British Invasion

After an exhaustive search for direct flights to Oslo from Sofia or the closest proximate airports of Belgrade, Serbia, Bucharest, Romania or Thessalonki, Greece yielded no viable options, we chose to raid Kaberi’s frequent flier balance and take a British Airways flight connecting through London. Opting for an overnight stopover at Heathrow, we gained the added benefit of spending an evening with Kaberi’s cousin Reshmi and her husband Pratip. After touching down at Heathrow, we were forced to endure the human parking lot known as U.K. immigration and the condescension of a drunk-with-power British immigration officer (a wanker of the highest order) who demanded written proof of onward passage from the U.K. (the first time this was required anywhere during our travels) apparently because there is an epidemic of American citizens illegally setting up residence in England in a desperate quest to have their buying power cut in half. After muttering under our breath about the infernal and pompous imperialists, we gratefully met Reshmi and Pratip in the arrivals hall. Over cups of tea, and then glasses of scotch, we spent a cozy afternoon together, exchanging stories about life in England and from our travels. Reshmi’s and Pratip’s smart apartment was soon transformed into a Bengali communications hub. With the phone seemingly ringing continuously, we fielded calls in sequence from Reshmi’s parents (the beloved Mejos) from Delhi, Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Amit (who we spent two days with us in Italy a few weeks back) from New York, Kaberi’s parents from Chicago and Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Soma from California. Despite our guilt over monopolizing the phone, we had to admit that it felt fabulous to be surrounded by family near and far. As the evening unfolded, we partook in a home-cooked Bengali meal and then indulged in wonderfully-accessible English language television programming. With the day having flown by, we promised to try and return before the end of our globetrotting journey before turning in for the night. Early the next morning, Reshmi and Pratip graciously drove us back to Heathrow. After being dropped off at Terminal 1 (typically the origin of British Airways’ inter-European flights), we ruefully learned that our Oslo flight departed from the distant Terminal 4 (typically the province of long-haul flights). Racing outside to catch Reshmi and Pratip in the nick of time, we finagled a ride to the outlying terminal some several miles away. After a second round of good-byes, we bid Reshmi and Pratip farewell, leaving them to likely regret extending an invitation to us to wreak havoc on their lives for yet another weekend.

Plush Leather Sofia

From the hustle and bustle of Rome, a hot pink plane operated by WizzAir (a Hungarian based discount carrier) brought us to the relative tranquility of Sofia, in southwestern Bulgaria. While we were thrilled to have escaped the tourist hordes descending upon central Italy in mid-July, we didn’t quite know what to expect from Bulgaria, a country whose geographic and historical contours had largely eluded our consciousness. After deplaning and making our way to a grim terminal with stern black and white signs brandishing a Russian-looking script, our expectations began to be colored with visions of a spartan, post-communist land of stolid suffering and hard drinking.

Having had to check luggage in Rome (the invariable result of flying a budget airline) our mutual apprehension mounted as the crowd of waiting passengers from our plane thinned to a half dozen or so with nary a sign of Kaberi’s conspicuous red and black rolling backpack. Only when her mobile repository of newly-purchased clothing and battle-tested toiletries emerged as the very last piece off the conveyor belt did we both finally exhale.

Exiting baggage claim for a modest arrivals hall, our hopes of a grand reunion were dashed upon discovering that Vik’s Stanford friend Victor was nowhere to be seen. Fifteen minutes later, after Vik had conferred with a terse airport desk clerk and then brazenly commandeered the use of a mild-mannered stranger’s cellphone for our own purposes, Victor appeared as if straight out of a photo shoot bearing wavy-length hair and a khaki linen suit. To our chagrin, Victor had been waiting for us at Sofia’s modern and sophisticated new terminal a few kilometers away, oblivious to the meager location of WizzAir’s Bulgarian digs. After dispensing European kisses for Kaberi and a manly hug for Vik, Victor loaded our bags into a sporty red Alfa Romero sedan and sped off like a man in search of the nearest facilities.

