Bulgaria's Venerable Second City

We approached Plovdiv from Istanbul across the sad monotony of eastern Thrace. Once across the Bulgarian border everything changed: the landscape became more varied and interesting, and in the small towns and villages there were no raw, concrete apartment blocks (the norm in Turkey), only low, red-brick houses with red-tiled roofs and withering vines. The road was lined with metal shacks selling alcohol in all its forms, cigarettes and candy; there were stalls piled with bags of walnuts and tired-looking cabbages; there were cheerfully scruffy Gypsy boys who importuned any vehicle that so much as slowed down, and flocks of geese waddling home in the fading light. Maples, oaks and willows overarched the narrow road, and banks of feathery white reeds bordered it, as did, at irregular intervals, the kind of monumental sculptures to which all authoritarian regimes seem to be addicted. There seemed to be no particular reason for them to be where they were, and there was nothing to indicate what they might once have been intended to symbolize. They were ghosts, emptied allegories.

Plovdiv appeared as a cluster of brutish high-rises against a darkening sky. The effect was ominous, but it would be absurd to judge a city by its suburbs. The bus dropped us in the center of town, close to the mouth of a cavernous tunnel. It was not an especially welcoming prospect. A huge, blue neon sign proclaiming Hotel Trimontium Princess Casino told me that we were on the edge of Plovdiv's central square, but I had no idea which edge. A phone call put me through to Dr. Hristo Dimitrov, proprietor of the Queen Mary Elizabeth Guest House.

Dr. Dimitrov soon came bustling up, and led us through a park full of statues and inoperative fountains. Concerning one statue, he remarked: ''It used to be made of bronze, but during the crisis the Gypsies stole it, and melted it down. Now it is made of stone, which is much safer. Ah,'' he added philosophically, ''funny things happen in Bulgaria.''

Things soon got a lot funnier. It turned out that the Queen Mary Elizabeth after whom the guesthouse was named was none other than Britain's late, lamented Queen Mum. And there she was, beaming down regally from a third-floor balcony. A large illuminated sign announced ''Bed and Breakfast,'' but Dr. Dimitrov had a confession to make: they no longer served breakfast. He explained that they couldn't compete with the local cafes. This seemed an odd excuse, for we soon discovered that none of the local cafes served anything resembling breakfast. Then, to my horror, Dr. Dimitrov informed us that the Queen Mary Elizabeth was a no-smoking zone. How was this possible in a country where everyone smokes before, during and after meals? But then again, funny things happen in Bulgaria.

he restaurant that the doctor had recommended was pleasant enough, but the blood-red stripes in the flesh-pink drapes disturbed my companion, Sylvia Plachy, the photographer, who had recently shot open-heart surgery. The lentil soup would not have been out of place in a New Jersey diner. Not so the waitress. She managed the occasional, pinched smile, but it was clearly an effort. She did us a great favor, however, by recommending a wine -- a Targovishte chardonnay. It was delicious, but thereby hangs a tale. When we returned to the same restaurant a couple of nights later, we confidently ordered a bottle of Targovishte, but the waiter disapproved of our choice, and brought two other wines to the table, declaring: ''Why have a Volkswagen when you can have a Mercedes?'' I said as calmly as I could: ''I'm sure they are excellent, but we'd like to have the wine we ordered.'' He made no attempt to conceal his contempt, and stormed off in a truly majestic huff. Indeed, we had hurt his feelings so deeply that another waiter had to replace him.

