A True and Accurate Account of the Peregrinations and Polyanderings concerned with World Nonsense, including Travels into several Remote Nations of the World including the Lands of Snod, the Mysterious Mustache Island, and the Chankly Bore, about which shall be appended the Exploits and Opinions of Certain Members of the Society For the Prevention of Sense.
Kevin has most admirably described our nonsense encounter this fine day. With hearts and parts full of nonsense we tootled off to retrieve the lost glasses, back to the pub with the infamous Toilet Contraption, about which you, our dear audience, have had little to say. We walked to the back patio, a few sheltered tables surrounded by shrubs, falling plaster, and broken bricks. As we sat, our favorite waitress of the gratis oblong meatball fame sailed in holding out Kevin’s glasses. This, not unlike quite a few other momentous incidents on our travels, was an occasion worthy of raising a glass, and so, surrounded by stray kittens and cozy ruin, we drank goodbye to Sofia.
We walked back to the hotel and then the train station, where we hung about, getting meat from the train station meat vendor, an institution Kevin had scorned when we arrived. What “railway meat” is, I won’t say, but even Kevin will now admit it to be railly good.
Today we had our second meeting with a scholar. We met Lilia Ratcheva, a native Bulgarian who is a professor at the Institut für Jugendliteratur in Vienna. Lilia came prepared with an armload of possible texts for us to chose from. She had material from folk traditions as well as examples from modern Bulgarian authors. Much to our pleasure Lilia defines “nonsense literature” in a fairly strict manner, and thus her selections were all pretty fascinating and on target. Among the folk material that she presented us with were several nonsensical count out rhymes, similar in style to the “eenie meenie miney moe” variety known in English. With permission we asked her if we could record her reciting a few pieces in Bulgarian. The mic could have been a little closer, but if you’d like to hear a few Bulgarian count-out rhymes, just listen by clicking below. You will perhaps also hear the Bulgarian music that was playing in the background of the café we were in:
Lilia reading: Click here and then click on "download."
Among the modern literary nonsense Lilia presented us with were some of the works of the Bulgarian children’s poet, Janalu Petrov, whose poems were originally published in the 1920s and 1930s. As she showed us the material Michael and I realized that we were seeing something entirely new to us. Petrov occasionaly wrote nonsense in prose paragraphs, but the sentences within the paragraphs were rhymed couplets. We’ve simply never seen this before.
In the afternoon we slogged our way beneath the searing sun to the bookstores and library located at Sofia University. While we came up empty at the bookstores, we did make one curious ‘discovery’ in the library. We came unannounced, and thus we did not simply barge in and demand they bring forth their nonsense. Instead we stealthily asked the research librarian if they had any books on Bulgarian folklore printed in English. This question led this person to ask another, and that person asked another, until we were finally shuffled off to an office where three librarians discussed our request together in Bulgarian, then brought us back to the main reading room, where several more people helped us. They were all most gracious and tried very hard to find what we were looking for. In the end it became clear that Bulgaria—probably for historical and political reasons—does not have many books translated into English. But with no little effort on their part two books were eventually delivered to us. While we didn’t find nonsense, per se, we did locate a discussion of a most curious oral tradition. It seems that in various villages in Bulgaria there is a tradition referred to in the book we were reading as “Unorganized Polyphonic Lamentations.” Unorganized polyphonic lamentations are made by a group of people who all sing the same song, but not in the same key, and not “together” in any way. The quote in the book suggests that while the ‘singers’ are performing the same song they disregard the idea of performing pitch, harmony or melody together in an organized manner. The result would be a kind of collective babble. As the word “lamentations” suggests, this babble is engaged upon in sad situations, most often when someone has died, but Bulgarian soldiers also perform unorganized polyphonic lamentations when they are marching off to war.
