I am standing at the Bulgarian border in the middle of the night, eating gummy bears.
I know. It was inevitable.
Everything was going so well. (I know. I know.)
I was traveling with only a carry-on, a feat I’ve only attempted once before in my life.
I was wearing a blazer, for godsakes.
My dad had driven me to the airport. He did his usual Lebanese Dad thing. (“We need to leave at 6am. The car needs to be moving at 6am.”) We were in it. It was moving. The sun was rising, and I was prepping for the trip by asking him about the fall of communism. My carry-on was occupying a satisfyingly small amount of space in the back seat. Django was sleeping in my lap, unaware that I was about to abandon him at Pop Pop’s house yet again.
And then I got the text that my flight was going to be two hours late.
Which meant I was going to miss my connecting flight to Sofia.
I swore a bunch. My dad said something annoying about “the joys of international travel”. I texted the poet for complaint purposes, and he said something annoying about “everything is meant to be”.
I flew to Istanbul praying that my connecting flight would be delayed.
It took off before I landed.
The airline sent me to an office on the other side of the airport. The guy working there offered to book me a hotel room. For two nights. Which is how long it would be until they had their next flight to Sofia.
“No,” I said, on principle.
Consequences be damned.
I asked for a refund. He sent me to another office on another floor. They gave me one.
Then I stood there on the concourse, blinking, wondering what to do.
There are four ways to get from Istanbul to Bulgaria. One is by plane, which was no longer an option unless I wanted to shell out some major bucks.
The second is by sleeper train. I have wanted to do this for a long time. You buy the train ticket at one station in Istanbul, and then catch the train from another station. You don’t know if there will be any tickets left until you get to the first station. Also, the trip takes 12 hours. They wake you up in the middle of the night when you cross the border so you can stand outside and go through customs, which seems to me like the opposite of romantic train travel.
The third is by rideshare. Which is useful if you are the kind of person who knows how to use the local rideshare app.
The fourth is by bus.
The bus station is on the other side of the city. But you can buy your ticket online, which I did. The bus trip itself is only 6.5 hours.
Now that I had started to recover from my self-righteous disappointment about missing my flight, I was kind of excited. To get the bus station I had to take three metros, switching in the Moda neighbourhood, where I very briefly lived. I’d stop there and have some lunch. I might even have time to have a wander around. This was going to be fun.
57 metro stops later, I remembered how fucking enormous Istanbul is.
Metro stations there are usually on the other sides of underpasses and across highways and several roads away from actual civilization. And also, a carry-on is still a suitcase.
I found the nearest cafe, which was full of old men playing backgammon, sat in a plastic chair and ordered a grilled cheese “tost”.
My tost did not come with any of these side dishes.
I got to the bus station at 4:30 in the afternoon. I found the actual bus stop (not a small feat at the Istanbul bus station). I bought some breadsticks and a bottle of water. I asked the man who seemed to be the bus driver if I could take my carry-on on the bus with me, since it was so small, and had all my stuff in it.
“No,” he said.
He turned out to not be the bus driver, but a kind of bus driver’s assistant, there to serve tea and glare at people. The entire interior of the bus was a deep, burnt orange, including the curtains. There were about 10 passengers in total. One was playing very loud videos on their phone. Another was enjoying a very loud video call. A third was emitting very deadly farts. The driver was also listening to very loud Turkish radio. Once we get out of the city, I crawled to an empty row close to the back. I stayed there for a blissful hour, in a little orange cocoon, until the bus driver’s assistant came over, glared at me, and jabbed his thumb, indicating that I had to move forward or, presumably, get shot.
Passive-aggressively, I moved two rows up.
We stopped at a service station close to the border. I was hungry again, but also positive the driver’s assistant was going to get the bus to leave without me, so I panicked and bought gummy bears and an ice cream bar. We got to the border. We filed off the bus and went through customs. I texted my friend, who was going to pick me up at the bus stop in Plovdiv (more on her to come! be excited!) and told her we were on our way. We got on the bus. We drove a few more feet. We got off again and went through more customs.
Now, we are standing outside, in the dark, swatting away Bulgarian mosquitos.
Now, finally, we are allowed to climb on board again.
I stare out the window in the darkness at the outlines of trees. I am in a new country for the first time. The feeling of it still gives me a rush. Bulgaria, a place I knew nothing about until a couple of weeks ago.
We stop and pull over by the side of the road for no discernible reason.
We start again.
And somehow, we get to the bus stop exactly at the scheduled time. My friend and her brother are waiting. She gives me a huge hug, ushers me into her car, and takes me home.
I love your stories. And I squint for them, so things really look romantic.
This brought back so many unfond and harrowing memories of travel in foreign lands. Ah yes....I was young and frisky then. Hard to believe! But we do have some dandy tales now to tell so I guess that makes it all worthwhile. :) xoxoxo