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Sofia, Bulgaria - Susprisingly Good! PDF Print E-mail
Written by Jason Smart   
Monday, 21 January 2008
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Sofia, Bulgaria - Susprisingly Good!
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The woman operating border control at Sofia Airport certainly looked striking enough. In her twenties, dark skin - almost Greek-looking, her face caught my attention first. Dyed, red-orange hair and heavily made-up eyes greeted me as I approached the booth. She said nothing as she scanned my passport and I was soon out the other side. 
 
?Did you see that woman?s eyelashes?? I said to Angela. Angela nodded and smiled.  
 
Driving into the city centre involved passing block after block of Soviet-style apartment blocks. Most were in major disrepair, but obviously lived in. Cyrillic lettering on road signs and billboards made everything look distinctly Russian. But what took up most of our attention was the taxi meter. It was running hell bent for leather.  
 
Before our trip to the Bulgarian capital, I?d done a little research. A taxi journey into the city centre should have cost in the region of 10 Lev (£3.50) but at the half way stage, our fare was already up to 25 Lev. I thought back to how we?d ended up in this particular cab.
 
Avoiding the touts in the arrival?s hall of the airport, Angela and I had stepped outside the hellishly hot 39?C temperatures, soon spotting a waiting taxi. Approaching the driver, I handed him the address of our hotel, and while he rang someone, presumably to find out a price, a man in his late twenties approached us from behind. ?Zis is not official taxi,? he said. ?Watch out for this man. He will rip you off! Official taxi over there - look.?  Sveta-Sofia-Statue  
 
We both looked to where the man was pointing. There was another yellow taxi parked by itself, just across a road. I grabbed the address off the taxi driver, still on the phone, and thanked the man behind us. He smiled and shrugged. We headed across the road and the driver immediately got out, already opening the boot for our luggage.  
 
?How much to this hotel,? I asked him as I passed him the address. The man shrugged. ?I not sure. I not do this trip before.?  
 
Alarm bells started ringing, but I ignored them. Angela was already loading the bag into the back. ?Can you give a rough price though?? I pressed.  
 
The driver smiled. ?Sorry. No! Nevertheless, it will be on meter. Please, get in. Come.? We did, and as soon as we set off, the metre began going up like the clappers, finally stopping on fifty Lev (£17) as we pulled up outside our hotel. We?d been stitched up good and proper!  

Sofia, nestled at the base of the Vitosha Mountain, is not high on people?s list of city breaks in Europe. If people do venture to Bulgaria, it?s usually for the sand and sea of the Sunny Beach resort to the east of the country, certainly not to the relatively unknown capital in the interior. This was confirmed by the sheer lack of tourists as we wandered along a main city street, heading for some of the main sights. The people around us were obviously the city?s inhabitants, older women with long eyelashes and strange hair shades, younger people who could have been in any European city, and occasionally, Orthodox priests, donning long back robes and even stranger beards.
 
?Look at that woman?s melons!? said Angela beside me. My eyes widened as I spotted the blonde girl in question. In the poster, a girl was holding a large melon in one hand, a tray of cut melons in the other. We wandered past, trying our best to keep in the shade.
  
Sofia is a very compact city. All the major sights are congregated within walking distance of one another. And the legacy of the Soviet era still pervades, especially with the Party House, once the headquarters of the Communist Party. The massive red star on its roof was only removed in 1990 after a mob tried to set it on fire. The area surrounding the building was the place to be if you wanted to watch the militaristic might of the Communist regime parading up and down. And speaking of espionage straight out of a James Bond film, Bulgaria?s reputation in the 1970?s was severely dirtied after the KGB were blamed for the death of Georgi Markov, a dissident writer living in London working as a journalist for the BBC. When he was walking along Water Bridge in September 1978, he was murdered after being stabbed with a poison-tipped umbrella. Fantastic!  


 
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