The bus ride through Smolyan Province was at once exhilarating and white-knuckled terror as we wound a bit too recklessly for my taste around corner after corner of “two-way,” single-lane roads. Just a few hours earlier, we were in a very ordinary Sofia hotel, choking down our grocery store picnic of stale banitsa and mealy apples. But now, we were experiencing what Rado proudly dubbed “the real Bulgaria.”
The village of Momchilovtsi is nestled into the Rhodopes, modest houses crammed one next to another on steep hillsides, white facades with terra cotta tile roofs and a grid of irregular, unpainted wooden fences. Old women carry groceries up Escher-esque flights of stairs. The crisp mountain air burns your lungs with cleanliness and the antique roadside water fountains gurgle with pure snow melt.
Literally the whole village turned out to welcome us, the Americans curiously interested in their folk music. Rado’s “little gathering” had ballooned into a formal ceremony which began with the delicious tradition of breaking fluffy white bread and smothering it in the savory chubritsa. Everyone from toddlers to grandmothers donned traditional dress: delicately embroidered white blouses, stiff black and gold jackets, heavy orange and brown aprons, and red kerchiefs. The sonorous drones of the gaida (bagpipes) vibrated our chests and bolstered the open throat singing of the women’s choir. The complex rhythms, tight harmonies, and extended technique of yips and glottals rang out into the hills, arresting my Western ear. It was dusk when I grabbed a stranger’s hand for the first time and began to dance.
The party continued at Rado’s charming, rustic cabin. Intoxicating meat smoke swirled in the backyard and rakia-fueled jam sessions erupted throughout the home. A few of my bandmates flopped down by the fire on itchy, hand-spun wool pillows.
Downstairs, Rado giddily siphoned off glass after glass of his homemade wine. Gaida blasted away in those close quarters, none of us caring if we lost our hearing to that glorious sound. We threw our arms up, careful not to spill the precious brew, and circle danced once more in that chilly, low-ceilinged cave. I looked up in sheer joy and incredulity; I couldn’t stop laughing. Taking it all in: the herbs drying from the rafters, the casks lovingly labeled in Cyrillic, and the endearingly atrocious Bulgarian of my comrades. I am not sure when I felt so drunk on life before, but I’m also sure Rado’s wine probably helped, too.