Our second day -- a Saturday -- dawned bright and clear. We were delighted, but Dr. Dimitrov warned us dolefully that it would not last. It could change at any moment. It did not, and by midday the outdoor cafes were thronged. We began our exploration of old Plovdiv at the Roman forum. The site was inhabited as early as 2000 B.C., but only really hit its stride in the fourth century B.C., when the settlement was refounded and renamed Phillipopolis by Phillip of Macedon. Judging by the scale of its Roman forum and theater, it remained an important and prosperous city during the Roman era, but, beginning in the fifth century A.D., it began to suffer from barbarian incursions. In the sixth century, Slav tribes poured south across the Danube, then, a little later, the Bulgars arrived. They were a Hunnish people, remnants of Attila's hordes. In their new home the Bulgars formed a kind of military elite, lording it over the Slav majority, and during the next century they evolved a well-organized state that was capable of challenging Byzantium itself. Urbanism and the arts revived, and soon intermarriage and Christianization did their work: a Slavic, Christian nation was born. Over the centuries Plovdiv changed hands between Bulgarians and Byzantines many times until, in the late 14th century, the last, dissolving remnants of the Bulgarian empire were absorbed by the Ottomans.


Plovdiv's forum was large, and must once have been a magnificent architectural ensemble, but it has been poorly treated. A four-lane highway slices through it, and, slap in the middle, is the city's central post office. But, despite the best efforts of Communist planners, with their love of concrete and vacuous monumentality, Plovdiv has somehow survived. Walking north along Knyaz Alexandre -- Plovdiv's equivalent to Fifth Avenue -- we soon came to a second, much more welcoming square, with busy outdoor cafes and a fountain ringed by bronze swans. On its south side was Plovdiv's remarkably elegant, baroque city hall. Belle epoque elegance remained the keynote as we continued to stroll up Knyaz Alexandre, but I was puzzled by the number of stores that seemed to specialize in ferociously spiky, dominatrix footwear. And, why did the shop-window mannequins have downturned mouths? Who wants to be frowned at by a dummy?

At the end of Knyaz Alexandre we came upon Plovdiv's Great Mosque, and a huge hole in the ground containing the northern end of a grand Roman stadium. The Great Mosque was a splendid, early Ottoman structure built, as the gravely courteous Turkish imam informed me, in the reign of Sultan Murat II (1421-51). The central nave was roofed with three broad domes and flanked by vaulted aisles, but the whole building was riven with enormous cracks, some wide enough to admit daylight. The imam shook his head in dismay. There was no money for repairs. The government had done nothing, and nowadays there were not many Muslims in Plovdiv. His ebullient wife was less defeatist, and made sure I left a generous donation.

Behind the mosque was a small square with yet more cafes and displays of horribly kitschy paintings. A steep, cobbled street led into the heart of the old quarter. Its astonishingly beautiful wooden mansions are sometimes called ''baroque'' or ''Bulgarian Revival,'' but, in fact, they are all classic examples of the Ottoman konak (that is to say, large town houses owned by very rich people).

In exploring old Plovdiv, it is hard to go wrong. Just get pleasantly lost, and you are sure to find something enchanting. For example, we veered off the main drag, and soon came upon the Lamartine House, a tall konak painted a dusty pink where the lachrymose French poet had rested for a few nights during the course of his ''Voyage en Orient.'' Round a corner and down a steep slope was the Roman theater, its lovely, Ionic stage building hovering above a four-lane highway. We next came to the Church of SS. Constantine and Helena. Its origins go back to the late fourth century, but the present building is 19th century. Both its interior and external walls are covered with vividly colored frescoes, of which the most charming was to be found in the modest, wooden porch that fronted the church. It depicted Constantine's dream. The emperor lay asleep, dressed in the golden regalia of a medieval Bulgarian monarch, while Christ, holding out a cross, emerged from a vermilion aureole above him. It might have been an illustration for a fairy tale.

Almost immediately next door was Plovdiv's Ethnographic Museum. Here, it is the building that houses the collection, rather than the collection itself, that is the chief exhibit, for this is perhaps the most splendid of old Plovdiv's konaks, which are generally notable for the painted decoration of their exteriors. The house had a convex portico with tall wooden columns and voluptuously curving eaves. It was painted a deep blue with designs of foliage and flowers picked out in white and yellow.

