Another Night, Another Beer, But Always Kamenitza
Saturday
We are one of two international flights to arrive at the Plovdiv airport this morning—so says the sole, undersized arrivals board that’s written in utilitarian, monospaced, geometric block font that I think is pretty cool. The entire airport is kind of cool, with its concrete and glass, patchy plaster fixes, and burgundy and forest green pleather benches. I am shocked to find out it was built in 2009 and not 1979. Plovdiv is Bulgaria’s fourth busiest airport, but the arrivals hall is apocalyptically empty when we arrive and it was the same situation last year. Its quietude is familiar.
This is my family’s second time in the country. We are here for an Eastern European winter holiday because skiing in the Rhodopes is a lot more affordable than the Alps or the Rockies. My 7-year-old’s lift pass costs $25; that’s a cool ten times less than it would be in Jackson Hole, and we are no tech magnates. Wouldn’t you rather go skiing in Pamporovo than Gstaad? I love places and things that fly a bit under the radar. Bulgarian skiing, though perhaps not for everyone, is squarely in my wheelhouse; happily, I married a man who’s on board with my travel vibes and am raising a son who is as well.
Our first stop post-airport is a visit to the grocery store. We struggle to extricate a shopping cart. Bulgaria switched to the Euro six weeks prior, and we only have British pounds and leftover lev from last year’s trip—or so we think: I have eventual success with an Azerbaijani manat I dig out from the creases of my travel wallet.
We stock up. Tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, and apples. Eggs and cheese and bread and ajar. Coffee. Beer. Popsicles and microwave popcorn for the kiddo. A couple bars of chocolate for the husband. A few cans of Coca-Cola. And we head up into the mountains.
We arrive in Pamporovo in time for the party. Unlike last year, it’s not snowing. The tabletop dancing persists, however. As does the smoking. Between the neon fashion stylings, the wafts of Marlboros, and the vibrating techno music, I’m not quite sure where or when I am, but I’m into it, and so is my son, who immediately starts dancing and throwing snowballs. Husband, meanwhile, is ready for a drink.
Jäger shots. Kamenitza beers. A much-needed snack of patatnik—a lavash-wrapped “cake” of shredded potato mixed with farmer’s cheese, dried dill and dried mint, plus Smolyan beans with parsley and raw red onion. The snack becomes dinner with the addition of a kebapche dusted with cumin and salt, a Bulgarian “pizza” with potatoes, cheeses and dried oregano. The techno starts inside now too, with some ’90s hits (“Be My Lover” will be stuck in my head for days) thrown in for good measure. Another night, another dream, but always you, and a basement full of cigarette smoke, and vodka-and-coke-drinking waitstaff having staff meal before Valentine’s night dinner service.
Bulgarian ski holiday is on—or so we believe.
Sunday
As luck would not have it, it’s pouring down rain today and the slopes are closed. We head to the town of Smolyan instead of up to the top of the Studenets chairlift.
We stop for coffee at a local bar. I sink into a beige-pink overstuffed sofa chair across from a wall-hung television whose visible cords nearly blend into the busy background of the gold and red damask wallpaper. A red glass chandelier hangs overhead: IKEA meets baroque meets Murano. It’s all some kind of vibe I can’t place, but I’m oddly comforted by it and the excellent cappuccino.
For lunch, we feast. First up: fresh-from-the-oven flatbread covered in sesame and pumpkin seeds and brushed with melted, salted butter. Incredible. They call it “Turkish bread.” We eat it with a large platter of olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, hard sheep cheese, soft, cottage-y cheese, and roasted red peppers. I also order a plate of feta-like cow cheese. So far, so spectacular. We order beers too. Why not? We’re on holiday and we are definitely not skiing today. We get some lutenitsa, as well. Our host Nicky says his mother would smear it on a piece of bread and hand it to him as he headed out the door to play with friends after school. He is a 65-year-old local and our ski instructor and designated driver for the day. He’s drinking a non-alcoholic beer, and tells us that he hasn’t seen winter rain like this for at least 40 years.
Out comes a bowl of Smolyan bean soup.(We are, after all, in Smolyan and I had to try their namesake beans in situ. I vow to have a version at every restaurant we visit this week. I tell myself that the health benefits of a daily bean-filled lunch will cancel out the inevitable late-afternoon Jäger shots and beers. A platter of intensely rich medium-firm, highly (yet delectably) salted polenta that actually tastes like corn arrives next. It’s covered in shredded white cheese, and is heavy and warming and we can’t finish it all. I’m in love. I love it here. And I’m stuffed.
A rock avalanche blocks the road back up to Pamporovo. The return trip takes double the usual time. Taylor Swift is on the local radio, and she’s right: It’s just a temporary speed bump. Tomorrow is a new day and hopefully the slopes will be open.
An apple and a beer and a sesame breadstick for dinner.
Monday
We eat fried eggs with adjar, cucumber, tomato, and surprisingly overly farm-y cheese. The toaster stamps our bread with “I heart you.” I didn’t know that was something that could be done.
Our coffee is Nespresso pods. I hate Nespresso pods. So wasteful, but I’m grateful for the caffeine. Our rental apartment is straight out of an IKEA showroom: Kallax. Malm. Ektorp. The bathroom, however, reminds me of my years in China in the ’90s and 2000s: There’s a mop and squeegee and bucket in one corner, a pedestal sink, and, right next to the toilet, a wall-mounted handheld shower and a small, white plastic stool. The walls and floors are covered in glossy burgundy and white tiles. The water is hot and the pressure is great, and I’m relieved the shower isn’t directly above a squat toilet like it was in Kunming twenty-some years ago. I didn’t immediately realize it was, however, directly above the toilet paper.
Today is very wet. Skiing on mush and slush and in the rain is a new experience for me. How funny is it that someone once thought to strap pieces of wood to their feet and slide down snow-clad hills? I smile despite the fact that my mittens are soaked through and it’s not even midday.
The towering pines and Rhodope mountains are (when snow-covered, at least) something out of a winter wonderland fairytale. I feel joy and peace and cold and wet all at once. I am the happiest I have been in ages.
After the 7-year-old melts down, we lunch. In a wooden mountain hut, seated in front of a roaring fire that I hope will dry out my mittens. Day two of Smolyan bean soup for me. Goulash for my husband. A wet ginger and white cat joins us. I feed her some cheese from a shopska salad and a chunk of chicken from my son’s soup.
The afternoon brings more rain. I feel like a wet dog. Thank goodness for après-ski beers and “Rhythm Is a Dancer” playing over the loudspeakers. The waitstaff are smoking in the basement again, and we snack on a baked cheese, tomato, and egg dish that feels like a cross between a shakshuka and a baked feta.
Back at the apartment, potatoes are boiled and mashed together with yesterday’s leftover polenta for dinner. I microwave-steam some broccoli, too. We listen to a playlist called “’80s Ski Rock” and drink beers with our meal. We watch the Olympics and play Go Fish.
The snow begins to fall as we sleep.
Anna Ansari is an Iranian-American food writer and former international trade attorney whose work explores how food moves—across borders, cultures, and generations. Her debut cookbook, Silk Roads: A Flavour Odyssey from Baku to Beijing, blends recipes with travel, family stories, and history, and was shortlisted for the 2026 Fortnum & Mason Debut Cookery Book Award and the 2026 Guild of Food Writers Debut Book Award. She has also been shortlisted for the Guild of Food Writers 2026 Food Writer of the Year Award for her writing in independent publications. With academic training in Asian and Middle Eastern studies, Anna lives in East London with her husband, son and cat, and believes deeply in the power of the home kitchen to tell global stories.
