My darling Sofia
On the surface Sofia may seem just a broken down city, clogged with traffic jams, neglected by its politicking mayor, and populated by weary citizens and lunatic drivers. But no. There’s more to Sofia than you think. Sofians are very interested in sport, and although you may think that football, tennis or even skiing are the most popular sports you will be proved wrong. By far the leader in sporting contests is one which is unnamed, little spoken of, but practised by many commuters. It’s called ‘beat the ticket inspector’. It requires mental dexterity, combined with speed of reaction, and sometimes excellent debating skills, if you are to avoid the fine of 10 times the fare, for not having a ticket. Yes, travelling on Sofia’s public transport provides a wonderful source of material for budding writers, and can offer more fun or frustration than any other form of Bulgarian entertainment.
The system in Sofia is showing some improvement, particularly the trams which are being steadily replaced or modernised. However, the buses remain one of the chief culprits in adding to the already polluted atmosphere. The regularity of all public transport remains haphazard, and it’s not at all unusual to wait half an hour for a tram, then for two to arrive together. The drivers are not famed for their good manners, often trapping people in the hydraulic doors, or driving off too soon; and the ticket inspectors are legendary for their behaviour.
My wife works in an area of Mladost, quite a long way from the centre, and it’s difficult for her to travel back and forwards, involving buses and or trolleys. Recently, she caught a bus heading in our direction, which was being driven by a very stroppy woman. She was jerking the passengers backwards and forwards, swearing at other drivers, generally misbehaving and driving very badly. At one point along the way she stopped to make a call from a public phone booth, and further on stopped to buy some fruit from the market.
Although some people were muttering, nobody dared to challenge her. That was until nearing the centre where she encountered heavy traffic caused by a football match between Sofia’s two top teams. In her haste to cut through the traffic, she missed one stop altogether, and stopped a lot further down the road. This was too much for one passenger, who got up and in a loud voice began to remonstrate with her. What was she doing? This was public transport, she was not supposed to use it for her personal requirements, and should stop in the correct places. She argued a little, but he wouldn’t be silenced and in his anger he used the ‘ti’, more personal form of address. At this, she puffed out her ample chest and shouted at him "Don’t get so familiar, you’re not sleeping with me!"
The post office: where Sofians fear to tread
If you do your shopping in Sofia, apart from the generally bad service by assistants, you will soon notice how slow it is at the checkout. I used to mutter to myself ‘why don’t they sack these slovenly checkout girls, pay them a commission, or anything to speed up the system?’ But with observation, I soon realised that the cashiers’ main fault is that they have an obsession with trying to extract only the correct change out of every customer, thus saving their own change – for what I’m not quite sure. Anyway, while not known for their alacrity, they are not the only culprits; it’s also the customers who mess around, with absolutely no concern for their fellow shoppers waiting in the queue behind them.
Apart from taking ages to pack purchases in their bags and arguing with the cashier about the price of cheese, they may suddenly realise they have forgotten something and wander off, leaving their shopping blocking the till, and the queue waiting while they go to find it. Don’t even think of visiting the Apteka (chemists) if you are in a hurry, because in all probability you will not only be behind an anxious mother, eager to buy a large selection of drugs for little Mitko who has a slight cold, but can’t be kept off school as she has to go to work but, even worse, a pensioner who has been prescribed a drug which he/she can’t afford. First, they will ask to see the drug and check it against the prescription, then they will decide that they can’t afford a full box, so can they have just one blister?
Then they want to study the instructions and counter indications, which will be left with the box, to make sure they get a few of the side effects mentioned, then they can’t find their glasses to read the instructions. And so it goes on from customer to customer, until at last you reach the front to be met by a hostile stare from the pharmacist who hasn’t got exactly the brand of Paracetamol you want, and won’t suggest any alternative.
Then there’s the post office!! First you have to get by the officious guard. Why they should have guards is beyond me, perhaps it’s in case the customers riot at the bad service? Or more probably it’s to control the queue jumping and pushing to the front, which would take place without this control. Then you have to negotiate with the clerks who may well, if they don’t like your request, slam their window in your face.
When I first came here, I wanted to invite some friends from the UK to visit, and decided to send them a picture card of Sofia. Stamps were obtainable at the nearby post office, so I wandered around the dilapidated building looking for the place to buy them. Long queues containing bored, dejected people stretched from the various desks. Above one was a sign depicting an envelope. This looked like the one, so I joined the queue, which shuffled slowly forward as people wrestled with the clerk over their various requirements. When I eventually reached the desk, I was confronted by everyone’s nightmare. A 50-something matriarch, bleached blonde hair supported by black and grey roots, thick make-up, bright red lipstick, and a look on her face as though there were a bad smell coming from somewhere.
