Bulscaria

No, that’s not a typo.

Part of me has always had a knack for risk. Another part of me, and I don’t know how to say this without sounding horribly spoiled, has always had some inexplicable fascination with extreme poverty. Wrap these two traits unbridled into one adventure and the end result is one hell of a story.

I had seen a few lesser developed places in my 4 European months, but none quite reached that 3rd world level I was looking for. Istanbul was close, but not quite. That visit left me enamored with this newly discovered thrill and an appetite for more. I’d learned about the war ravaged and overall unstable Balkan states sitting silently just a few hours north of Thessaloniki through classmates who’d lived there, but never had the opportunity to go visit them. On a whim near the end of May, I decided this needed to be changed. After plans to visit an island fell through I called up my travel partners in crime to see if they’d be up for a weekend jaunt to Bulgaria. I was initially chastised for being “crazy” and told “we didn’t have enough time to plan.” They bought their tickets the next day.

Our train to Sofia (pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable…who knew?) was two hours late departing and 4 hours late arriving. I’m not sure where the disconnect was, but it’s something I’ve come to expect with transportation in this part of the world. The clouds dripped on and off throughout the ride, and by the time we began rolling into the city they looked like they were preparing to burst.

I knew very little of Bulgaria before traveling. I knew they were an Axis power in WWII. I knew they were controlled by the Soviet Union and consumed by communism until the late 80s. I knew they were still trying to recover from that, a notion evidenced in the desperate shanty towns set up on the outskirts of town by the ROMA community our train lumbered through. Mountains of garbage on both sides of the tracks, and Thalia even got a photo of the kids politely greeting us with a certain finger. As the skyline became apparent, I immediately thought of Russia. I’ve never been there, but the uniform blocky off-white towers (mostly housing projects) clustered in pockets of the city resembled the same kind you see in action movies that take place in Eastern European urban zones.

Grey. Everything was grey. At least that’s what I was thinking as we stepped off the train. Hoping for some sort of education on this odd country, we hailed a cab and asked him to take us to the National History Museum. We painfully learned that the Bulgarian alphabet was foreign to all of us, and that “Nai,” which means “yes” in Greek, means “no” in Bulgarian. After learning this it made sense why the cabbie was perplexed when I nodded my head in agreement smiling and said “Nai.” We found our way there somehow and were pleasantly surprised. The museum was at the foot of a gorgeous mountain (Bulgaria has ski areas whose chairlifts are accessible from the Sofia city limits), and the interior was beautiful.They even had descriptions of the artifacts in English. We came to the museum with hopes of learning about their recent history with the wars and struggle for independence and Soviet influence. Chillingly, the history displayed in this museum not so coincidentally cut off at 1946 (the sign of the most recent wing read “1900-1946”) – about the time communism and soviet influence came into the picture.

I should mention that we’d arrived without anywhere to stay. Some emergency CouchSurfing requests had been conducted the day we bought the tickets, and a lady named Nadia (my name backwards, and a fact I was sure to exploit in the request) responded telling us it was a go. I emailed back asking for directions to her place and contact information, all to no response. In our hours of desperation at the museum, I texted Jenny to have her log in to my CS account just to see if she’d responded yet, and it was a no. But, but but but, another person had responded saying we could stay with him. Jenny gave me his number, and it wasn’t working, at least from our phones. I asked a waiter at a restaurant we picked to borrow his phone and it magically went through. Our host to be’s name was Vladimir, and he agreed to come pick us up in the parking lot of the museum.

We must have looked pretty hopeless. Three obvious foreigners standing in the pouring rain with our things in a parking lot on the outskirts of town doesn’t seem sketchy at all, right? Many cars passed us and gawked out the window, none of which were Vladimir. Right before we were going to call it quits and go hostel hunting, Vlado pulled up in his ancient car and we hauled off towards his place near city center.

The crew and a shaving Vladimir

One thing about Europeans that tends to grind my gears is their overwhelming sense of nationalism. Their country is always the best no matter what and everyone else deserves to be hated. I was pleased to find Vlado was not like this. At all. After probing him for information on the recent history of Bulgaria, we pretty much figured out that he knew nothing about its history, and held a joint education session with the help of Wikipedia. He remained disinterested, maintaining his stance on history being a divider (though he was apt to tell us that all Balkan states hate the Greeks because they think they’re better than everyone else). For him, life is about being peaceful and organic, I know this because as soon as we arrived he prepared us a bowl of fresh strawberries and cherries and told us he was in the process of starting a business focused on selling natural fruit juices to vendors. He was also not so discreetly growing marijuana in his kitchen, and in hindsight, was probably stoned the entire time we were there.

