Dear James, (14/08/2016: Sofia, Bulgaria) I miss you! I've felt so close to you for some of this journey and so far from you for other of it. I do hope that next year we can walk a few days together through Bulgarian mountains or Georgian valleys - something like that. Here follows an account of why I am cutting my journey short this year, and what it's taken for me to make this decision. For days now I've been hovering on the edge of social media not-quite-ready to tell the world of my shift in plans. And it has to come out now - I'm in Sofia in the middle of hostel culture, distressed by the free drinks and the jovial fake generosity and the cool kids in the garden and the endless beer. In Sofia waiting to catch a plane tomorrow, back to England. I should not be here; I should be crossing the mountains down into Southern Bulgaria on the way to the Turkish border. And it came about like this: First squished-together scenario involves a strange town called Ploiești within which is situated an even stranger hostel. Within this hostel I made the acquaintance of Bucharest native, gypsy lesbian, D., who introduced herself to me as a thief, laid bare the workings of said hostel, (brothel, den of thieves) and warned me against them, said to keep my money around my waist at all times. This sounds like good advice, and I could have listened, but I messed up on the last morning. Of course I did. Isn't that how all folk tales work? I went to the bathroom and left my money belt in the dorm. I feel somewhat now as if I did it to test them - who knows? In any case, when I looked again I was lacking 100 lei. Cue a long period of waiting and wondering how to do this, I eventually decided to call the hostel's bluff. If you don't refund my entire two-night-stay's cost, I'll call the police on this institution. I meant it. I was furious. And entitled. And just damn well lacking in cash (my bank card having been blocked the day before, due to fraud committed on it, on a thousand pounds' worth of car insurance, no less.). If there had been no fraud I might even have left them their ill-gotten gains, foolish as I felt for having not followed instructions. D., my guardian angel, thank you for your guidance and friendship. It's with me still. I won't forget our conversation, my gradual realisation that 'I understand but I don't speak' meant 'I understand you perfectly but I would rather listen and infer and laugh.' You remind me of another quiet beauty that I know. Older than their years, far more observant and analytical than they'd have you know. I wish you well across the wires and the waves. So Ploiești lost me some money, gained me a slowly-healing ankle, and I set off to Bucharest, wondering quite how to manage this cashless situation. There I had the pleasure of the company of H., couchsurfing host extraordinaire, who sans hesitation gave me the keys to his flat and let me loose to wash my clothes and sort my stuff. A low key, much needed period of relaxation in the middle of a glorious city of concrete, grass and bygone grandeur. It was hot and drew me in, and I found myself in love with another city, this time a slower greener one; one with wide roads and parks; less queer presence, more space to be who you wish. I still miss it, weeks later. (There I also discovered I would not be able to fix the cashlessness from abroad, and my idea to come home started forming.) From there, I headed south down sticky Tarmac roads past reminders of the Turkish presence in Romania in the form of truckstops by the names of 'Istanbul Petrol', 'Bursa Gaz' and the like. Stopped in on one; everyone was Turkish. They, of course, thought I was mad and had to ask me at least five times what exactly I was doing showing up at their truckstop on foot in Romania speaking Turkish. I hope I am become tiny legend among Turkish truck drivers, if only so I never have to navigate that explanation again. Maybe I even have a coined name and an epithet. The Lady of the Large Ankle? Little needs saying about exiting Romania, except that it was painful. I got attached, there was some breaking away trauma, I survived. (It honestly was that dramatic.) The two-kilometre stomp across the Friendship Bridge was not a pleasant one, but mainly for the reason that there were repairs on the pedestrian part of the bridge so my best bet was to stroll large down the middle of the road thereon. I made it intact, though my phone almost went over the edge as I tried to take a photo. By the by. Ruse. The Bulgarian border town. Beauty after chaos. I spent a night here and pressed on, despite wishing I could stay longer. Unexpected calm, helpfulness and generosity from folks who were absolutely not called upon to even notice me. My language crisis came crashing in that day; after understanding that there was nothing in this language that I could apply from others I supposedly know. (Today came the first wonderful moment of recognition when I heard 'chanta' and understood it to mean 'bag'. Thank you dear Arabic and Turkish. It's tiny moments like these...) [Skipping over a three day increasingly painful walk on a steadily failing ankle - how was two days' rest ever going to be enough? - down into mid-Bulgaria to the old capital Veliko Tărnovo, where I spent a good restful time with a couchsurfing host, P. Decision to go 'home' and fix my finances and foot was made the evening of arrival there, when my boot was painful to remove and flights to England from Sofia were cheaper than continuing to Istanbul.] So, sitting in Sofia sun, I'm happy to be coming back to England - if it only means a space to breathe and see missed people. Sorry that this letter is a little of a letdown! I'm happy to be able to start next year's walk from mid-Bulgaria. (Come with me!) A challenge; an excuse to find a little more of a road into the language. Love to you, and see you in less than a week I hope. B.