Pushing the envelope under the glass, I asked in my best Bulgarian, "Marka za Anglia molya" (Stamps for England please). The woman grabbed the envelope and with a look of total disdain, studied it carefully and started lecturing me, "Don’t understand" I mumbled. She pointed at the card and another stream of invective issued forth. I was totally nonplussed! Somewhere from the queue, a spotty faced youth stepped forward and said: "She is telling you that the address doesn’t comply with regulations, it’s in the wrong place." He said something to the matriarch, and she produced an official leaflet demonstrating exactly how the card should be addressed. "She says you’ll have to change it," said the youth, apologetically. The woman thrust the card back, and totally ignoring me proceeded to obstruct the next customer.
I went out, bought a new card and addressed it. Once again I joined the queue of hopefuls, and again it moved slowly forward, as people negotiated various unnecessary problems with the madam. Eventually, I again reached the front, and triumphantly pushed my correctly addressed card under the glass screen. She studied it carefully, and with a muttered aside, pushed it back. "What’s the matter with it now?" I shouted in English. She didn’t understand, so hurled another stream of invective at me. I turned to the queue for inspiration, and the lady behind me said, "She says, it’s ok.", "Why doesn’t she give me the stamps then?" I said. "Because she doesn’t sell stamps," replied the lady. "You have to buy them in the front hall."
Giving the madam, what I considered to be my most hateful look, I stamped out into the front hall, and with deep misgivings approached the stamp kiosk. This was run by a beautiful but completely uninterested young woman, who was deeply engrossed in Cosmopolitan. "Marka za Anglia molya", I recited, expecting a new round of problems. She barely looked up, showed absolutely no interest in the card, and shoved the stamps towards me. In disbelief I showed her the card,"Address, ok?" I asked. She looked at me as if I was some kind of madman, shrugged her shoulders, and muttered something in Bulgarian, which obviously meant, "Who bloody cares!!"
Waitresses are busily engaged...in smoking and chatting
Recently we received a leaflet in our post box inviting us to visit a hitherto unheard of restaurant in our area. The leaflet promised all kinds of good things to eat, a pleasant shady garden, and lots of choice to drink. So we set out one evening to pay it a visit. It took us a while to find it, as it was in a split street and no map or directions were provided. When we eventually found it, it looked quite pleasant: shady garden, nice flowers, clean tables and chairs. Not many customers, we noticed, but we were greeted by the waitress, who had somehow spotted our arrival.
She left us with some menus and disappeared. After about 10 minutes I thought I had better go and find her in case she’d had an accident, collapsed or something – no, she was sitting at the bar smoking and chatting to her friends. After being summoned she came to take our order and about 10 minutes later appeared with the drinks. The food followed in the fullness of time, typically not all together, but in dribs and drabs, which always makes me nervous wondering whether she had heard the full order or not. The food was distinctly second class – poor salad, tough meat, cold chips. Well, being hungry, we ate what we could and looked around for the waitress to order another beer.
She was nowhere to be seen, and guess what, she was sitting at the bar smoking and chatting to her friends. Three times I had to fetch her for our various needs, and eventually again to get the bill. Someone had spent a lot of money on nice surroundings, furnishings and an expensive leaflet to get us there, all ruined by an incompetent chef and a lazy waitress. Will we go there again? No, thank you! I recount this story because it’s all too common. The average owner doesn’t seem to understand the importance of good service and properly trained staff. Most waitresses have perfected the art of ignoring the customer and can pass within a few feet of your table without even a glance in your direction.
Then if you can attract their attention, you may get a nod of the head to indicate they have seen you, but that doesn’t mean they are going to serve you. Recently on television a hotel owner was asked why he didn’t reduce his prices to attract more customers in this time of crisis. "No, no," he said, "if we do that we will have to reduce the service!" The immediate comment by the interviewer to this, should have been, "What service? "
Of course, no article about Sofia would be complete without a mention of ‘parking’. The spiders still continue their money making game, with no discernible effect on the traffic or unruly parking. They must have been robbed of some of their revenue by the truly excellent arrangement, whereby you can text your car number to 1302 for an hour’s parking in the blue zone. Recently my son had a meeting in the centre of Sofia, so duly parked his car, and texted his number to 1302.
He was extremely surprised to find on his return that his car had disappeared, and phoned me in a panic "I think my car has been stolen", "Did you pay for your parking?", "Yes I sent a text, I think I had better ring the police and report the car stolen". "No, don’t do that unless you are absolutely sure, it will cause you huge problems if you are wrong. Go and find the parking attendant, who sells tickets, or call the number on the signs and ask if the spider has taken it."