After a twenty-minute straight shot past a Kodak factory, an AIG branch office and several cellphone shops, we found ourselves smack dab in the center of historic Sofia. Making our way around the striking King’s Palace (now the seat of the Bulgarian parliament) and the largest orthodox church in the country, we quickly arrived at Victor’s prime location apartment on the top floor of a Communist era building. Once the preferred haunt of Bulgaria’s communist intellectual class, the building boasted busts of artists and writers on its walls (depicting several famous former residents) as well as the requisite busy-body neighbor on hand to chide us for loading more than two people on to the elevator.

Our appreciation for the apartment’s trendy location only grew with time. We soon proceeded to take a quick tour of the neighborhood, stopping to admire a photographic exhibit in an adjacent park brimming with Japanese tourists. After enjoying a jolt of caffeine at a Starbucks look-alike within a stone’s throw of our starting point, we commenced an uptempo night on the town with Victor and his girlfriend Lily. We began with dinner at the nearby VinoBar, a chic restaurant opened by the wife of the Swiss ambassador, where the different dishes we shared were complemented by Victor’s selection of superb, homegrown Bulgarian wines.

Our post-dinner exploits involved an ample dose of bar-hopping, beginning with drinks at the aptly-named neighborhood nightspot, By The Way, continuing with shots at a typically-European techno dance club (where Vik’s worn cargo pants actually represented fashionable attire) and culminating with a drink at an outdoor beer garden called Toba&co. By the time we finally called it a night, it was just past three in the morning. By our undiscriminating standards, Sofia’s nightlife appeared to compare favorably with virtually any other major city we had visited, save for New York or London.

The following day proved to be a bit more low-key after we slept in until noon. Our afternoon began with lunch at the hip brunch spot Moto where Vik’s inclination to stay indoors to listen to buoyant lounge music was trumped by the group’s desire to sit outdoors to bask in sunshine. Afterward, we took a winding, scenic drive through the Balkan Mountains to the quaint Bulgarian village of Kopripischtitsa (try saying that five times fast). Rolling brown hillsides and dense green forests eventually receded to reveal a gathering of traditional wooden cottages arranged around a meandering brook and narrow lanes hewn from assorted local stones.

The four of us took the opportunity to wander through an 1850’s home-turned-museum before patronizing a local restaurant to sample traditional Bulgarian dishes like a Shopska salad and cucumber yoghurt soup. While we relished the cool, rural air, we made a point of getting back on the road by 6:00 p.m. in order to ensure that we wouldn’t miss the 7:30 p.m. English language showing of the newly-released movie Harry Potter back in Sofia. Our downtempo day then concluded with a late dinner at Egur, Egur, a local Armenian restaurant.

After a second consecutive late wakeup (Kaberi included!), we enjoyed a late Sunday brunch at a prominent Sofia Irish bar. Following brunch, we visited in turn the Museum of Foreign Art (for a surreal viewing of several Burmese and Indian pieces), the large Cathedral (where Victor, in a prior life as a tour guide, teased visitors with the claim that the 120-ton chandelier had only fallen twice) and an antique flea market where items on offer ranged from old cameras and fake watches to Nazi and communist memorabilia. After Victor negotiated capably on our behalf, we returned home with what we thought was an early-model Leica camera for Kaberi’s antique camera collection (Vik originally had designs on initiating a lucrative eBay transaction). Only upon perusing the Internet later that afternoon did we learn that we had likely purchased a well-executed Russian fake.

Our last night in town proved to be a lovely conclusion to our stay. Victor prepared a home-cooked traditional Bulgarian dinner over which we animatedly chatted until midnight. Looking back on our visit to Bulgaria, it was clear that our time on the ground here with our hip local host had largely overturned our pre-conceived notions of contemporary life in a post-Communist country.

