Third entry

Okay. Let me tell you about this city.
I keep mentioning it like you know what I’m talking about. You don’t. I didn’t either.

Before last February, Sofia was a word I might’ve confused with a name. A girl in a telenovela. A brand of overpriced handbags. Definitely not a capital city. I’m American. Geography is optional for us.

So picture this: a city center that’s aggressively unchic. Like someone designed it during a depression and never updated the vibe. Narrow streets - some with cobblestones that hate your ankles, some with potholes that hate your car. None of them have street signs. I’m not exaggerating. You want to find something? Good luck. Bring Google Maps, a prayer, and low expectations. The center is a maze. A grey-beige-pink maze.

Old residential buildings everywhere. They call them “blocks.” Or “cooperations.” Five or six floors. Facades in communist grey, tired beige, or - if you’re lucky - a hospital pink. And wedged between these architectural tragedies are shiny glass-and-steel office towers, completely out of place, like someone Photoshopped them in. Standing in front of each one is a guy in his late fifties who looks like he’s waiting for a casting call for a mob movie. He’s always there. I don’t know what he does. I’m afraid to ask.

People here don’t smile. Smiling costs extra. Every cashier looks at you like you personally ruined their day by existing. Sometimes they bark at you. In Bulgarian. Which sounds like Russian having a bad time. I cried once. In a grocery store. Holding a yogurt. Being yelled at for reasons I’ll never understand. Peak dignity.

And then there’s the euro situation. They just switched. Before that, they had their own currency - colorful notes, different sizes, very friendly for dumb foreigners. I had just figured it out. And now? Chaos.

For a full month you can pay in both currencies. They’re supposed to give you change in euros only. Supposed to. Some do. Some hand you back a fistful of old coins and a look that says deal with it. And the exchange rate is 1.95 to 1. Not 2. That would be too humane. No, it’s 1.95, which means every transaction requires math I am not qualified to do.

Divide your age by two - have you slept with that many people? That’s useful math. You learn to adjust by that number. I’m good at that.

I’m fairly sure I’ve already lost a small fortune being ripped off left and right. I try to pay by card now. But there’s always a place that’s cash only. Always. Usually when you really need it not to be.

Welcome to Sofia.

It’s fine, though. You adapt. You learn the quirks. You stop expecting things to make sense.

Traffic is a nightmare. Everyone drives. No one carpools. There’s one bus lane per street if you’re lucky, and every driver treats it like a suggestion. Horns are a love language here.

Food is… fine. Lots of Italian places. Pizza everywhere. McDonald’s if you’ve given up. Subway if you’ve truly lost hope. The Chinese restaurants are dirt cheap and the portions could feed a family of four for a week, which is why I avoid them. I mostly survive on salads. Delivered. Alone. At ten at night. Living the dream.

Coffee, however, is a tragedy. I drink it by the gallon and most of what’s available tastes like burnt regret. I keep a machine at whatever Airbnb I’m in. This is non-negotiable.

Nightlife is a different story.
The hipster places close early because Gen Z needs eight hours and a skincare routine (not judgiung). But the rest stays open. Bartenders know what they’re doing. And here’s my favorite part: you can smoke inside. Yes, it’s illegal. Relax. Laws in Bulgaria are more like suggestions. Strong suggestions. Frequently ignored.

Clubs feel like film sets from gangster movies. Testosterone everywhere. Women dressed on the sluttier side of brave. Music is terrible - that sterile techno that refuses to die - but the energy is real. You can’t dance to it, but you can stand there looking like you might, and apparently that’s enough.

People are strange here. Rude at first. Blunt. No small talk. Then suddenly they’ll ask you something deeply personal and actually mean it. I like that. No fake warmth. No performance.

Men lean hard into the lumberjack-with-a-gym-membership aesthetic. Women are a full spectrum, which I respect, but somewhere around fifty many seem to collectively opt out. No roaming cougars. Just women who’ve made peace with elastic waistbands.

What they all share, across ages, is a truly alarming enthusiasm for cosmetic work. I’ve never seen so many overfilled lips in my life. Porn-star pouts everywhere. It’s an epidemic. Maybe trends arrive late here. Maybe there’s a discount clinic I don’t know about. My theory: someone’s boyfriend’s fantasy gone horribly public.

Anyway. That’s Sofia.

Everyone speaks English.
No one ever says “you’re welcome.”

So maybe that says something.

Off to the gym.
Gotta burn some calories.

P.S I will get better at naming these posts. I promise