Ten minutes later he called me back. "It’s been taken to the pound. Evidently I parked in a reserved zone – the signs are very indistinct and misleading. When I found the parking attendant he laughed and said, yes they get about 10 cars a day from there, it’s an easy and certain way of getting money off the motorist." Well, that’s life – in Sofia!
The system in Sofia is showing some improvement, particularly the trams which are being steadily replaced or modernised. However, the buses remain one of the chief culprits in adding to the already polluted atmosphere. The regularity of all public transport remains haphazard, and it’s not at all unusual to wait half an hour for a tram, then for two to arrive together. The drivers are not famed for their good manners, often trapping people in the hydraulic doors, or driving off too soon; and the ticket inspectors are legendary for their behaviour.
My wife works in an area of Mladost, quite a long way from the centre, and it’s difficult for her to travel back and forwards, involving buses and or trolleys. Recently, she caught a bus heading in our direction, which was being driven by a very stroppy woman. She was jerking the passengers backwards and forwards, swearing at other drivers, generally misbehaving and driving very badly. At one point along the way she stopped to make a call from a public phone booth, and further on stopped to buy some fruit from the market.
Although some people were muttering, nobody dared to challenge her. That was until nearing the centre where she encountered heavy traffic caused by a football match between Sofia’s two top teams. In her haste to cut through the traffic, she missed one stop altogether, and stopped a lot further down the road. This was too much for one passenger, who got up and in a loud voice began to remonstrate with her. What was she doing? This was public transport, she was not supposed to use it for her personal requirements, and should stop in the correct places. She argued a little, but he wouldn’t be silenced and in his anger he used the ‘ti’, more personal form of address. At this, she puffed out her ample chest and shouted at him "Don’t get so familiar, you’re not sleeping with me!"
The post office: where Sofians fear to tread
If you do your shopping in Sofia, apart from the generally bad service by assistants, you will soon notice how slow it is at the checkout. I used to mutter to myself ‘why don’t they sack these slovenly checkout girls, pay them a commission, or anything to speed up the system?’ But with observation, I soon realised that the cashiers’ main fault is that they have an obsession with trying to extract only the correct change out of every customer, thus saving their own change – for what I’m not quite sure. Anyway, while not known for their alacrity, they are not the only culprits; it’s also the customers who mess around, with absolutely no concern for their fellow shoppers waiting in the queue behind them.
Apart from taking ages to pack purchases in their bags and arguing with the cashier about the price of cheese, they may suddenly realise they have forgotten something and wander off, leaving their shopping blocking the till, and the queue waiting while they go to find it. Don’t even think of visiting the Apteka (chemists) if you are in a hurry, because in all probability you will not only be behind an anxious mother, eager to buy a large selection of drugs for little Mitko who has a slight cold, but can’t be kept off school as she has to go to work but, even worse, a pensioner who has been prescribed a drug which he/she can’t afford. First, they will ask to see the drug and check it against the prescription, then they will decide that they can’t afford a full box, so can they have just one blister?
Then they want to study the instructions and counter indications, which will be left with the box, to make sure they get a few of the side effects mentioned, then they can’t find their glasses to read the instructions. And so it goes on from customer to customer, until at last you reach the front to be met by a hostile stare from the pharmacist who hasn’t got exactly the brand of Paracetamol you want, and won’t suggest any alternative.
Then there’s the post office!! First you have to get by the officious guard. Why they should have guards is beyond me, perhaps it’s in case the customers riot at the bad service? Or more probably it’s to control the queue jumping and pushing to the front, which would take place without this control. Then you have to negotiate with the clerks who may well, if they don’t like your request, slam their window in your face.
When I first came here, I wanted to invite some friends from the UK to visit, and decided to send them a picture card of Sofia. Stamps were obtainable at the nearby post office, so I wandered around the dilapidated building looking for the place to buy them. Long queues containing bored, dejected people stretched from the various desks. Above one was a sign depicting an envelope. This looked like the one, so I joined the queue, which shuffled slowly forward as people wrestled with the clerk over their various requirements. When I eventually reached the desk, I was confronted by everyone’s nightmare. A 50-something matriarch, bleached blonde hair supported by black and grey roots, thick make-up, bright red lipstick, and a look on her face as though there were a bad smell coming from somewhere.
