Issue 23


The first time I arrived in Bulgaria my luggage went missing for two days. I ended up staying in a hotel with a stain the shape of Switzerland on the floor, and the towels were the size of beer mats. As it turns out, the missing and subsequently ransacked luggage, was the fault of a major Italian airline and the hotel, well, that was just down to my poor judgement. Almost everything else has been a pleasant surprise and I've enjoyed getting the hang of the place.

Fri, 08/01/2008 - 15:12


Bang! And your life has changed forever. A loved one has been taken from you by the statistic that Bulgarians don't care about, the rampant killing that goes on by motorised maniacs. Imagine if you turned up at your workplace to find everyone was dead and also in every nearby workplace until the deathtoll reached 1,000. You would be shocked, horrified and angry and that is the area that annoys me most, Bulgarians don't get angry about the stupidity that passes for driving on their roads.

Fri, 08/01/2008 - 15:10


Apparently this is how one of our readers – a Bulgarian living in Bremen – imagines that we selected the 10 finalists for the Symbols of Bulgaria@Vagabond campaign. "What I want to criticise is a very narrow perception of Bulgaria. All 'symbols' are merely more than mentioning clichés. To find something truly unique and recognisable is not that easy, but I think you owe it to your readers... something like: 'Ey sega'. Well done on that!"

Fri, 08/01/2008 - 12:29


The situation has improved drastically. Our helicopter flew over the region and we saw that everything is razed to the ground. There's no longer any danger.

Defence Minister Nikolay Tsonev on the explosions in Chelopechene

The state does not give the municipality the means to limit the number of people coming to the capital from the provinces.

Sofia Mayor Boyko Borisov explains the reasons for the city's traffic jams and insufficient number of kindergartens

Fri, 08/01/2008 - 11:04


If it were another time and another land, if gods are kinder or heard your prayers, your child would be twelve now, her face taking on the reminiscence of your face, or perhaps you as you once were, but no longer. Each part of her would have been a reminder that you had given birth to this child, a hand or a face, even her slightest way in which she cocks her neck as if she is listening to some voices other than what is apparent, real.

You have sold her. You have not told anyone.
No one knows. No one must know.

Fri, 08/01/2008 - 09:51


When I was ready, you told me that the recipe was to dip them one by one in the bowl with wine and brandy. And I got so drunk, after licking my fingers so many times, that when I was finished, I remembered how at the end of the summer, after finishing all the jars with pickles, my grandfather would always braid the dry tops of the onions. Then he would hang the big braid from the right corner of the window to chase the flies away.

Fri, 08/01/2008 - 09:51