La Dolce Vita

With only two days remaining in Italy before our departing flight to Bulgaria, we opted to make brief one-day visits to Genoa, the hometown of Christopher Columbus, and Rome. A three-hour plus train ride from Florence conveyed us past the stunning cliffs of Cinque Terra and the inviting beaches of the Italian Riviera before concluding in Italy’s northwestern city of Genoa. A crowded local bus ride from the Brignole railway station eventually delivered us to our upwardly-aspiring business hotel on the eastern outskirts of the city. We unceremoniously dropped off our luggage before catching the same local bus back to the city center. We soon alighted on Via XX Septembre where Kaberi excitedly located the red neon sign of H&M peaking out from behind Piazza de Ferrari. While Vik waited patiently, Kaberi replenished her threadbare wardrobe with much needed lightweight wear. From the store, we began a leisurely meandering of the narrow streets and alleys near the old port, content to happenstance upon a number of prominent churches (conspicuously marking the territory borders of long ago ruling clans). After strolling briskly through the underwhelming port area and seedy nearby red light district, we finally managed to locate a Rough Guide-recommended dinner spot. The complementary glass of sparkling white wine offered as soon as we were seated served as a harbinger of the excellent meal to come, though we were both slightly disappointed to learn that there were three sister locations in Manhattan. Upon finishing our dinner, we weaved our way through the cobweb of streets before catching the bus back to our hotel. Although Genoa, with its charming Baroque edifices and seaside nooks, easily warranted a longer visit, our one-day visit at least gave us an introductory appreciation of the city’s offerings. The next morning, after harried transfers involving three separate buses, we arrived at Genoa airport for a scheduled morning flight to Rome. While waiting in the departure lounge, we caught a brief example of the famed Italian indulgence of one of its youngest native sons. We witnessed a tantrum – involving wailing, punchthrowing and carpetclinging – that would have made John McEnroe blush. As punishment for his indiscretions, the peacedisturber in question received separate affectionate embraces from each of his parents.  Upon arriving in Rome, we hopped on the Leonardo Express train to Termini station before walking a few blocks north to our boutique hotel. After settling in, we walked down the block to Via Veneto, the street immortalized by Fellini in La Dolce Vita. Continuing on, we arrived first at the Spanish Steps which offering distant views of St. Peter’s Basilica and then Trevi fountain where we congregated near the pools with 20,000 of our closest American friends. With a few short afternoon hours to see Rome in all of its glory, we briefly contemplated boarding one of the city’s conspicuous double-decker tourist buses before deciding otherwise. In the evening, we dined with Vik’s Stanford friend Antonio at Al Moro, a restaurant of his choosing situated near Trevi fountain. Antonio ordered for us a number of house specialties accompanied by a red wine from Campagna, his native region of Italy. With the benefit of local market knowledge, we enjoyed spectacular and flavorful dishes that would have ordinarily eluded our reach. Vik and Antonio caught up on life in general, shared news of several classmates and reminisced about past Stanford antics (Antonio promised to e-mail Kaberi a Halloween picture showing her husband and Antonio as part of a group of five men dressed as “unofficial” Stanford cheerleaders; Vik still holds out hope that the picture has been irretrievably misplaced). The next morning, rejuvenated and in good spirits, we caught a cab to Ciampino airport for our early afternoon flight to Sofia, Bulgaria. Finding a second straight day of brilliant blue skies, we lamented our decision not to board one of the tourist buses the day before. To Kaberi, in particular, it seemed a shame that Vik had seen so little of Rome. As if on cue, our taxi driver took a scenic route that brought us alongside the Colosseum and Roman ruins. Hardly able to contain our enthusiasm, we struggled to keep up with the sights speeding past one window or another. As the city landmarks finally faded from view, Vik flashed a grin and declared that he had just seen Rome at exactly the right speed.

Reach Out And Tuscany

Faced with an overwhelming number of subsequent Italian destinations, we settled on Florence, one of Kaberi’s favorite cities. Having visited twice before with her parents, Kaberi thought it only appropriate that she revisit the romantic Tuscan capital with Vik.

We arrived in Florence just past ten at night after first flying to Rome, catching a connecting flight to Pisa, waiting for an evasive toiletries bag and then taking a night bus to the city center. Vik had reserved a room at an upscale guesthouse a few blocks away from the city’s Santa Maria Novella train station, and the two of us trudged with luggage in tow searching vainly for 18 Via della Strada. Florence’s confusing address system (with outdated numbers flanking current ones) and a lack of guesthouse signage conspired to lead us past our intended destination none the wiser.

Once we finally found our lodging, we immediately appreciated its elusiveness. As a small, authentic home with only ten uniquely-decorated rooms, Casa Howard was far from a run of the mill hotel. On our first night, we stayed in the Library bedroom, with floor to ceiling books in the sleeping area and original mosaic tiles on the bathroom floor. We spent the remainder of our stay in the owner’s suite, boasting an eclectic, New York loft feel in the living and bedroom areas in sharp contrast to the red claw-foot tub and chandelier in the bathroom. Serving as a welcome respite from Florence’s heat and crowds, the guesthouse (save for spotty Internet access) was a perfect oasis.