View from his kitchen

Enough about Vlado, how bout his digs? Remember those soviet projects I viewed from the train on the way into the city? Well now I was pretty much staying in one. But, in all honesty, though the exterior looked a little shady and the hallways were dingy with flickering lights and exposed wires, his actual apartment was cozy. Except for the bathroom. We were told to wear shoes every time we entered, and to flush the toiled one had to pour hot water from a bucket into the bowl. He said it had broken two years ago, he just hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. Stoner. Oh, and this restroom space was also shared by others on his floor whose bathrooms were in worse condition than his. We were to sleep in the crammed loft above his couch, but the set up was perfect for three people our size.

 

That night. Over those previously mentioned organic snacks, we picked his brain on what there was to do in Sofia on a Saturday night. After he failed to produce anything too exciting, we debated whether or not it was worth going out. Thank goodness we did. If the outskirts of town and our host’s building weren’t shady enough, then Sofia at night would fulfill those underdeveloped desires of mine. Haunting old Soviet guard towers still hang unoccupied on every street corner. Also it appears as though electricity is also a luxurious commodity not available in certain parts of the world, because almost all of the streets were pitch black aside from storefront lights and traffic stops. Our first stop was a bar perhaps more American than any other I’ve ever been to, even in America. Life size prints of early 90s Hip Hop superstars (Biggie, Tupac, Snoop), Western U.S. license plates (including on of Colorado’s, what are the chances?), and fake palm trees all adorned the walls. It was even named Funky town, and we all know where funk originated. But, despite it’s overwhelmingly American aura, we were still stared at like aliens upon walking in. Thankfully there were three barstools open with our names on them so we didn’t have to peruse for open seats acting like aliens too. I got a Bulgarian brew, and the girls ordered two drinks they had no idea how to pronounce. Thalia’s came in a mucous shade of green and tasted like Jolly Rancher. Jackie’s looked like Baileys, but when drinking below a certain level revealed some sort of sticky substance, we got a little worried. Considering how the bartender took a suspiciously long time to make their cocktails, and was showing us more attention than anyone else in the bar, especially the girls, we feared the worst and left Funkytown in our dust.

Interestingly enough, there was a casino right next door. We would learn that casinos are rampant throughout Bulgaria, something I can’t help but wonder is a contributing factor to their economic depression. After all, in America, territories economically structured around gambling tend to be poorer than most. Anyway, not thinking twice, we ran in, giddy like kids on Christmas morning. I think I hopped on a slot named “Treasures of Ancient Greece” or something like that, and the girls became absorbed in other slots with equally enticing names. Because the Bulgarian currency is so low (about 60 cents to the American dollar), we figured we could blow a little bit. True to form, I spent my bounty with no reward to show for it in maybe 5 minutes. Jackie ended up cashing out around +10, and the gambling virgin Thalia went on hot streak after hot streak, resulting in a +45 credit after 10 minutes or so. You can bet I was there standing next to her the whole time begging her to pull just once more, the chief reason why she ended at 45 instead of 50. Oops. Her conscious got the better of her around 45, and as instructed by the screen, she called the attendant over to dole out the cold hard cash. Vlado had warned us that officials in the city were corrupt, but I didn’t think that trickled down to this level. I mention this because the attendant refused to give her 45, citing “he didn’t have proper change.” Bullshit. You work in a casino with all sorts of money in the cash register just 20 feet away. I contested his argument and was shot an evil glance that told me “stop talking or there will be trouble.” Fine.