While “unorganized polyphonic lamentations” are not literary nonsense, they share a relationships to certain traditions in English and French custom that also involve babbling, and nonsense verses. The English custom, popular in the middle ages and in the Early Modern period, is sometimes referred to as “rough music” (or in French, “charivari”). In these traditions a large group of people (perhaps better described as a mob) would get together and drive someone “evil” out of the village. Usually this evil-doer was a wife-beater, or had committed some other such crime. When this bad person was identified the villagers would gather and march through town babbling, reciting nonsense verses, and clanging pots and pans. They would march up to the house of the accused and keep babbling and singing nonsense and clanging pots and pans until this person gave up and left the village. Apparently it was pretty effective. Would you stay?
The use of nonsense here is interesting. In the English and French customs it seems like nonsense (or babbling) is thought to be imbued with a kind of magical power that can help expel evil, while in the Bulgarian variant the babbling seems similarly intended to purge bad feelings or at least to get the problem out in the open, where it can be dealt with publicly.
In the evening, as the library closed, we entered back into the searing heat of Sofia and made our way toward my lost reading glasses, and then the train station.
One of the last photos I took in Sofia was of this mystical, dark figure who resides high on a soaring pedestal over one of the main squares. I do not know who she is, or what she represents, but it was difficult not to regard this eerie statue with some reverence. The only association I could make with her was of an evil queen from a Disney film.
No doubt, this eminent personality was perched scanning the city of Sofia long before Disney animators brought such caricatures to life via animation.
We've arrived in Bratislava, Slovakia. All is well. Hotel groovy. Internet Not working. Trying to fix... Kevin's glasses broke in two while eating horseburger. Send money. Back to you soon...
This is Michael and Kevin writing together in the Zmaug pub in Ljubljana. All is well with us and we have discovered much nonsense in Bulgaria, Serbia, and Slovenia. Nonsense has been flying at us from all directions, and we've not had time to blog. we'll catch up soon... Hang on to your oblong meatballs and look forward to Slovenian National Information About Beehive Nonsense.
Yes. It’s true. I left my passport in the bathroom of the train, along with my wallet--for an hour. Whatever. And yes, I’m glad I’m not being held in a cell on the Romanian/Bulgarian border. What Michael didn’t tell you was that I also left my glasses in the pub where we ate dinner tonight.
In the wee hours early this morning, as our train purposely climbed over the Balkans, and the clickity-clack of the tracks dragged on an on, our train car was occasionally ravaged by violent thrashing, crashing and screeching noises. Without evidence that would suggest any other reasonable alternative, and considering the folklore of the area, we naturally assumed that a dragon was assaulting our heroic little train.
Although sleep during dragon-assaults comes only at fits and starts, the creature left off as sunrise approached, and I did sleep a little. I was awakened shortly thereafter by the porter who rapped on our door a couple of times. As I opened the door he leaned in and said in a very ominous Bulgarian accent “Sofia.” I nodded. He paused for effect, then added very dramatically, in a very low tone, “Prepare.” You might want to see a short film Michael made of sunrise from the slow-moving train, taken as we “prepared”:
Today I think I would have to admit I was quite tired, and pretty hot. I never thought I would travel to Bulgaria. Until this week the word “Bulgaria” elicited from me nothing other than romantic notions; I pictured Bulgaria in the Balkan Mountains, snow-capped and deeply forested--filled with villages where dark fairy tales were likely to come true. What we’ve encountered today, however, is the city of Sofia, a cosmopolitan, and one might say, a very civilized urban environment. Compared to Bucharest Sofia is quiet and doesn’t have some of the tough ragged edges that we had seen in Romania.
Although I was impressed with Sofia I would have to say that a few of the building we visited were somewhat glum. Orthodox churches, for example, are very beautiful from the outside with their polished gold domes and sprouting towers, but they are frankly eerie and morose on the inside--caked in hundreds of years of lamp oil and candle residue--dark and foreboding. (Much more lively was the excellent pub Michael found for us later in the day (where I left my glasses). I believe Michael already shared with you an image of the latrine.)
