Varna don’t usurp the name of our French Riviera. Varna don’t imitate the craziness of Ibiza. This propensity to compare cities between each other, although it can quickly help to imagine Varna, is disrespectful to its own personality and identity. Varna is not the French city of Nice or the Spanish one of Ibiza. Varna has its own identity unequivocal : the seaside and festive Bulgarian city. It is far from being the most beautiful, but seduces by its pleasant and charming folklore.
A stretch of sand interposes between a dark sea and its coastline. The feet in the water, the restaurants and bars terraces, and open sky nightclubs, roughly agglutinate in what looks like old docks, fisher houses, covered markets or hangars high ceiling when they have one. In the street, some graffiti and nature at the assault of the walls and sidewalks, tarnish the table.
The same goes for the beach. Maybe I’m too used to frequent La Mala Beach and the « Baie des Anges ». Some naked bodies wakes up my voyeurism. My reptilian brain slows down my footstep already braked by difficult walk on the sand. I observe this group of girls. And the one who reads.
Clouded by this vision, my logic tells me that my discretion would be sure at the terrace floor of this restaurant. The scars hammered by my feet on the sand lead to a colonial style white wooden construction. Beautiful, especially compared to its ugly neighborhood.
I lunch a French cooking with Marc Raffard from JFD Broker. I digests while feinting to watch the horizon whereas my gaze is fasten on some indented or absent swimsuits, all under the pace of the tale of the Bulgarian adventures of Marc.
The water that he served me rewarded the painful ascent to his office at JFD’s one, at some short footstep from the beach. The visit is fastly done and by sweeping the gaze the huge room. This is an open-space, and few individual offices are closed by transparent glass. Everything is transparent at JFD, to resume their slogan. I tread on a blue carpet to the office of Mark and began my interview which turned into a fascinating discussion. But that’s for another article.
When the night robs the last light of twilight, the coastline is unrecognizable and the true Varna exposes itself proudly : fairs, festivals and concerts, nightclubs, restaurants, trading arteries coagulated… an hemorrhage of people ! The city is such transformed that I don’t recognize it anymore. I go forward under the caresses of passersby. Some more virile than others. Rally the beaches is a lost challenge in this crowd. I gave up. I drifted in this human torrent. I beached on a familiar shore. I soon find my way and tumble to the 4AS for a night that will convict me about the trumps of Varna. Sofia will be my wife, and Varna my mistress.
The rain did not prevent neither the dancers nor the wild girls to continue to dance. Showered, and conquered, I decided to come back and end my adventure Bulgarian. Tomorrow, Istanbul. I will linger in Varna on my coming back.
And to end in a good note :