down the end of an unassuming alley, the expensively priced lunches do not inspire us and so we settle for coffee. Back on Voatadon – the closest thing Gazi might have to a ‘main drag’, all be it a pedestrianised one – bars sit dormant alongside each other, but there are enough of them to suggest that this is an area that might be worth returning to come an evening.
There is still much of the day left so we decide to hop on the Metro Line 3 back to into Monastiraki, surface briefly for a kebab, and then join the ISAP Line 1 northbound towards Maroussi to check out the Olympic Park. It is a longer journey than anticipated, although most of it, mercifully, is over ground.
In stark contrast to the packed carriages that take us there, this broken monument to the Olympiad resembles a ghost town. Painted white, parallel metal girders held aloft show the way here, while huge perforated arches show the way there, but the grounds themselves are unkempt, only the stadium itself exudeding any sense of purpose. It is an impressive structure and visitors are welcome to wander around the terraces.

The journey back to Monastiraki is as uncomfortable as the one there and it is dark by the time we arrive back at our hotel. Tea is to be taken at Paradosiako, a humble eatery serving local fare where lamb seems to be the order of the day. It is delicious and reasonably priced too, so much so that we ponder an aperitif. Given the paucity of seating available and the local nature of the clientele we think better of it and dash across the road to a bar we caught sight of along our way. We do not stay there for long. Peter Andre is counting down the top 5000 ballads of all time on the plasma screen, and besides, we are pretty much the only people drinking there.
Considering the time of year temperatures continue to be kind, and after wandering back towards the vague direction of our hotel we happen upon the Vintage Shopping Bar, a surprisingly hip joint located just off the rather low-key Perikleous Street. Three drinks later we decide it is time to move on but figure we may as well have a quick nightcap back at Booze Cooperative along the way; this despite the fact that we actually have to walk past our hotel to get there.

ATHENS 1

Terminal 5 – what a breath of fresh air. Within 15 minutes of my arrival I have checked in, flashed my passport, subjected my luggage to x-rays and found myself a seat in which to wake myself up via the medium of coffee.
Generally speaking, Heathrow Airport is neither a pleasant or well run airport, but it can at least now lay claim to a fifth of its operation running smoothly. Those who complained about the building of Heathrow’s fifth terminal missed the point. The infrastructure at Heathrow simply could not cope with the mass of flights it had to cater for. There are improvements going on elsewhere too, most notably at Terminal 3, so perhaps the future looks a little brighter that it once was, assuming the powers that be do not decide to build another runway, placing strain on an infrastructure that is only just beginning to cope.
This is the worry; that the existence of a fifth terminal might be used as a pretext for building a third runway, which would in turn precipitate the need for a sixth terminal, and so on. Thus the protesters had a point; that although extra terminals pose no threats in themselves, they can – and will – be used as precursors to the sort of expansion that allows for added flights.

Our aeroplane’s descent is taken too steeply perhaps; how else to explain my almost total loss of hearing? (Indeed, my ears will not fully recover until the last day of the trip). As such, the transition from plane to train and then, on foot, to hotel will not be the galvanising experience it often is. That is not to say it is completely devoid of impact. The view from the train is satisfying, if not spectacular, and I am rather taken by the shabbiness that finally greets me once extricated from the efficient clutches of Athens’ underground system. ‘Bangkok meets Istanbul’ I am tempted to surmise, although in reality it might bear closer relation to a more hemmed in version of Lisbon.

Hotel Carolina is well situated and the price one pays for that is a not unwelcome simplicity. For a budget end hotel I doubt you could do much better, the crumbling view from our balcony summarising perfectly the faded charm that pervades throughout central Athens. The presence of Booze Cooperative not two doors down lifts the spirits even higher.
In an effort to familiarise ourselves further with the surroundings, my companion and I decide to pull up a chair at Aiolis. Found on Eolou, a long semi-pedestrianised boulevard that has seen better days, Aiolis is a delightful place to take stock, grab some lunch and watch drunken tramps stumble on by. The Acropolis is visible to the right, the prices are not unreasonable and the standard of the cuisine top drawer. Now all that holds the day back is an almost tropical looking spot of cloud cover, the pall of a nascent cold that seems to have crept up on the both of us and the effects of too little sleep.

Onwards and upwards – the Acropolis awaits! It is too late to visit the Acropolis right now so instead we check out Plaka, the medieval conglomeration of buildings that cling to its north eastern-most aspect. From the tourist driven cobblestone streets we descend back down Monastiraki – whence we alighted from our train – and head in a westerly direction along Adrianou.
It is now 18.00 and night has fallen. Time for a drink we think. Café Abyssinia does the trick and the air is warm enough for us to sit outside. Settling for just the one revitalising tipple we then head home, checking out the district of Psyrri on route.
Our turnaround at the hotel is brief and then it is time to see if Booze Cooperative lives up to its name. It does, although you pay for privilege. The place is as hip a bar as I have ever come across – all bohemian fixtures and fittings and exposed infrastructure. I could drink here all night, but we decide to give Aiolis another blast before calling it a day in the hope that we might sleep off those colds that have been brewing.