Teh Viscount's London

This entry on the Sofia metro is fairly short, for reasons that will become apparent...

Whereas the London Underground is proudly turning 150 years old, the Metro in the Bulgarian capital of Sofia is brand new, and still being built.

There're currently two lines, a red one and a blue one, which join up at the top (or bottom, depending how you read the map).  I'm not sure whether the completed configuration will form an 8 or an A.  There's going to be a third line, which will probably still form one of those wacky Cyrillic letters they use over there to confuse foreigners.




The construction is a deep cut-and-cover trench, which allows for spacious stations with plenty of headroom and platform depth.  The trains are likewise large and boxy.  I boarded at the station called European Union, which is next to the Sofia City Centre (SCC) shopping complex.  The SCC is:

1) Nowhere near the centre of Sofia
2) Utterly rubbish.  

I feel like a disgusting Capitalist pigdog when I visit a foreign country and see it, as in the SCC, splattered with McDonald's and KFC and Nike genericdom.  Even though, technically, it is not my fault.




Anyway, the EU station is brightly lit, and has a rather nice multi-layered metal sculpture which mixes together the EU 12-star symbol and the Euro sign. I imagine the edges have been smoothed off appropriately to meet an EU Regulation.




The plaque beneath the metalwork gives thanks for the financial contributions of the 'European Regional Development Fund' and the 'Cohesion Fund of the European Union'.  Such snappy names these EU committees give themselves.  Perhaps they're more stylish nomenclatures in French.

Because I have testicles, I am a man,  Or, perhaps, the other way round.  Either way, my scrotal munificence means that I [believe I have] an innate sense of bearing and polar North, and consequentially, a deep-seated fear of asking for directions, lest my magnetically-sensitive gonads be proved misaligned.  Which would obviously be a painful experience.

The upshot of which being that I misread the Metro map.  I therefore went two stops in the wrong direction, and ended up on an empty train in the sidings, being shouted at by the driver.  In Bulgarian.  Shouldn't they check the trains are empty, rather than assuming that all the passengers know which way up the Metro map goes?




That fundom behind me, I was relieved when shortly later the train left the sidings and returned to normal operation.  I decided to ride the train to the [other] end of the line.  I'd seen from an earlier taxi ride [they're cheap over there, I'm not suddenly rich.  Despite being a Capitalist pigdog] that the line emerged from its underground trench and was covered by a plastic chute, which looked like it might be fun to see (whereas London trains just emerge from their tunnels, blinking and startled, rudely exposed to the grey twilight and icy rains of a British summer).

So, a short ride later, I alighted at Obelya station, the top crossbar of the current A.  Here, the station is in a tunnel of blue plastic, much like a huge water slide.




At this point, there was an announcement over the station intercom in, of course, Bulgarian.  A nearby and timid member of station staff gestured that I should stand behind the yellow-tiled line.  As a seasoned Londoner, and since the next train wasn't due for 4 minutes, I thought this a little OTT (another EU Regulation?), but was content to comply whilst taking another few pictures of the distinctly-DLR-like Lego-coloured station.

I was surprised when the policeman came up the escalator and approached me.  He had clearly been summoned (by, I suspect, that fucking creep of station staff), to address some transgression.  He gestured that I should not consider boarding the train that had just pulled in.  I herefollowing recreate the conversation with startling accuracy:

POLICEMAN:  Something in Bulgarian 

ME: Oh hai, Mr Big Policeman Man! Do you speak English, officer? 

POLICEMAN: Something in Bulgarian 

ME: Um, sorry, I don't understand.  Do you speak English?  Incidentally, you're a quite a scary looking man.  You could probably crush me. Please don't.

POLICEMAN: Annoyed - something in Bulgarian. 

ME: Err, would you like to see the pictures?  Are the pictures a problem?  Do you speak English?  You would look less scary if you shaved occasionally. Or perhaps cleaned your teeth.

POLICEMAN:  Annoyed - something in Bulgarian...  Passport! 

ME: Ah, passport!  Um, no, it's in the hotel room, in the safe, along with, now I think of it, my wallet, containing, for example, my bank cards, and all sorts of other acceptable ID forms.  Do you speak English? Are the pictures the problem?  I begin to show him my photos of the Metro and other random crap like the shopping centre, and a can of beer with a funny name that I had the night before.

POLICEMAN:  Something in Bulgarian...  Passport!

ME: Ah, no, I still don't have my passport?  Do you want to see more photos?  This is like a modern version of a post-holiday slideshow.  How odd.  Aren't digital cameras amazing?  At this point I remember that my driving license is tucked into my jacket pocket, as an earlier precaution to ensure I am allowed to purchase alcohol.  My youthful good looks can be a real drag when trying to get pissed.  Aha!  My driving license!  I now cannot legally be sent off to a gulag to endure 20 years in a salt mine!  I think.  Is that right?

POLICEMAN:  Something in Bulgarian...  He looks at the driving licence.  Then at me.  He hands me back the driving license.  He points to the camera.  Ne! 

ME:  Is that No, as in 'I don't want to see any more pictures', or No, as in 'Don't take any more pictures?'  You know, I think I'll just not take any more pictures.  I don't want to be sent to Siberia.  I need to be back in work on Monday.

POLICEMAN:  Something in Bulgarian...  He walks away.

ME:  You still scare me, Mr Big Policeman Man.  I board the next train with slightly wobbly knees and sit down with utmost care not to break any laws.

I did not take any more pictures on the Sofia Metro.

When heading from Copenhagen airport to the centre of town, I decided to eschew the direct train, and go a slightly more protracted route on the new Metro.  In fact, as the Metro doesn't serve Central Station (presumably putting it on a strategic par with Fenchuch Street), I also got to go on one of the mainline suburban trains too.




The Danes like their design, and like the neighbouring country of Ikea, they like things minimal.  The trains are large and wide, and the floating seats allow easy cleaning of the floor (which was slushy with melted snow and grit).  But this unrelenting efficiency makes them a little characterless, feeling a bit like a cross between the plastic delights of the Croydon Tramlink and the DLR.  Although, like the DLR, you can go right to the front and pretend to drive / be taking off from Battlestar Galactica.  Should that sort of thing roll your stock.




The Metro stations also seem to be of a uniform design.  Symmetrical escalators zigzag up towards the skylights, whilst the metal-panelled walls make the whole place feel a bit surgical and cold.  But nonetheless hi-tech and pleasantly shiny.




I had hoped to take a river taxi too, but the canals had frozen over.  It was cold.

The Blue Lines are quite different, however.  They seem to be (perhaps because they are) hewn from rock.   It's like installing a metro system in Wookey Hole.