Perforatio
When I’m travelling I like to look for recurring themes that like a red string indicate that my journey is following a symbolic route. It was not difficult to find one in Bulgaria.
The day I arrived I took the bus from the airport into town. I had hardly bought the ticket from the driver when a woman collector got on to check the fares. As soon as I handed my ticket she grumbled in a reproachful tone of voice “Perforatio!!”. The rebuke for not punching the scrap of paper was the only consequence of my offence. The woman, in an offended silence, headed to the punching machine and stretched her arms to reach it because it was placed so high up between two windows that even on tiptoes she was barely able to insert my ticket. I remained with the funny word perforatio ringing in my ear. In the midst of a Slav language it sounded so familiarly romance that I’m even spelling it the Latin way.
Just as I was plodding up the gloomy staircase carrying my luggage, Violeta was coming down to take out the garbage. Guessing I was looking for accommodation at the hostel she turned about and welcomed me into the flat. A youthful woman with a smiling face, she comes across as kind and motherly.