Pushing the envelope under the glass, I asked in my best Bulgarian, "Marka za Anglia molya" (Stamps for England please). The woman grabbed the envelope and with a look of total disdain, studied it carefully and started lecturing me, "Don’t understand" I mumbled. She pointed at the card and another stream of invective issued forth. I was totally nonplussed! Somewhere from the queue, a spotty faced youth stepped forward and said: "She is telling you that the address doesn’t comply with regulations, it’s in the wrong place." He said something to the matriarch, and she produced an official leaflet demonstrating exactly how the card should be addressed. "She says you’ll have to change it," said the youth, apologetically. The woman thrust the card back, and totally ignoring me proceeded to obstruct the next customer.
I went out, bought a new card and addressed it. Once again I joined the queue of hopefuls, and again it moved slowly forward, as people negotiated various unnecessary problems with the madam. Eventually, I again reached the front, and triumphantly pushed my correctly addressed card under the glass screen. She studied it carefully, and with a muttered aside, pushed it back. "What’s the matter with it now?" I shouted in English. She didn’t understand, so hurled another stream of invective at me. I turned to the queue for inspiration, and the lady behind me said, "She says, it’s ok.", "Why doesn’t she give me the stamps then?" I said. "Because she doesn’t sell stamps," replied the lady. "You have to buy them in the front hall."
Giving the madam, what I considered to be my most hateful look, I stamped out into the front hall, and with deep misgivings approached the stamp kiosk. This was run by a beautiful but completely uninterested young woman, who was deeply engrossed in Cosmopolitan. "Marka za Anglia molya", I recited, expecting a new round of problems. She barely looked up, showed absolutely no interest in the card, and shoved the stamps towards me. In disbelief I showed her the card,"Address, ok?" I asked. She looked at me as if I was some kind of madman, shrugged her shoulders, and muttered something in Bulgarian, which obviously meant, "Who bloody cares!!"
Waitresses are busily engaged...in smoking and chatting
Recently we received a leaflet in our post box inviting us to visit a hitherto unheard of restaurant in our area. The leaflet promised all kinds of good things to eat, a pleasant shady garden, and lots of choice to drink. So we set out one evening to pay it a visit. It took us a while to find it, as it was in a split street and no map or directions were provided. When we eventually found it, it looked quite pleasant: shady garden, nice flowers, clean tables and chairs. Not many customers, we noticed, but we were greeted by the waitress, who had somehow spotted our arrival.
She left us with some menus and disappeared. After about 10 minutes I thought I had better go and find her in case she’d had an accident, collapsed or something – no, she was sitting at the bar smoking and chatting to her friends. After being summoned she came to take our order and about 10 minutes later appeared with the drinks. The food followed in the fullness of time, typically not all together, but in dribs and drabs, which always makes me nervous wondering whether she had heard the full order or not. The food was distinctly second class – poor salad, tough meat, cold chips. Well, being hungry, we ate what we could and looked around for the waitress to order another beer.
She was nowhere to be seen, and guess what, she was sitting at the bar smoking and chatting to her friends. Three times I had to fetch her for our various needs, and eventually again to get the bill. Someone had spent a lot of money on nice surroundings, furnishings and an expensive leaflet to get us there, all ruined by an incompetent chef and a lazy waitress. Will we go there again? No, thank you! I recount this story because it’s all too common. The average owner doesn’t seem to understand the importance of good service and properly trained staff. Most waitresses have perfected the art of ignoring the customer and can pass within a few feet of your table without even a glance in your direction.
Then if you can attract their attention, you may get a nod of the head to indicate they have seen you, but that doesn’t mean they are going to serve you. Recently on television a hotel owner was asked why he didn’t reduce his prices to attract more customers in this time of crisis. "No, no," he said, "if we do that we will have to reduce the service!" The immediate comment by the interviewer to this, should have been, "What service? "
Of course, no article about Sofia would be complete without a mention of ‘parking’. The spiders still continue their money making game, with no discernible effect on the traffic or unruly parking. They must have been robbed of some of their revenue by the truly excellent arrangement, whereby you can text your car number to 1302 for an hour’s parking in the blue zone. Recently my son had a meeting in the centre of Sofia, so duly parked his car, and texted his number to 1302.
He was extremely surprised to find on his return that his car had disappeared, and phoned me in a panic "I think my car has been stolen", "Did you pay for your parking?", "Yes I sent a text, I think I had better ring the police and report the car stolen". "No, don’t do that unless you are absolutely sure, it will cause you huge problems if you are wrong. Go and find the parking attendant, who sells tickets, or call the number on the signs and ask if the spider has taken it."
Ten minutes later he called me back. "It’s been taken to the pound. Evidently I parked in a reserved zone – the signs are very indistinct and misleading. When I found the parking attendant he laughed and said, yes they get about 10 cars a day from there, it’s an easy and certain way of getting money off the motorist." Well, that’s life – in Sofia!