Bulgaria: Where the Mountains Meet the Sea. This makes Lasnamäe look really good

 

Our hotel breakfast was great - the kind where you feel you might need a nap afterward. There were pastries, fruits, cheeses, eggs in every form… the works. But as we were heading out, we made a rather tragic discovery: they’d hidden the sparkling wine somewhere off to the side, far away from the rest of the buffet. By the time we noticed, we were already walking out the door. A true breakfast crime.

Today’s plan: a little road trip to Plovdiv, Bulgaria’s charming ancient city. We had a rental car booked, of course, and were meant to pick it up at 9 a.m. When we rolled up around 10 (details, details) to the edge of the park where the car was supposedly waiting, we quickly realized… there was no rental office. Just trees, benches, and a very patient lady who had been standing there for an hour waiting for us. Apparently, the “office” was simply her favorite parking spot. Fifteen minutes and a few signatures later, we were off!

Plovdiv is only about an hour and a half from Sofia - but why go straight when you can dramatically detour into the mountains?

The beginning of the detour was stunning: fiery autumn leaves, winding roads, postcard-perfect scenery. Then, as we climbed higher, the fog rolled in - thick enough to make us feel like we were driving through heavy clouds. Visibility dropped to about two meters, and in an entire hour we saw exactly one other car. It felt almost eerie.

Our first planned village stop involved a steep, gravelly road descending almost vertically, so we took one look and collectively decided: not today. The next village was friendlier - perfect for a photo stop. As soon as I stepped out of the car, though, I managed to plant my boot squarely into a pile of something organic that clearly wasn’t leaves. Ten solid minutes of scraping later, I had learned a valuable life lesson: never step off Bulgarian roads without checking your surroundings first.

Luckily, a bit further along, we found a random outdoor tap with running water in a park (what are the odds?), and I gave my boots the spa treatment they deserved. We crossed over a hydroelectric dam, descended from the mist, and an hour later rolled into Plovdiv.

Our first stop: doughnuts. There’s a place there rumored to have the best ones in Bulgaria, and after one bite of the salted caramel and cherry ones and without even having seen any other doughnuts yet, I can confirm - the rumors are true. We even got a plain one “for the road,” though to be honest, it barely survived three steps before disappearing.

We wandered through the Old Town, climbing up to the ancient ruins. Plovdiv is one of the oldest cities in Europe, and you can feel it - cobblestone streets, pastel houses, and the kind of views that make you forget your calves are burning. From the top, you can see the modern blocks stretching out below. Scott took one look and said, “You know, Lasnamägi is starting to look pretty good.” A true compliment - if you know, you know.

After some aimless strolling and a few disappointing cookies, we headed back to Sofia for dinner.

The plan was a famous ribs restaurant — smoky, hearty, the real deal. Except… when we arrived, they told us it was fully booked. Just as we were about to slink away in defeat, the hostess came running after us, waving her notepad: “I checked wrong — we can fit you in!” And just like that, we were saved. Dinner was superb.

Where Mountains meet Magic. Above the Clouds in Pyrenees

When we rented the car, the grand plan was simple enough: pick it up in Nice, drive through the mountains to Andorra, then head to Barcelona and drop it off there. Easy, right? Except that returning the car in Barcelona apparently costs a casual €600. (for that price, I’d expect the car to drive itself home, maybe stop for a croissant on the way).

So, we revised the plan. The new drop-off point became Perpignan, the nearest French city to the Spanish border. The only catch? We had to be there by 9am, or face a late fee. The plan was to leave at six, meaning most of the drive would be in the dark. But then, last night, a thought struck: if we leave before sunrise, we’ll miss it—the mountains, the clouds, the first light of the day. When would we get this moment again? So we agreed: if it costs us an extra hour or two, so be it. Some things are worth more than punctuality.

At seven sharp, we hit the road. Around half past seven, the first hints of dawn began to stretch across the sky. A soft pink glow rose behind the mountains, and the valleys below filled with drifting white clouds - like a giant sea of cotton. The air was crisp, the silence broken only by the hum of the tires, and for a while it felt like driving through a dream. The peaks turned golden as the sun climbed higher, the whole landscape bathed in warm light. And then, as quickly as it appeared, the magic faded. By eight-thirty, we were back in the real world - sunshine, traffic, and Gaili, ever the mapreader telling us to take the next exit.

We dropped off the car in Perpignan, planning to stroll around, grab breakfast, and maybe explore a bit before catching a ride to Barcelona. But travel plans have a mind of their own - apparently, only a couple of buses and trains leave Perpignan each day. So, after handing over the keys, we went straight to the bus station, grabbed something to eat, and waited for our fashionably late bus.

