A remarkable woman Maria, last name Popova, like the Russian artist. she has long black hair, a long black skirt to her ankles, petite, rib cage bird cage, delicate and elegant, smoking cigarette after cigarette through a wooden cigarette holder as she lounges in the open window of the ICA kitchen. I lean against the counter and drink black coffee and eat cookies out of a bag. We track the history of contemporary art and actions through a series of magnets stuck on the wall.
I am surprised and pleased to look at the least, but not less compelling, installation space which is housed in the top kitchen drawer, and at the moment contains a mechanical facsimile of an exhibition that has never occurred. she tells me of an artist action where a small no longer used train station was made out to become the contemporary museum of Sofia, there is none, and how all the press and dignitaries tuned out for the opening night arriving at an empty and locked suburban train station.
There is more talk about the protests in Istanbul, solidarity and the desire to keep abreast of new developments.
Back at the hostel for my last evening i share a beer, here beer comes in liter and half plastic jugs like soda does in the states. Sitting with Olga and Orlin in the common area upstairs. they silently smoke as static comes over the radio and the pigeons put their brood to sleep.
Bulgarian Chinese food for dinner as I pack.