So what do you do with fresh bounty and a minor liquor buzz? Blow it all on booze and strippers. Duh. To be honest, what happened next was Thalia’s idea, I swear to God. But I won’t deny that I was all the more encouraging once she pitched it. This magical idea? Spend all of her money at a strip club. Her thought process was not just a simply stroke of genius – when she’d researched things to do in Sofia one of the first things google showed us was the city’s adoration for naked ladies. We didn’t think we’d actually find one, but sure enough, on the last corner of the main drag lay the Fetish Strip Club. Words weren’t even needed to confirm our thoughts as we crossed the street before consulting one another. Outside the main entrance, the wrangler told us we were free to go in and have a look around, but if we wanted to stay it would cost each of us 10 Bulgarian Lev and we’d have to buy drinks. “OK” said the naïve Americans. We anxiously strolled through the double doors past four big, burly men dressed in black. Those guys definitely didn’t work for the club, at least on a legal level. It was then that I remembered Vlado telling us the city was run by the mob, and my building RA back in Thessaloniki (a Balkan native himself) warning me not to go to strip clubs in the Balkans for this very reason. Cross a stripper or any one of them, and you’ll be sorry.

Oh well. We were in it to win it now so might as well continue shooting for the gold. Walking down the dimly lit stairs into the stripper’s den we were introduced to one of the prized ladies. I didn’t catch her name, probably because she was dressed as a devil and I was caught off guard by her shiny red horns. Or because behind her, I noticed the club was totally empty. If there was ever a time for Bulgarian mobsters to take advantage of greenhorn American tourists, this was it. She took us over to the corner and promptly sat us down. It was right around then I got the picture the whole “stay if you like, leave if you like” promise was smoke and mirrors. She reiterated the clubs payment policy, and halfway through her speech, Thalia blurted out “I think we’re going to leave.” “Excuse me?” says the feminine Lucifer. “Yeah, I mean, maybe we’ll come back, what do you guys think” she says pointing her frightened gaze in my direction. “You’re the one with all the money to blow” I say, “You tell me.” “Yeah, I think we’re going to take off” she says somewhat defiantly. I could see Satan’s heart breaking in front of my eyes. We were her only customers of the night, and with business slipping away, she did all in her power to let her eyes plead us to stay. On our brisk jaunt out, we saw two larger men in a hot tub appropriately titled “Harem” or something similar having fun with a lady. Now I didn’t feel as bad. Walking up the stairs I was bracing myself for the awkward head hang no eye contact look I would sport as I walked past the burly men. We escaped without conflict, but about 5 minutes outside the club on our way back home, Jackie urgently whispered “Is he following us?” Sure enough, we were not merely ships passing in the night. One of the men dressed in black, either because he was frustrated with our lack of financial support or because he thought our pockets were deep, had decided to follow us. He was a couple blocks back, and stayed there for a while, maybe just as a scare tactic. By the time we found a lit corner to loiter he was gone, and we were a bit shaken. Off to or cozy abode it was.

Vladimir didn’t seem surprised by any of our stories – not the potential roofy-ing, shortchange at the Casino, nor the Fetish debacle. Turns out all of our fears were valid, and more or less are regular occurrences for Sofia tourists.

Guard Tower

Because we were so late arriving in this marvelous city, we only had time to hit one of our planned attractions up before meeting with Vlado on Saturday night. We tried to make up for this Sunday morning by cramming a few more in, and did a pretty good job if I do say so myself. We first walked back through city center, where we saw everyday people going about their business not in cars, but on horse and buggy. We foolishly took pictures of this, right as a woman walked by muttering “no comment” as she looked us in the eye. We walked to the city’s fountain parks, and then to a few churches and even a mosque.

The local faucets

While trying to find the soviet army memorial, we walked past the local watering hole. Literally. The tap water quality in Sofia is so poor in areas that people need to come to this congregation of faucets once a week or so to fill up their big plastic jugs for a week’s supply. Not many smiles during this practice, and there was even a lone woman singing a beautifully melancholic tune in the corner paying tribute to the peoples’ struggles. After the hole we accidentally happened across a local flea market. Everything you’d expect was sold here including Jewelry, Russian caps (I bought one ☺), little Babushka dolls, etc. And some things you would not expect: Flasks, knives, belt buckles, all of which were engraved with the Swastika. We’d seen lots of swastika tattoos littering the city walls, but this was unprecedented. Bulgaria was after all an anti-semitic power in the war, and apparently still have the leftovers to prove it. I would hope these things still aren’t being made, but seeing how there were some still wrapped in plastic, I can’t help but wonder.

