Culture shock

In Bulgaria they hang dead people on trees, not to mention walls, doors and, in particular, on the gate of their former home. Not literally, you understand, although my five-year-old daughter is inclined to believe otherwise. These necrologs are sheets of paper each depicting the deceased and mostly set out in a standard format. The word is derived from the Greek necro meaning dead or death. Uniquely, the first of these paeans to the dead to be posted does not include a photograph, there being a set period of 40 days before it is deemed correct to include one.

Today someone tried to kill me. Three times. As I crossed the street at a zebra crossing, a sports car shot through a red light and miraculously missed me. A plumber saved me from falling into a gaping manhole by sticking his head out of it just before I was about to step in. A chunk of plaster the size of a small dog came crashing down off a building as I passed by. And this was on a good day - the pack of stray dogs that usually prowls the pavements on my way to work must have had the day off.

Hey, expat! You've been here a while? Prefer your chips with white cheese on? Ever found your foot tapping along to a chalga song? Concerned about the Balkanisation of your brain? It's time for you to consider!

There's a famous joke about a British tourist in Paris who, mustering his meagre schoolboy linguistic skills, ordered a citron presseé in a café. He was beginning to savour the prospect of a freshly squeezed lemon juice until the French waiter laughed and asked if he wanted a squashed car!

I don't go out of my way to hang out with other expats in my free time. Of course, there are a couple of bars in Sofia you can go to if you really need a conversation about football, or to reminisce about good ol' stuff from the old country, like meat pies, or Eastenders.

But chances are you're going to end up copping an ear-bashing from some tedious old property developer, or casino manager, who is much more interested in your girlfriend than your views on TV soaps, British pastry dishes, or Liverpool FC.

I'm a great believer in the ancient wisdom: "Just love women. Don't try to understand them!" And that, I've found, goes double for Bulgarian women. But in the Vagabond tradition of courageous and insightful journalism, here goes.

I first experienced the charms of "The Bulgarian Woman" from 15,000 kilometres away. Here's what happened...

When I was given the opportunity, I had a hard time deciding whether or not to move to Bulgaria. What I knew about this country, before actually moving here, would have filled the back of a postage stamp.

Many years ago a Frenchman, dining in a restaurant in the Golden Sands resort, vociferously demanded that the waiter should take away, s'il vous plait, the cold soup that he had served for lunch - and heat it. The waiter tried to dissuade him. So did the chef. But the man insisted and finally received the soup as he wanted it - warm.

At some stage during your stay in Bulgaria you are bound to have a close encounter with what over the past 16 years has come to be regarded as Bulgaria's most popular art form: chalga. Your first experience of chalga may come as early as your cab ride from the airport to downtown Sofia. Soon you will find out that chalga is everywhere. Cabbies love it, it deafens customers in many an eatery, it blares out of school windows during breaks and, of course, it fills disco dance floors.

There is something that at the same time unites and disunites the Bulgarians to a much greater extent than politics, the economy, education, other people's wealth, public transport, football, international relations, or the former king's properties. It is nothing that is written about in books or featured in films; it is not the product of religion, ideology, or even of culture. I refer to a dish that a large group of Bulgarians swear by, but the very thought of which sickens others.