A country always recreates itself
On a rock towers the nunnery Sokolski
The air is wet with dew, a few clouds still hang over the treetops of the Balkan Mountains. One rooster crows in the distance, another answers in a thin voice, the dusk rises slowly. I am standing in the middle of the rose field, slightly dazed by the early morning rising and this incredible fragrance that lies in the morning air. If I had pitched my camp tonight, I would certainly be awakened by the scent. Then I would blink, see long rows of white and pink flowers and perhaps think of the rose excesses in the movie "American Beauty". And then continue dreaming. So much beauty at once is unbearable.
The scent of Bulgaria
In the famous Rosental near Kasanlak, almost in the middle of Bulgaria, the day always begins so early during the harvest - in the morning dew the flowers develop their strongest fragrance. In the fields are the pickers, young women, old women with wrinkled faces, Roma women. They snap off the flowers with their hands and sink them in their aprons. One of them, almost a girl, turns to me, and I slip my hands into her apron, through thousands of leaves of Rosa alba and damascena. Each blossom looks different: elegant, showy, repellent, scared, rebellious. A rose is more than a rose is more than a rose. I pack my bag full of leaves. Tonight, in my rather spartan guest room in Kalofer, I will unpack it and put it on the table. And in the next quarter as well. The perfume has to last until the end of the journey.
Rosenblatt Harvest
Suddenly I hear engine noise. A truck turns the corner and stops. Two men get out of the car and pick up the big plastic bags that stand on the edge of the field and are stuffed with roses - the harvest of the last hours. Sadly it looks like the flowers are pressed together and tied up. Later, in the distillery, the precious rose oil is drawn from it, after which the flowers only look gray and dirty. 30 kilos make one milliliter of oil, which costs between six and ten euros in the store. I think the leaves are better for me, the heavy oil gives me the immediate knockout.
The sun is now higher, the rose scent is weaker. Many women sit on the edge of the field on the ground, eat yoghurt from the glass, tomatoes or baniza, with dumplings filled with sheep's cheese. "I do not earn a lot here, and my back hurts constantly," says a woman with a colorful cloth around her head; maybe she's 50 or even younger. Six euros in five hours, I reckon. For bone work and getting up early. "After all," she says, "I can inhale this unique scent, in vain." While there is still plenty of harvesting, the Rosenfelder decay elsewhere: Two-thirds are broke, many were abandoned after the collapse of socialism. Nevertheless, Bulgaria is still the most important supplier of rose oil in Europe. And the perfume still a national symbol.
Bulgaria. A poor country with around 7.5 million inhabitants, just under one third of the size of Germany. In the mid-1990s, the economy collapsed and the hunger winter of 1996/97 is forgotten. Meanwhile, privatization is taking hold and inflation is stopped. Nevertheless, the Bulgarians suffer from the high cost of living, especially for electricity and heating. In addition to their official work (average income: just under 160 euros a month), many still do second- and third-job work, and moonlighting is flourishing.
What I did not expect: that I would drive to a country that is always recreating itself. If I think I know Bulgaria a bit, completely unexpected images intervene and I have to rebuild my inner film. And what I also did not think: that I would have so many moments of happiness on this trip. I did not know that it still exists, this yesterday's world that will probably still be gone tomorrow. Images that arouse yearnings, memories of childhood days passing in slow motion: rushing streams where rugs are washed; rickety donkey carts on which the hay piled dangerously high; old women by the side of the road, wrapped in black cloths, plastic sandals on their feet, peeling peas from thick pods and telling themselves stories that I do not understand. Amazement that the world can be so beguilingly slow, so exciting in my otherwise high-speed life.
Unreadable place signs
On the village street of Kalofer. Suddenly a Lada stops next to me. How it works now, so without the interpreter? I have laboriously memorized 25 words of Bulgarian. Bread is called "klap" and "hubavo" beautiful.How far can I get that? But then asks me a fat woman in the nicest cumbersome German, if I needed help. She climbs out of her car and directs me to the passenger seat. "You want to go to Rascho Zuzow, the rose grower? I'll drive you down and tomorrow you'll have to come to Kasanlak for the Rose Festival, the whole world is here." When I think about who the whole world is, she proudly shows me two books that she has written herself. Her photo is printed on the cover. "Prose, beautifully written, poetry is not my thing." Too bad I can not read their stories - but I will not forget the writer in the red Lada. And I will also follow their advice. Vesselin, who is my driver for several days, takes me to the Rose Festival. Sitting alone at the wheel would be a detective game: Often the city signs only carry Cyrillic letters.
Kazanlak is a pretty nondescript city in the middle of Bulgaria. Already in the morning it is besieged by Japanese, Americans and Germans. Policemen have cordoned off the street for the pageant, several television crews are waiting. Then a pompous greeting comes from the loudspeaker: "Welcome to the Rose Valley." Folklore groups are gathering, men with big bells looking like the wild guys from the mountains, girls and women in flower-embroidered robes, flag bearers, gypsies, ballet groups, even motorcyclists and street sweepers have formed. In between, again and again boomer shots, confetti, rose oil, which is sprayed in the air and all unites in a wonderful way. The Queen of Roses has taken her place on her tribune, she wears a gleaming crown on her head, her eyes are heavily made-up, and she alone deserves a prize for her long-lasting smile.
