Crossing into Bulgaria

Not being able to cross into Canada without a passport now is an inconvenience, but it is nothing like some other places. I liked crossing from France into Belgium. You do that at fifty miles an hour.  Some places never were any fun. They probably won't ever be, either.

Crossing from the former Yugoslavia into Bulgaria, the border authorities wanted to make sure that you knew they didn't really want you there. They stopped my car in front of a thirty meter puddle in the road.  A guard glared at my French car.  But his face softened when he saw that I was an American.  He handed my papers back with an almost smile.  Then he resumed his standard scowl.  Brusquely, he pointed across the puddle, waving his hand.   Pointing at the puddle, I held my palms up as a question. The guard nodded, then pretended to slap something off his arm.

Of course!  To kill bugs! I said thank you in the one Bulgarian word I knew (which I'd learned in Yugoslavia and promptly forgot, as I never had occasion to use it again).  Apparently, Bulgaria assumed that Yugoslavia was a bug-infested land, whose creatures attached themselves to tires.  My tires were probably littered with terrorists, too.  I was about to enter Nirvana.  Except, of course, that I was leaving a Communist one.  Anyway, my tires were being purified in that puddle.  I hoped that the purifier wouldn't eat holes in my tires.  I would need them until I got back across the Adriatic to Italy.

As I put the car into gear, I saw  a fellow in rags, toting a big bundle.  He was going to have to wade though that midgies cleansing stuff.  So I stopped beside him, pointed across the puddle,  nodding.

He smiled broadly.  However, the guard yelled something which I doubted was a Bulgarian ballad. The man's smile faded.  He would have to wade.

I looked back at the guard and motioned for the man's bag to be put inside of my car.  The guard nodded without smiling. The bag couldn't fit into the back seat of my car; but I could, and did, stuff it into my trunk.  I drove across.  The guard grinned while the poor man waded.  On the far side, wet to his knees, the peasant recovered his bag. 

His smile was huge, as he said something in Bulgarian, which I did not presume to be a  folk ballad.  It sounded more musical than the guard's snarl.  I offered the man my hand.  His was rough and grimy; but his face was beautiful, as he murmured, “Ahhh – MER – eeekah.”

Sveta in Sofia, Bulgaria