We then strolled down a hill and through a Roman arch, passing yet more handsome, painted mansions along the way. Our tour of old Plovdiv ended at the Church of St. Marina, which is chiefly distinguished by a detached belfry in the exotic form of a wooden pagoda.

Having seen enough architecture for one day, we next turned our attention to the serious issue of night life. Would the seemingly morose Plovdivians come alive on a Saturday night? More by happy accident than design, we ended up at a restaurant called the Grill that served superb Middle Eastern cuisine, and was the favorite watering hole of Plovdiv's jeunesse doree. We at once noticed that the Grill's customers had a distinctive look. The women had impassive, doll-like faces, were slender and well-proportioned and wore their black hair long and parted in the middle. The men had massive shoulders (bodybuilding is big in Bulgaria), wore their hair closely cropped and sported carefully calculated two-day growths of designer stubble. All of them wore black leather jackets and bluejeans. By 9 o'clock everyone had relaxed. They began to smile, laugh and giggle. It was only then that we realized how good-looking they all were. Sylvia leapt into action, grasping her cameras, and they proved willing subjects. But we needed to resolve another issue: since we had arrived in Bulgaria, we had not heard a note of Bulgarian music, just the blandest and most banal Western pop. This seemed wrong because the country was supposed to have a thriving folk tradition.

In pursuit of this we stopped off at a restaurant housed in a World War II bunker, buried deep in a rock outcrop. The proprietor welcomed us with open arms. There was live music, but after a couple of minutes I realized that the words were Greek. The next song may have been Bulgarian, but by this time I was thoroughly confused. It hardly mattered. At least it wasn't Phil Collins or Celine Dion. Then the violinist launched into a long and virtuosic solo, and everyone jumped to their feet. Yes, we concluded, Plovdiv really did know how to party.

Early the next morning we decided to get out of town, and took a bus to the Monastery of Bachkovo, parts of which date back to the 12th century. This is the second-largest monastery in Bulgaria, and perhaps the most beautiful. It was only 30 minutes from Plovdiv, but might have been in a different world. It stood on the slope of a forested valley in the heart of the Rhodope Mountains. The main courtyard was surrounded by spacious, wooden galleries, and contained two churches as well as a number of graceful cypresses. On one wall of the courtyard was a large, naive mural depicting the monastery in its heyday, with pilgrims and church dignitaries crowding through the gates. The interior of the largest church was nobly proportioned but completely blackened by centuries of candle smoke, and it was full of pilgrims lighting yet more candles. I found the effect distinctly oppressive. It was much pleasanter to take a stroll along the mountainside to a nearby funerary chapel, admiring the surrounding forests as we did so.

From Bachkovo we moved on to the Fortress of Asen. The fortress stands on the edge of a crag that drops sheer to the river, and, from the valley floor, appeared completely inaccessible. Since I suffer from severe acrophobia, I was alarmed at the prospect of getting up there, but it turned out that a good road with a gentle gradient led directly to the entrance. This was almost a disappointment. Almost. The path into the fortress was worn smooth in places, and ran along the very edge of the precipice. Several times I nearly froze, a phenomenon only acrophobics can understand: essentially, if in a lofty place, you reach a point where you cannot go on or go back. I persevered, and was rewarded by the sight of a superb 12th-century Byzantine church. Its high dome seemed to float serenely above the abyss that fell away from it on three sides. It was impossible not to wonder how many workers had fallen to their deaths during the course of its construction.

I did not freeze, but had to sit down on a flight of steps in order fully to appreciate the somber beauty of the landscape (now overcast) that lay around me. To the south were the forested Rhodopes, dotted with chapels and churches; to the north, I looked out over the domes and belfries of Asenovgrad to the broad plain that led to Plovdiv and the Maritsa River. Refreshed by our excursion, we returned to Plovdiv eager for another evening of hummus and people-watching at the Grill.


John Ash is a poet who lives in Istanbul.

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