 

We never did find that damn army memorial, but hailed a cab and asked him to take us to Kambanite, a collection of bells from around the world. We painfully discovered Kambanite was a region of town near the bells, because our driver drove us around for 20 minutes or so and stopped in a deserted parking lot. “Kambanite!” he shouted proudly. No no, we said, and tried to draw a picture of bells as he spoke no English. Luckily, someone walked by and they were able to tell him where to go. It was a bit frustrating at first, but we got to see a lot of the city we never would have otherwise. He had never been there either, and was happy to walk out of the cab and come check it out with us. This was a monument that dedicated by Unicef that lined up bells from all over the world. I don’t really know how else to describe it, but each country’s traditional bell, either for church or for livestock herding was on display, and oddly enough good ol’ U.S.A.’s was the smallest. Yes, I rang as many as I could.

We went back to the drawing board to tell our cabby where we wanted to do next, and our bus portrait was accurate enough for him to figure it out. We got to the station just in time, and hopped on the next bus to the Black Sea coastal city of Bourgas!

Maybe it’s all in the name, but the Black Sea is somewhere I’ve always wanted to go. It just sounds so mysterious does it not? I can vividly remember spinning my little globe as a kid and trying to make my finger land on this body of water, somehow believing that meant I would travel there someday. It turned out to be true. But, the ordeal we would have to endure to get there would be anything but exciting. I say this because our bus broke down on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. If it weren’t for the Bulgarian countryside being absolutely beautiful, this would have been much worse. As soon as the bus stopped people began hitching and/or walking in the same direction as the bus was taking us. We had no idea how close we were to our final destination, but at that point we thought they were crazy. On the way back we would discover we were only 20 minutes outside the city. 2 hours and one failed rescue attempt later, our long awaited bus in shining armor arrived, and we reluctantly hopped on. The driver wasn’t saying anything, so we had no idea if we’ missed our stop or not. At one point Jackie had the strength to ask a man on the bus if we’d passed Bourgas, and he frantically screamed up at the driver saying “Bourgas Bourgas!” and pointing to us. Turns out it was the last stop we’d passed, but they were kind enough to turn around for 5 minutes and take us back.

Once again, we were welcomed to the city in a shroud of darkness, because lights are hard to come by here, too. On top of that, we had no idea where we were or how we were supposed to make it to our hostel. And, to make matters worse, not a soul really spoke English, but spoke loud and aggressively enough to make us nod our heads in agreement even though what they were saying made little to no sense. Somehow or another we arrived at our cleverly named “Hostel Bourgas” 20 minutes or so later. We rang the buzzer. No answer. Ring again, no answer. Really? We’ve survived thus far and there can’t even be someone working in our hostel when we get there? Thalia had the bright idea to ask the kiosk lady next door if she knew anything about the guys working. By some brilliant stroke of luck, she did, and she had their cellphone numbers, and called them. Turns out he was just down the street for a smoke break. Considering everything we’d been through at this point, our fuses were pretty short, but I tried my best to not be a dick to this guy for not being there when we needed him to be. Turns out we were the only people staying in the entire hostel, and it was great. It was an old house converted, and because the employees brought us food every morning, it was almost like we were staying in a private bed and breakfast. Almost.

Monday was to be the day I finally got acquainted with this curious body of water. We walked from the hostel through the lush sea garden that bordered the beach, and then we were there. I must say, at first I was a little disappointed. It really was just another body of water, and one that was just as covered in boardwalk tourist tack and restaurants as places in America. We went seashell strolling and then watched some locals jump off the boardwalk into the stinging sea (literally – I counted 5 jellyfish from my perch). Because anti-nationalism Vlado had been unable to tell us what the holiday was for on Monday, we didn’t really have any idea why the entire city was marching through the park in traditional Bulgarian garb, singing songs and dancing. Whatever it was for, it was lovely. With out legs growing weary we decided to park ourselves in the sand and sit for a while. This turned into a 2 hour nap that scorched all of us. Awaking we saw an onslaught of ferocious clouds looming over the water in the distance, and decided it was probably time to head into a restaurant and seek shelter from the oncoming shower. Naturally, Bourgas is big on sea food. I asked for fish and was brought a fish in its god given form. I also ordered a platter that seemed popular with the locals called “Tsa Tsa.” I was a little disappointed to discover they were really nothing more than fried anchovies. The showers came and went, and we decided to walk further on down the beach past the restaurants and whatnot. Here is where we discovered the etymology of this sea’s title.