By three o’clock, we were in Barcelona. We checked into our hotel, dropped our bags, and immediately went hunting for something sweet. The first cookie café we found was good enough - huge cookies, cold milk, and the satisfaction of being back in Barcelona.

The rest of the day was pleasantly uneventful: a bit of wandering, a dinner of arepas, and an early night. After all, we’d already had the best part of the day long before breakfast - somewhere up in the mountains, chasing the sunrise and driving above the clouds.

Where Mountains meet Magic. Cold Coffee, Clean Bins, and Mountain Views

After yesterday’s long day on the road, today’s plan was simple: take it slow. Since we were still full from last night’s dinner, we decided to just pop out for coffee. The morning air was freezing — think 10°C after yesterday’s 25°C in Nice — so I was already dreaming of sipping a steaming hot latte.

Scott ordered a cookie frappuccino, and I, for some reason, very confidently asked for an Iced Brown Sugar Latte. I walked up to the counter, took my drink, and was genuinely shocked that my iced coffee was… cold. To this moment, I still have no idea what I was thinking ordering an iced drink when all I wanted was warmth.
Luckily, Scott once again saved the day. He chatted with the barista, explained my tragic coffee miscalculation, and somehow managed to get me a free hot cappuccino instead. The barista even threw in a few pumps of syrup — bless them.

Coffees in hand, we headed back to the hotel, grabbed the car, and drove up into the mountains. Near the village of Canillo, we paid €6 per person and took a walk up to a spectacular viewing platform with nearly 360-degree mountain views. We were among the first ones there, the weather was perfect, and the scenery was absolutely worth it.

Back in the village, we stopped for a quick snack — or so we thought. What arrived could have easily fed a small African country. My buckwheat galette with goat cheese, walnuts, and honey was delicious. Scott only managed to eat half of his salmon salad before surrendering.
As we sat there, people-watching and digesting, we noticed something fascinating about Andorra’s dedication to cleanliness: apparently, it was trash bin washing day. Yes, an actual truck was driving around washing the street bins one by one. Sparkling clean!

After a short rest back at the hotel, we went for an evening walk — admired some modern tube-and-bath-style sculptures (don’t ask), wandered along the river and through the old town, and noticed that Andorra has the same quirky pole-top statues as Nice. We then lingered around until 8 p.m., waiting for the restaurants to finally open.

We chose a cozy-looking place in a side street. However, since we weren’t guests at the hotel attached to the restaurant, our food apparently wasn’t a top priority. Luckily, we weren’t in any rush — and when our dishes finally arrived, they were absolutely worth the wait. Maximum deliciousness.

Go Blue. Dairy Queen, deers & no donuts, a whirlwind week in Michigan

                                          

After days of anticipation (and a lot of silent panic), Thursday finally brought sweet happyness - we made it to Dairy Queen! Crisis averted. I was genuinely starting to worry that my beloved Blizzard would remain just a dream.

That evening, feeling sugar-fueled, we set out for a sunset walk around the neighborhood. Enter the deers. Herds of them. We counted 15 on a single street corner, standing there like they owned the place. Just staring. Judging. It was a beautifully warm night, the sky painted in pinks and golds, and we spotted dozens of pink blossoming trees looking straight out of Louvre. I even managed to get a few good photos taken of me, proving that yes, I was present for the magic.

For Friday night’s dinner I whipped up Pad Thai and kringel (because why not combine Thai street food with Estonian pastry?). All four of us enjoyed it and - dare I say it - I was pretty proud of myself.

Saturday meant a return to my happy place: Ann Arbor. We wandered the well familiar streets, grabbed some mini cupcakes, and attempted to revisit the mini donut place... which, to our dismay, had vanished into the entrepreneurial void.

We also walked down our street, and wrapped the day with Zingerman’s sandwiches - an absolute must. The ordering system was smooth: order on a screen, receive a text when it’s ready and go pick it up. Easy. But then came the tip screen, already defaulted to 18%. It was me placing the order, Scott picking it up, and naturally, we couldn’t decide who deserved the tip. In the end, the great stalemate meant… no tip. We worked for free.

On Sunday, we witnessed what seemed to be half the town doing yoga in a neighbor’s yard. Quite the sight. Later, we headed to Common Grill in Chelsea for dinner. It had been years - since Scott’s birthday in 2019 (or was it 2018?) - but it was just as amazing as we remembered. The menu still has a few items calling my name. Next time, perhaps.

Monday delivered another Dairy Queen moment (because why stop at one?), followed by dinner at an Italian restaurant that fully embraced the motto “Go big or go home.” The portions were enormous. Like, “you’ll need a to-go box and a nap” enormous.

And then came Tuesday - airport and airplane day. Armed with a Cookie Crumble Starbucks Frappuccino, I boarded three flights and eventually made it back home on Wednesday afternoon.