It's impossible to read instructions, understand directions, or say no and mean it at the Alexander Nevski Square Flea Market.

But that's precisely the reason I chose to visit Bulgaria, a country so foreign to Canadians that my sister actually believed me when I told her I had to bathe in the river.

Feeling claustrophobic in the small town I've called home for seven years, I wanted to get away, escape all things familiar. I wanted to go somewhere unique, totally alien to myself and those I know.

So here I am, two weeks into this month-long adventure, and I have yet to regret my decision. It's been everything thing I had imagined it would be and so much more. Ultimately it's given me the luxury of anonymity, and the great pleasure of being able to explore like a child seeing the world for the first time.

Being a bit of a free spirit, my decision to travel to Bulgaria was more or less made on a whim.

The day I was granted a leave of absence from work, in fact, just minutes after my editors told me to go, I hopped in my car and drove to the travel agency that'd I'd been frequenting for about three months prior to booking a flight.

This time, however, I was determined to have a plane ticket in my hand before walking out that door.

As I marched along the sidewalk on my way to freedom, as I saw it, a friend on the street yelled from a distance, "Yo, K-LO (my nickname), what's up?" When I told him I was about to book a flight to anywhere in the world, he suggested, as he did six months earlier, Bulgaria. I thought, what's there to lose? Who cares that I've never really even heard of the country before? In fact, all the better.

That was two months ago and now here I am, trying not to fall asleep on a bed made of rocks at a cheap hotel in Kardjali. It's 2 am and I know if I snooze, there's a good chance I'll miss my bus (for the second time) to the Black Sea. It leaves in three hours…and there is no clock in sight, other than the time on the television - something I've found to be the case at several hotels in which I've stayed.

For a country that offers me little that feels like home, I'm quite surprised I haven't felt the pangs of homesickness. Maybe a little on that particular night in the hotel, but it was only for my little pad in Sofia - a tiny studio flat stocked with my essentials and the only food I recognize: bread, yogurt, peanut butter, Philadelphia cream cheese, sunflower seeds, cereal and a bounty of produce I pick up every day from the local farmers' market stalls. Actually one of my favourite past-times here is heading down to the fruit and vegetable stands, picking up a cup of raspberries and just strolling around with my camera.

With gorgeous green parks, impressive monuments, an infinite number of outdoor cafes and fantastic shopping districts, there's lots to see, and so much beauty in a country considered one of the poorest in Eastern Europe. I'm even charmed by the work of talented graffiti artists who add colour and vitality to the otherwise worn out buildings all across the city, and the characters who sit in front of them daily, selling flowers for change.

I'd been warned of those who pick pocket, cautioned about dishonest of taxi drivers and corrupt police officers. My dad gave me a can of pepper spray before I left. Not once have I felt the need to use it.

As a whole, the Bulgarian people have been decent and friendly toward this foreigner and otherwise tolerant of the fact that I can speak very little of their language.

When I first arrived here on July 29, I had a difficult time trying to explain to my landlady that I couldn't withdraw money from my Visa through a bank machine. Because it was a Sunday, the banks were closed. The dilemma was eventually sorted with an impromptu round of friendly charades, and she came back the following day. When I get lost, all I have to do is ask any local on the street for the Alexander Nevski Cathedral. I'd use a map, but it makes no sense to me, as the street signs, written with the Cyrillic alphabet, don't correspond with the directions in my hand. At restaurants I usually observe what others are eating, and when the waiter arrives, I simply point to the table bearing the dish of my choice. Or, if I'm feeling bold, I'll order the only item I know how to say: "Da, chasha vino, mol-ya."

Mmm. The wine here is to die for, as is the Shopska salad. Sure, go ahead and laugh, but there's nothing like it where I come from.