Black Sand

The sand is black. It fades in and out in some parts of shore but here it was dark as our future seemed two nights before. I had seen on a map that we were walking on land straddled by two bodies of water: the sea on our right and a hidden lake to our left. Spotting a little trail peeking out of the forest in this lefty region, we decided to foolishly explore without caution just once more. Turns out this trail led to another campout belonging to Bulgaria’s expansive ROMA community, people that I’m sure would have loved to get their hands on an American wallet. Despite blatant clarity of where we were, we decided to push on and find that damn lake. The trail dead ended, and before we could be cornered decided to pull a 180 and walk briskly back towards where we came. No one stopped us to the very end. He couldn’t really speak English, but judging by his confused facial expression and frustrated hand gestures, I gathered what he was trying to say to us was a combination of “What are you doing here” and “Get the hell out!” I cranked a charming American-playing-dumb smile and just uttered the word “Lake.” This must have meant something to him because he threw his hands at us in irritation and walked back to his shack.

 

With that ordeal behind us we walked back to the seashore. With the incoming storm, the swelling doom swirling above the emerald waves created a portrait that was perhaps nature’s best attempt at evil. You can see me posing with it below. This might be one of my favorite pictures of the entire semester abroad.

We walked and walked back through the sea garden and down the main drag to our hostel where we promptly passed out. A good nap was had, and upon waking up we prepared ourselves for a patriotic Bulgarian night on the town. Somehow the town was dead. We ended up finding one restaurant that welcomed us with open arms and even had “SeaWolf” on their menu. I didn’t know what SeaWolf was, and the waiter didn’t speak English very well, so I ordered it. It came, and was tasty, but I still don’t know what SeaWolf is. We were also treated to some traditional Bulgarian dancing on this special day. A group of women gathered in the restaurant entranceway and, all holding hands and standing in circular fashion, began a dance they all ostensibly new by heart. Can you think of one American dance that everyone knows by heart? The moonwalk doesn’t count. Experiences like this leave me feeling as though I belong to a country that may be an amalgamation of thousands of other cultures, but doesn’t have a true voice of its own. I know this “amalgamation” is great in its own way, but part of me wishes we could be a little more unique sometimes. Maybe there is that great American dance that I’m unaware of, but if there is, it’s largely unknown by anyone under the age of 50.

Bourgas main drag

Assuming that gambling, a bar called Funkytown, and ladies of the night aren’t really Bulgarian culture, this restaurant provided us with our first perspective. Yet we still felt the need to try out the piano bar down the street. Paralleling our experience at fetish, we walked into an empty space, whose employees slowly spurred into action as we walked through the door. This place wasn’t even close to Bulgarian, as I recognized all American oldies the duo played. We managed to make their renditions more enjoyable with a few cocktails, then headed back to good ol’ Hostel Bourgas for one last night.

View from our hostel

Tuesday was our day to voyage home, so you’d think there isn’t much to write about. Wrong. Tuesday was a catastrophe. Instead of going to the same amount of excruciating detail I have been for the rest of this post, I’ll try to sum it up quickly. Try…

We went to the Natural History and Archeological Museums that morning, bought a few postcards, then journeyed to the bus stop. “We’d like 3 for the 1:30 to Sofia please” said the unwarrantedly faithful Americans. “Oh. No busses until Midnight. It’s a holiday weekend, all tickets are sold out until then.” This wouldn’t have been an issue really, but with the bus and train ride combined to get back to Thessaloniki running around 13 hours, we wouldn’t have showed our faces in the school hallways until 1 that afternoon, and I had no more classes left to miss! After some broken English haggling, we found another company that put us on a bus at 3:30. Now we had nothing to do for 3 hours, so we sat down and wrote for postcards/ journaled for a while. If the baking sun, dirty bus station surroundings and irritable travel mates (myself included) weren’t enough to put me over the top, a little birdie decided to shit on me right then and there. Not kidding. I heard a splat, and there was a new white and liquidy design on my shoe. I still haven’t washed it… I think it might be my favorite European souvenir to date. It was time to get the hell out of Bulgaria.

