I stood in the Lost Luggage section at Sofia airport, Bulgaria, watching my friend Milena speak to the airport official in Bulgarian. I hoped she was giving him a good tongue-lashing! Here I was in a foreign country, come to attend a wedding, and thanks to my luggage being lost, all I had to wear for the next few days was the pink t-shirt dress and ragged jeans I’d boarded the plane in! A form was filled. I signed, unable to understand a word of the Cyrillic script, which did have a few English letters (though they were upside down). On the way to Paul and Milena’s flat (bride and groom), I learnt that my plane’s delayed landing meant that I had missed seeing the fully functional Nuclear plant that was propitiously located right beside the airport. The Americans with us were somewhat concerned at its location in the heart of civilisation, but on my part I was curious, having never actually been treated to such a sight before.

>The next day, the wedding cavalcade drove out from Sofia (Bulgaria’s capital city) towards the village where Milena’s mum lived. Luckily for me, shops opened early so I managed to get some ‘self-respect preserved at the wedding’ shopping done. The drive was leisurely and we had a chance to admire the bright blue sky and the vast fields of sunflowers with power lines running through them. We stopped for lunch at a quaint looking inn with beams running across the low-slung roof where the two sides of the family met in a flurry of hugs and kisses. Then everyone sat down at a long table—the wedding party’s size demanded one the length of the inn.

Lunch, the first of many magnificent feasts, went on for at least 3 hours. And the delicious fare just kept coming. Bulgarian food features many Mediterranean dishes—thanks to shared borders with Turkey and Greece. We ate stuffed vine leaves, fresh crunchy salads with chunks of Sirene, Bulgarian goat’s cheese, skewers of tender kebabs, liver wrapped in bacon, and Pulneni Chushki (stuffed capsicum). We wiped out everything on the table and then marvelled at the miracle of still fitting into our cars after that.

We drove up the twisty, cobbled road that led through Stara Stanislova, the village where Milena’s mum Zoia lived. It was set on a hill, and some of the houses had become such a part of the sloping hillside they seemed to be on the verge of toppling off. We noticed black and white posters with pictures of people of all ages, but mostly old people, pasted on every wall. They were remembrances, put up year after year to mark the death anniversaries of loved ones. On reaching Zoia’s house we were terribly impressed to find a cosy little castle in the guise of a traditional Bulgarian home—complete with white walls, teak beams and a slanting roof made of black slate. It even had an inflatable swimming pool in the garden, a welcome sight in the sweltering heat!

We spent the evening chatting, seated at a long wooden picnic table that was set in one corner of Zoia’s garden, watching the dusk creep in over the surrounding mountains. That was when they brought out the Rakia, a potent home brewed cousin of Absinthe that tasted deceptively harmless but left a smouldering path on its way down to my stomach. While stumbling back to the house I tilted my head back [D D1] to look at the stars and almost fell over. Many a cynic has attributed this to the Rakia, I, to how bright and twinklingly close the stars shone that clear night.

We woke up the next morning and were served Banitza, delicious layers of flaky pastry, cheese and spinach with strong black espresso to wash it down. Next on the agenda was the baptism of the Maid of Honour, Best Man and the Groom into the Bulgarian Orthodox Faith, for the wedding the next day. It was to be held at an old chapel that had been given pride of place on top of the hill. It turned out to be an unpretentious white building with vivid, graphic murals of Bulgarian Orthodox themes and symbols on its walls. Apparently, this was the first wedding to be held in the village in over 45 years. The villagers had actually reopened the chapel, which had fallen into disuse, and painstakingly restored it for the occasion.

Through the baptism, the converts who had been direly warned about the consequences of the candles going out during the ceremony, held on to them for dear life. The priest spoke in Bulgarian and all of us stood there valiantly struggling to give our support though we could not understand a word. I couldn’t help but notice that the stone floor was covered by an eclectic assortment of rugs. The villagers had actually donated them from their own homes! Little white birds circled around the ceiling, chirping their confusion at the invasion into what had been their peaceful abode for decades now.

Afterwards, the wedding party headed to Chiflik, a nearby spa resort. The healthful waters were in an oval pool decorated with mosaic tiles. It looked so inviting that we all jumped in—holding our noses because of the odour of sulphur—only to be taken by surprise by the warm water. Getting used to the water, which was just the right temperature to make our toes curl, wasn’t difficult and we were soon jumping around, playing childish games and pointing every time fresh water was pumped into the pool in a smoky gush. We finished the day, slowly sipping on delicately flavoured Pileshka Supa, chicken broth. It was so delicious that I spent the rest of my trip trying to figure out the magic ingredients that made it so tasty.

The morning of the wedding, we got dressed, and then went to help the bride get ready. The news that Paul, his family, the villagers, as well as all the musicians, had all arrived and were standing around the courtyard and lawn, sent everyone into a tizzy. Milena lost a earring in the ensuing chaos, and would end up going through the ceremony wearing just one.

And suddenly, with a discordant twang the celebrations began. This was going to be a traditional Bulgarian wedding and as per tradition, the groom had to charge in and ‘take’ the bride, something the male members of the family would make every effort to ‘prevent’. The groom had been well tutored and raced up the stairs only to find his way barred by all Milena’s cousins. After many pleas of “Give me the bride”, and, “I’ve come all the way from America to get her”, the family only let Paul past after he had handed over a sack of quarters. The groom was then supposed to break the bride’s door down but she opened it gladly and they walked down the steps together. Then, as everybody followed the exuberant pair downstairs, the band broke into a tune and every single person there joined hands and started dancing around the courtyard. I was pleasantly surprised and felt comfortable immediately—it was like being in the middle of a Bollywood flick! Dancing, it turns out, is a predominant theme at any Bulgarian celebration worth its salt. 

A few turns around the garden and the bride and groom, arm in arm, started walking up towards the church to be married. At the church, the bride and groom had brass crowns placed on their heads and exchanged vows. The church was bursting at its seams and I had no doubt that every villager had come.

Once the newlyweds had emerged, congratulations given and pictures taken, not a moment was wasted. A circle was formed and everyone started dancing around the church courtyard. Then, more pictures were taken, there was another dance, and finally as everyone left for the reception there was one last jig for the road. I was huffing and puffing and my cheeks were hot from the exertion, but I could not stop grinning at the fun I was having.   

The reception itself was picnic style and there were tables laid under the shade of the thick Bulgarian foliage with cutlery, plates and wineglasses. Then of course there was more dancing. At one point, Milena and Paul stood up, grabbed a thick roll of bread from both ends and tugged. Paul came away with the bigger piece. It’s a Bulgarian custom that is said to predict who would be wearing the pants in the relationship. There was tons of food, wine, champagne, and for our entertainment there was a band with a peroxide blonde lead singer who looked like she’d flown in straight from the 8os. The crowning glory of the evening though, was a drunken cousin who pole-danced. 

On my last day I found myself in Sofia with Milena’s cousin Pavel and Sanna, the Finnish Maid of Honour. In the evening, we strolled around, taking in some of the sights there; a flea market where you could buy exquisite crochet and a jaw dropping amount of Nazi memorabilia—sunglass cases, flasks and cufflinks—all with the Swastika boldly displayed on them. We walked on streets that were paved in pink stone, stopping to admire an ornate church with azure domes, the inadequately guarded Bulgarian Parliamentary building and a park littered with Ancient Roman artefacts that were being slowly overgrown by the lush green grass. We even managed to pay our respects to the statues of the founders of the Cyrillic script who stood guard in front of the Greek-columned National Library.