Travels

Destroyed by fire at the beginning of the 19th century, the complex was rebuilt between 1834 and 1862. A characteristic example of the Bulgarian Renaissance (18th–19th centuries), the monument symbolizes the emergence of Bulgarian cultural identity after centuries of occupation.

The museum of the Rila Monastery is particularly famous for housing Rafail's Cross, a wooden cross made from a whole piece of wood (81×43 cm). It was whittled down by a monk named Rafail using fine burins and magnifying lenses to recreate 104 religious scenes and 650 miniature figures. Work on this piece of art lasted not less than 12 years before it was completed in 1802, when the monk lost his sight.

The sweeping grounds, the historic palace, and the coastal views are simply breathtaking. Standing there, looking out over the Black Sea, it is easy to understand why it captured Gabby's imagination — and mine.

Istanbul's overwhelming scale and crowds can definitely be a lot to process, but the food culture—especially a traditional Turkish breakfast (serpme kahvaltı)—is unforgettable.

Turkish breakfast is practically an art form—there's nothing quite like spreading out dozens of small dishes filled with fresh cheeses, olives, menemen, honey with kaymak, pastırma, and endless glasses of black tea.

But what truly stole my heart were the streets of the older neighborhoods — rows of old Ottoman houses painted in the most cheerful shades of yellow, terracotta, and sage, their facades draped in greenery. These are the Yalı-style townhouses that have stood for centuries, their bay windows peeking out over the cobblestones as if leaning in to catch the conversation below. Walking past them felt like stepping into another era entirely — quieter, more human in scale, a welcome contrast to the city's relentless energy.

And then there was this corner — a sky-blue building standing tall and proud beside its neighbor, an orange one so completely swallowed by greenery that the house beneath had almost become a secret. I stopped and stared for a long time. There is something deeply joyful about a city that paints its buildings in bold, unapologetic color — as if each house decided, centuries ago, that it had a personality worth announcing. The blue one with its white plasterwork trim looked freshly painted, almost theatrical against the warm afternoon light. The orange one, half-hidden under all that green, felt like a poem about time — about how nature always, eventually, reclaims what it loves.