Maladets! lands in Bulgaria

I am the kind of guy who always, even if I bring nothing else than my passport and an issue of the Economist, must give away something at the security check when i try to board a plane. I guess it is my left wing history that shines through...

About a year ago, when I left Bulgaria, I had packed my much loved swiss army knife in the hand luggage, which I had to give up, of course. That is kind of understandable, as it is not hard to imgagine how an able terrorist could threaten the pilot with a Swiss army knife. This time, however, I was forced to hand two Risifrutti rice-meals over to the authorities.

It really gets me thinking... how on earth could I hijack a plane with a Risifrutti? Isn't my belt a better weapon. Theoretically, on the James Bond level, I could shred my T-shirt, and use it to  strangle the pilot. But a Risifrutti? If I threw it and hit him, it wouldn't even hurt.

Airport rules are silly. Every day thousand of people are checked, their bags are turned inside out and schampoos and rice meals are confiscated. I wish some sociologist would examine how people accept such humiliation treatment without a complaint. Imagine if someone told you that you can't bring a bottle of water on the train - most people would just laugh at that.

Maybe it is some kind of feeling that you are important, and that flying is a special activity that makes people accept anything on an airport. Maybe it is their own fear of terrorist who can turn water into bombs that creates this enormous confidence in custom-servants.

I don't know. Once I was in the plane, everything was just fine. I got to sleep, to read and to eat the parts of my food that was not liquid. We flew low cost, so there was no food on the plane, but I can't say that I missed it. I missed the Risifrutti, though.

And once in Bulgaria... what can you say? This country has an ease and a charm that is just conjuringg, especially in the summer. some firend surprised us with meeting up at the airport. Then we spent the mellow evening in Borisovata Gradina, eating the mandatory fried potatoes with chees and kebabche. A beer to that - and life is as close to perfect as it gets.

This trip has begun more than well.