On Plovdiv, Together

I throw a punnet of apricots I bought this morning into the bag with my passport
and rush out the door

to meet them downstairs
we climb onto the platform

we miss the 7.28 train by the skin of our teeth

so we sink them into the apricots instead
not ripe yet, too bitter, too hard

so I spit it out and stow the rest into my bag
for when time has finished making them

on our connection an Australian couple
a husband with swollen lips and leathered skin
from living in the sun, sits between our suitcases

their favourite Europe is a cruise off the coast of Italy

before we go through passport control I check one more time
just to make sure
that British ones like mine are still allowed through the electronic gates
(aren't they reserved mainly for Europeans?)

and then Bulgarian air is bread with cheese and ham (I don’t eat it)
and a bar of branded milk chocolate (I do)

we watch documentaries and Egon Schiele is being played by an actor

Liss thinks the steward looks like him and I pause it to ask why
all art gallery owners have the same style
(black bob, with fringe, and lipstick)

we’re tired - sleep deprived
and bellies full of cabin pressure waiting on a bus
that doesn’t come
but then it does and we all pile in
it drops us off in the shadows of the Old Town hill

we walk up it, the wheels of our cases getting stuck in the cobblestones
not yet eroded by history

to the Old Plovdiv Hostel

Welkom,

Adele, Sofia, Elfie,

Eva, Clémentine,

Nina, Mikaela,

Kharis, Sydra, Ulla,

Gerold, Joanna

& Alicia!

Room 5, we’re given two keys between the four of us
we pick our beds lined up against a wall like in an old time orphanage

I can almost see Matron’s candle lit chin
patrolling the room one last time before bidding us goodnight

we eat out, all of us together at Old Plovdiv Restaurant
and as we leave the waitress tells us how she lived in Holland, too
but Dutch is not her language

it falls foreign on her tongue

we ask us to teach us her thank you
Blagodarya (Благодаря)

we try it, but it falls foreign on ours

and then it’s time to rest but the air is thick and heavy with heat
and there's that constant hum of the fan

in the morning it’s lemon juice and cheese for breakfast before
Nikola shows us around

where the Mosque is, where the Armenians live

we’re getting a tour, yes, but - I remember Urry’s gaze - we’re not tourists, right

on the road to Boris Hristov

Gerold and I fall behind

we find swastikas painted in red on the walls

I count seven on that one street

but breathing deep we just keep walking, heart heavy but it’s okay

Nikola says it’s hooliganism, something to do with football, he thinks

but there is racism here, be careful

we walk to Sariev Gallery

it’s small and white and its owner Katrin (black bob, fringe, and lipstick)

tells us how this artist gives old signs and symbols new meanings

and a stone in the window engraved in gold reads nothing

inside a room full of détournements in bronze and iron and neon

we drink iced coffees in her café next door and walk back to Boris Hristov

there are photos of the Roma community on the wall

we gather together in a room to share our first First Impressions

all the signs are in Cyrillic but English is underneath for those like us

I wonder aloud what is lost

when they tell us what’s being said but in our tongue

And how we might find out

the next morning we meet Svetlana

the Artistic Director of the European Capital of Culture
(Plovdiv 2019, it’s why we’re here)

their office is a disused tobacco warehouse

she tells us she feels welcome
when the word is written in Cyrillic

and that there’s no way to tell the success of this project
until its run its course

because, she says, if you put ten Bulgarians in a room

you’ll hear eleven different opinions

and there’s greed and Facebook is a tragedy

but their logo has meaning

because togetherness is its goal as well as its motto

but schools are still segregated and the Roma live in Stolipinovo

(we were told not to go there if we wanted to keep our kidneys)

culture, there, is celebration

and it happens every day

Svetlana thinks that culture is not food and drink

that it should be an intellectual challenge

but how do you convince people that it's worth something? what is it worth?

as we leave she gives us goodiebags

#together emblazoned on the front and a notebook that we begin to fill with thoughts

we ruminate together in the park under a bandstand
and share our second first impressions

I think how Williams says culture is ordinary

and how Hebdige showed us how it shifts

as we sit a stone’s throw from where old men
(only men)
sit and play chess

they call them barkers because they talk for the sake of talking
how dogs sometimes bark for no reason

in the park where you’re not allowed to walk on the grass
let alone lie on it

that the Roma people clean
and the Bulgarian men play chess

culture does change, when there’s conflict and conversation

I only saw one swastika today

and we sit together on the bench

and I photograph people walking out of the shadows of the trees and into the light

they could be anywhere, and here they are

walking alone, sometimes in groups, but always together
(even if they don't dwell on it)

the next morning we walk back to Boris Hristov

our path doesn’t cross those red painted symbols this time

we share more thoughts and then get lunch

and eat in the garden of our hostel

I get an apricot from the punnet from Amsterdam that's still sitting in our room

they’re ripe now

and we sit, some in the shade, some in the sun

each of us writing our own first impressions

alone, together

Old Plovdiv Hostel, 13th June 2019