Bulgaria and the EU
As the move is over, children are turning small national flags, EU flags are also appearing - Bulgaria's entry is planned for the next few years. On the central square, the locals dance in the sun to loud music, grandfathers and grandchildren hold hands, and those who are looking for a place in the café must wait a long time - the box seats are sought after. The rose has put the city in a collective intoxication. Who does not dream of blooming landscapes and wealth? The scent lingers on my skin for quite some time - even after we've left the city long ago.
"I will not offer you sweets, something trivial. Beer is more interesting! "With these words, the abbess Melania greets us in the monastery Sokolski and waves us to the visitor's table, on which already stands a large bottle of beer After the hustle and bustle of the Rose Festival we drove to this quiet place, of which it There are so many in Bulgaria, and the women's monastery, a large complex with a playful fountain in the courtyard, is located not far from Kazanlak, on the slopes of the Balkan Mountains, which look like green carpets. "Falkenhorst" means the area here, and in bad weather The clouds are so low that you can barely see the green dome of the church, Melania pours our glasses full and takes a sip.The 61-year-old has a striking face with thick brows and big, strong hands the abbess, fewer and fewer women would go to the monastery in Bulgaria, at the moment she is living with two nuns and one novice, she used to say she worked for a long time as a carpenter. Your conversion to God? A dramatic story. Her former boyfriend had been very jealous, accused her of affairs, and in her distress she sometimes lied to him. One day there was an argument, he was drunk, raised an ax, and at that moment Melania ended her life. That he then did not strike and fate had an insight, brought them to faith and to God. Melania has been a nun for ten years now. Does she not miss the mundane at all? "No," she laughs and takes another sip. "Sure, the devil never leaves us alone, but I live in harmony with myself, it was not like that before." Then she gets up and hands us a friendly hand. "Excuse me, but I have to read the evening Mass." I hear the chimes of the bells, the twilight covers the monastery like a blanket, the fountain splashes. Here I would like to crawl under for a few days, I think, or a week, or who knows.
The women are a real eye-catcher
And then drive straight to Plovdiv, Bulgaria's second largest city, built on several hills, to the left and right of the wide Mariza River. To eat Italian ice cream in a sidewalk café after the strained loneliness of Falkenhorst, to stroll across the bustling pedestrian street, to look at the shiny gold iconic copies sold to tourists, or the screaming colorful landscape paintings. Here in Plovdiv again this feeling emerges, which accompanies me on the whole journey: Bulgaria is never like the picture in my head, again and again the camera zooms in new settings. Even the women of Plovdiv are a film in their own right: bright red lips, shrill, real eye-catchers, as they strut over the catwalks of the streets.The skirts blow like little flags around her legs, the pumps are dangerously high, the t-shirts purple, yellow, green, sky blue - probably we find the women of the West yawning boring.
One of my favorite places in Plovdiv is the Roman amphitheater. The view sweeps over the long rows of seats to the stage area, behind towering skyscrapers and the mountains. Just "Aida" is being rehearsed, in a few days is premiere. A pianist agrees to the triumphal march, the choir launches, a bit cautious, a few Spanish tourists come in. Then the pianist intones an aria of the Aida, the soloist is not yet on the spot, suddenly a sonorous voice from the audience takes over: "Qui Radames verrà." The audience claps, a young woman with black hair goes light-footed down the steps to the stage and sings the whole aria, then happy laughter and applause in all languages. Plovdiv is international at this moment and lets the world in.
Carefree bathing days in Sozopol on the Black Sea
When I am in the evening Walking through the famous historic old town, I feel the world is closing, and I am in a completely different place: narrow, winding lanes, brightly painted houses from the time of the "rebirth", as Bulgaria in the 19th century economically flourished. Playful bay windows, colorful ornaments, wood carvings, half-timbering, a bit of a museum are all that, lovingly restored and unexpectedly beautiful - a city as if from a distant fairy tale.
City. Country. River. Missing only the Black Sea. The Bulgarians love their sea, many spend their summer holidays there. I have often heard a name on this trip: Sozopol, one of the oldest places on the Black Sea. South of Burgas, south of the scary bed castles.
I hold my nose in the wind and smell fish and figs. A bizarre mixture. The beautiful coastal path is lined with fig trees that stretch their leaves in the blue sky. A touch of Mediterranean, the water shines turquoise. Another Bulgaria again. In the restaurants, built on rock terraces, fresh fish is served, while fat seagulls chase each other's bread crumbs. Below the rocks is fine sandy beach, warmed by the sun, and the waves rushing directly into the soul.