We guessed the right bus (no signs in English), and met a lovely Bulgarian girl who was more than happy to fill us in on what was happening. Luckily our bus didn’t break down this time and we made it back to the train station in Sofia right on schedule. Entering the train station, it was noticed by Thalia that nowhere on the big departures board was a train to Thessaloniki. Fitting. The customer service people didn’t know, but directed us to a dark corner where a little lady in a booth told us the correct platform. We sought refuge in the dimly lit concrete corridors of the station while we waited for our train to come, snarfing mystery meat (seriously, I‘ve been told by many Balkan residents to not eat meat in the Balkans unless you’re confident of the source, but I was hungry) pizza the whole time. Next in our series of disarraying circumstances was the fact that the car number on our tickets didn’t exist. We walked back and forth across that whole train at least 3 times looking for it, and it simply wasn’t there. So, we hopped on a random car and chose an empty booth. Safe. For now.

The condition of the train? Like everything else in Bulgaria, I thought it was going to explode any minute. Electricity is also a luxury on these things, and the hallways outside the cabins only received light from a few dim bulbs and the station platform lights bleeding in through the handprint stained windows. It also reeked of tobacco, because the enforcement on indoor smoking in Bulgaria is even more lax. I’ve gotten used to it in Greece, but this was bad. I decided to take a walk around our car once we sat down just to stretch my legs before trying to sleep. Remember those gypsy ROMA types I mentioned at the beginning of this epic? Well, not to be racist, but they were crawling around the train just as I was. I’m beginning to realize how they make their income – robbing tourists on the midnight train out of Bulgaria and hopping off at whatever stop comes next. This would explain the presence of the army of security guards also roaming the train, guards that were irrationally livid when they showed up to their designated cabin and 3 snooty Americans were lounging about. Last time I take a cabin that’s not mine…

I’ve never felt more like an illegal immigrant in my life. Because there were no lights on this train, the cops took their maglites out and shined them fiercely in our eyes all while shouting in Bulgarian. Obviously we had no idea what the hell was going on, but we gathered the picture that he was not happy and wanted us to scram. So we picked our belongings up and just started walking down to the next car. Every booth was packed, and when we got to the back of the car we still had no place to sit. But fear not! Bulgarian forces are diligent, and came chasing us down with lights and bravado once more and gestured for us to follow them. We did, and they took us to a cabin where they kicked two old Bulgarian ladies out. All for us. What sweeties. Our new cabin mates didn’t speak much English or Greek, but we got the idea they weren’t too upset with our arrival. The same can’t be said for our feelings with them. They were nice enough, and even smiled once or twice, but as soon as the train got rolling and the lights went out, they decided it was time to take their clogs off and air those feet out. Right on Thalia’s lap. Seriously. Had I been able to take a picture without a flash to wake them up, I would have, because it was priceless. Little Thalia with 4 Bulgarian feet breathing within a foot of her nose. I took a video with her camera of the ordeal, and because they couldn’t speak English, thought it was fitting to give a speech on what exactly was happening at that very moment. It will be nostalgia gold 20 years from now. My fears of the gypsy thieves were confirmed as numerous times I witnessed teenagers sprinting off into the night with feminine bags around their shoulders looking behind them nervously. I made sure to position my belongings where someone would have to step on me in order to gain access.

The remainder of the trip went smoothly, until we got to the Greek border. This is really long and complicated to explain, but basically they didn’t think our visas were valid any longer. I volunteered to be the one to go into their offices and explain to them we were very much allowed to re-enter the country. Our negotiations reached rock bottom when he told me I was going to have to return to Sofia and purchase another visa and then come back. “NO NO NO NO NO” I said. This led him to make a phone call to someone important in private. He instructed me to sit on the bench outside the office while business was dealt. Sitting at a border patrol agent’s office at 3 AM contemplating my immediate future with fear wasn’t how I pictured ending my last vacation in Europe. But it was a reality, and a stressful experience I won’t soon forget.

“You will go” said the agent as he strolled out of the fateful cellular meeting, cigarette fumbling between his lips. I haven’t felt that relieved in a long time. At last, at last, we were on the home stretch, and this time for real. Watching dawn show itself in those wee hours allowed the perfect environment for reflection. I’ve decided that I would never recommend Bulgaria to anyone as a vacation destination, but if you’re interested in witnessing the effects of failed communism and other soviet influence first hand, it’s definitely an eye opener. At least it was for me. Check out all the photos and some others that weren’t included in the slideshow below!

Well folks, I do believe that’s it for my European blog. I’m thinking about keeping this blog thing up and just writing about other fun travel experiences I undertake here in the good ol’ US. If I have enough time and people actually want to keep reading, there’s a good chance this will probably happen. Thanks so much for reading, and as always, check back at least once a month for any new material!

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