With our accommodations situated near the Santa Maria Novella, we opted to make the house of worship our first stop on the following day. After appreciating its architecture, interior frescoes and displayed artwork, we commenced a walking tour of the entire city. We began by admiring the multi-colored exterior of the Duomo before moving on to the Piazza della Signoria and ending at the various shops of the Ponte Vecchio. With Vik content to appreciate Florence’s architecture from the outside, Kaberi was profoundly thankful that she had toured the requisite sights on previous visits with her customary rigor. After a full day, we finally conceded defeat when our aching feet demanded rest and our ears craved sanctuary from the assault of yet another indiscreet American accent.

The next morning, we discovered that we were staying literally next door to one of Concierge.com’s consummate insider spots, a perfume and herbal remedy purveyor founded by Dominican monks. After stopping to make a small purchase or two, we made our way to a recommended nearby trattoria with traditional, shared cafeteria-style tables. Underwhelmed by the offerings, including the recommended signature dish, we began to question the eatery’s authenticity, especially after noticing several American tourists ordering identically and spying a framed check signed by Steven Spielberg on the wall.

In the interest of venturing off the beaten path (not an easy feat for Florence in July), we opted for the city’s newly opened Museo Nazionale Alinari della Fotografia. The museum reinforced Kaberi’s lifelong ambition to be a National Geographic photographer while commanding Vik’s undivided attention for the next several hours (he pronounced it his favorite venue in Florence). The exhibits led us through the history of photography while providing mesmerizing old photographs of some of the stops on our trip (including one of the Gaza pyramids from 1851). Vik marveled at a collection of historical photos that included an image of Mussolini getting arrested at a rally in the 1920s. Meanwhile, Kaberi was enthralled by an exhibit depicting the development of the camera, particularly because her dad had taught her on one of the models now carefully displayed behind protective glass.

In the evening, unable to choose between a number of intriguing options, we opted to try as many as possible. We ventured south for a first course on the riverfront at Beccofino, then crossed back over the bride to sample wine at Cantinetta Antinori before ending at Carabe for gelato. As we made our way back to the hotel, we congratulated ourselves for our much-improved navigational abilities after only two days in town.

On our last full day in Florence, we fortified ourselves with cappuccino, hot chocolate and chocolate croissants at Piazza della Signoria’s Rivoire, a converted chocolate factory. From the café, we promptly positioned ourselves in line for our 9:30 a.m. admission to the Uffizi. We made our way through the collection with the help of the museum’s audioguide. Upon completion, Vik pronounced that the Florentine Renaissance was his favorite collection, a bold statement from someone who had never even heard of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus or Primavera a few hours prior.

From the Uffizi, Kaberi led us across the river to il Torchino, an artisan paper store removed from the touristed paths, where she ordered custom-made photo albums to hold the thousands of photographs taken during our travels. With each dwarfing in size our wedding album, Kaberi fully expects to scare off any prospective viewers.We doubled back across the river to Trattoria Cibreo, an authentic Tuscan trattoria in an out-of-the-way location. After a mile-long trek, we were rewarded with a rustic meal surpassing any other we had in Italy. Sufficiently motivated, we each ordered a primi and secundi course to savor the chef’s culinary talents. After the satisfying meal, we stopped at the Santa Croce Church to see Michelangelo’s, Galileo’s and Machiavelli’s tombs and Dante’s memorial. We never contemplated so many eminent historical figures being buried in the same building.

The piece de la resistance of our visit to Florence was a Michelin three star-rated meal at Enoteca Pinchiorri, for an early celebration of Vik’s birthday. After Kaberi had made the reservations, Vik begrudgingly agreed to oblige her despite learning that all male patrons of the restaurant were required to wear a blazer. In a testament to Italian hospitality and graciousness, the restaurant staff scarcely blinked when Vik arrived in a blue polyester blend button-down shirt, well-worn convertible khaki cargo pants and hardly mint-condition brown walking shoes. With the utterly sublime nine-course meal leaving no room in the budget for an extravagant bottle of wine, we toasted in spirit to a perfect visit to Florence.