I decided to come to Bulgaria after listening to Scot’s stories about his visit to the town of Plovdiv in 2000. He stayed there for a month while he installed his exhibition in an old Turkish Bath that was converted into a gallery—the bath is one ancient landmark in a city brimming with landmarks. He told me stories of how he stayed in the house of a wealthy merchant (now a museum). And of the night he got drunk with the head of the National Puppet Theatre, and crawled down the ancient steps of the Roman theatre, and watched a ballet troupe perform Swan Lake. And how he spent many nights eating fresh, grilled trout in a restaurant that was next to the Thracian ruins, overlooking old Plovdiv.

My own recollections of the trip we took to Plovdiv a few days ago are a confused mélange of linden flowers, stuffy train compartments, rotting mulberries, warm yogurt, stifling heat and wild cats. Thinking about any one of these still induces a feeling of nausea.

We stayed in a dank and dark artist hostel, with rooms overtop a rather noisy taverna, which was right next to the freeway. The Ancient Roman theatre was closed, although they do still hold performances in it. We never did find the head of the puppet theatre. The restaurant is still next to the Thracian ruins, but the night we went all the tables were reserved for the tour coaches that now flock to Plovdiv.

The Rough Guide to Bulgaria describes Plovdiv as a painter’s dream; that sentiment was lost on me because I spent two nights and days wishing I could either stop throwing up or just die.