Like Bucharest, one of the most striking elements of Sofia are the traces of Soviet-era influence, in terms of aesthetic design of public spaces. In the days of communism, throughout Eastern Europe, buildings of epic proportions were constructed. The second largest building in the world, in fact, was built by Ceausescu in Bucharest. These buildings and edifices are cavernous, and often “modern” in their post-art deco design. Now, some of these mythic spaces, built to inspire, are left mostly empty and without much function. One such space is the murky and bizarre Palace of Culture in Sofia. It is huge, imposing, and looks like a giant truncated rocket ship. But when you go into this building there is almost no one there, and most of the doors are locked and the empty halls run on and on forever in loopy weirdness, like the architecture from a Dr. Seuss book. Occasionally you catch glimpses of lone security guards, wandering the long halls at a distance--with nothing to do. I won’t soon forget the empty posh restaurant that sits atop this edifice, nor will I forget the hundred set tables draped in red table-cloth, with not one person to sit at them, nor will I forget the long brooding expression of the maitre de, when he realized we had not come in for a meal, but only to snap a photo of the view from the terrace:
Tomorrow it is back to nonsense in earnest, with our second meeting, the scholar Lilia Ratcheva, a native Bulgarian who teaches at the Institute for Children’s Literature and Research in Literacy in Vienna. She will be our guide to Bulgarian (and possibly some Russian) nonsense literature.
Right now to my left, Kevin is waxing sublime, about our experiences in Sofia today. I, of course, will fill you in on the really important things: pull tops, meatballs, and nonsense concraptions. First off, then, is the Bulgarian pop-top bottle. It is an odd combination of the old (for us) pull tops—the kind your mama told you never, never to put back in the can for fear of swallowing it and growing a pull-top garden in your belly—and a “regular” bottle cap. Click below to see my effortless and graceful demonstration of its unheretofore-seen beauties. Is this the portmanteau of the drinking world?
Our next stop through nonsensitivities is the issue of meatballs. I present to you Exhibit A, our menu from lunch today from what should have been Divaka (according to Lonely Planet) but turned out to be a slight variant of that. Apparently, meatballs in Bulgaria fulfill new roles we strict Westerners have never dreamed of: not only are there “oblong meatballs” (a distant cousin of Edward Lear’s “oblong oysters” wethinks), but also, apparently, “nervous” meatballs. They seemed slightly sweaty. Later in the day, we went to Krâchme Sam Doidokh, where, fortuitously, we were served what appeared to be oblong meatballs. We couldn’t confirm this because the waitress spoke little English, but their oblongevity was undeniable. And tasty. Speaking of Krâchme Sam Doidokh (which was a lovely lovely pubbish place filled with cats and friendly locals), I submit to you Exhibit B, a photo of the nonsensical concraption over the toilet. I will leave its uses, of which I am sure there are many, up to you, my dear readers.
After dropping our bags off at the train station in the morning, fools that we are, we walked to the British Library in the sweltering heat and arrived sweatballs. After talking to a few helpful but befuddled Romanians, we came to the sad realization that the library had nothing, We were directed to two other libraries, but by the time we reached one, it had closed. Thus ended our fruitless hunt. Some days the nonsense sings for us; some days it flisters. The only nonsense we found today was the questionable shop name, pictured above.
In despair, we went for a lovely drink at the remote and tropical Piranha Club (complete with exotic aviaries, pools full of Piranhas, and huts on stilts), went back to the Gare du Nord (train station) and hopped into our fairly cushy cabin—or would be cushy if the air conditioning had been working. At one point around 11pm, the furrowed-browed border police came down the hall, knocking on doors, asking for passports. After a quick search in various pockets and socks Kevin took off for the bathroom at the end of the train car. It seems that, in a move of incalculable confidence, fortitude, and benevolent cross-cultural understanding, he had left his wallet, passport, a small stack of receipts, and a pile of change, all in a wee pyramidal formation in the bathroom at the end of the car, on a shelf next to the toilet under the sink. He thinks he’s losing his mind. We report, you decide.
Lastly, a quick mention of a new song borne: It's called "Das vedanya/pork and beans," features me and Kevin on vocals, me on the jaw harp, and the train on... the track. Wondering ears will know of it and others before the space ships land.
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