In the old City Locals offer private accommodation, some of them are German - I quickly find a cozy, cheap room with loggia, from there I can almost spit into the sea. In the afternoon, the streets fill up, tourists stroll past the Black Sea houses, which are almost too dark for the lightness of the place. Painted oriel windows, beautiful wooden verandas, roses and wine entwine themselves on the walls. Cafes, souvenir shops, obscene postcards. Backpackers with big backpacks are trying on cheap sneakers. A Mercedes Cabriolet with a Bulgarian license plate is currently rolling over the pavement, the two young men are wearing dark sunglasses, what else, Smokies "Living Next Door To Alice" roars out of the car, and an old, toothless woman stops and shakes to the beat hips. Then she walks elated towards the garage entrance, in which a small table is set up. She waves me, I should come. On the table are crochet blankets, as my grandmother had in her living room. I buy two doilies, eggshell colors. The woman shines, takes a red rose from the jam jar that stands in front of her, and hands it to me. I sniff - the roses of Kazanlak smell better, I think. But when did a woman ever give me a red rose?
Travel Info Bulgaria
Balkan Trek: The small organizer offers trips through Bulgaria focusing on fauna and flora, history and culture. Offers at www.balkantrek.com.
Detailed information about accommodations, vacation packages and the country under www.visitbg.de.
Book tips: "Bulgaria", Dumont travel book with a lot of background information (12 Euro). - "Bulgaria", travel know-how guide with practical tips and addresses (22,50 Euro).
Literature tips: novels from Bulgaria
Honest and humorous are these novels from Bulgaria and other Eastern European countries - and for us a discovery.
Dimitré Dinev: Angelic tongues One night at the Vienna Central Cemetery, the two Bulgarians Iskren and Svetljo meet. Both are financially exhausted, and the here buried Comrade Miro, a kind of patron saint of refugees, is their last hope: It is said that he helps anyone who entrusts him with his story. And so, in alternate flashbacks, the lives of these men are told, both of which, without knowing each other, grew up in the city of Plovdiv. With a passion for detail, the author unfolds the epic story of two families and their search for their personal happiness against the background of socialism. Dinev tells of treachery, love, disappointment and superstition. At the same time, "Engelszungen" is an enticing "Coming of Age" novel with a good dash of Slavic humor, which was awarded the 2005 Adalbert von Chamisso Prize. (598 p., 10 euros, btb)
Angelika Schrobsdorff: Grand Hotel Bulgaria Half a century ago the "Grand Hotel Bulgaria" in Sofia was an elegant house.Now it only has "a face so tired and worn down by the shocks of life as mine," writes writer Angelika Schrobsdorff in her literary travelogue from 1997. At the beginning of the Second World War she fled with her Jewish mother from Berlin to Sofia and lived there for eight years, until she returned to Germany in 1947. Half a century later, when she receives a call from her niece from Bulgaria, she decides to visit the country marked by the end of socialism. Angelika Schrobsdorff describes her experiences and encounters in this very personal and touching report of a journey into the Bulgarian present that at the same time leads deep into her past. (278 p., 9 euros, dtv)
Zbigniew Mentzel: All languages of this world A day in the life of 46-year-old Zbigniew Hintz, who still has not got anywhere, even though his ambitious mother had big plans with him. It is the day on which his father, a civil servant for 42 years, will retire. In many flashbacks, the narrator describes the members of his family precisely and with low comedy. The emotional mother who demanded more of life than socialist Poland could offer. The silent father, whose civil service life ends without a sound. And Zbigniew himself, a booksman and eloquent, yet unable to find a common language with the world. With a novel about the difficulty of communicating the author creates a real linguistic work of art. (B: Paulina Schulz, 180 p., 12 euros, dtv)
László Darvasi: The Legend of the Tearmakers "From legends, dreams, fog and morning mist, from night and from the blood of the dawn, from fragments of philosophy and from the fly ash of the faith kneaded together" - so describes László Darvasi his Trüppchen showman. These mysterious jugglers let the Hungarian author appear again and again between Venice and Prague, Belgrade and Kassau, Szeged and Vienna and help destiny - in the 16th and 17th centuries, when Turks and Austrians fought over the Balkans. In his "Legend of the Teardroppers" Darvasi weaves small and large, off-topic, wonderfully poetic, mostly staggeringly cruel stories: of silent spies, whimsical princes, witches, dwarves and fairies, death and the devil. And in the middle of it the tear jugglers. "Maybe they do not change anything in the way of the world", it is said once. "Or is it?" (Over: Heinrich Eisterer, 576 p., 25,80 euro, Suhrkamp)
Bulgarian narratives of the 20th century Wars, poverty, changing totalitarian regimes - actually, the Bulgarians had little to laugh for the last hundred years. Nevertheless, satirists such as Svetoslav Minkov and Ivan Kulekov have handled the grotesque social reality in their country quite humorously: Trains stay in nowhere, no one in the theater understands what is being talked about, and a robot sent from America harasses Bulgarian customs officials Sample. A total of 41 short stories by various authors, which were first translated into German, has been compiled by publisher Norbert Randow: Texts of the dissident Georgi Markow, who was probably murdered in 1978 on the Waterloo Bridge in London with the poisoned tip of an umbrella, are among them, but also two like Fables seeming tales of the animal book author Emilijan Stanew. A wonderful overview of the real life of a people in a turbulent century. (Norbert Randow, ed., 363 p., 19.80 euros, island)
