St. Pococurantis

I have a confession to make. I'm sufferring from church fatigue. Here is my past week in Bulgaria. Sozopol - 3 churches. Nesebar - 7 churches. Varna - 2 churches. Veliko Tarnovo - 4 churches. That's just the past week. I've seen churches from the first centuries of christianity. Roman churches. Byzantine churches. Underground cave churches. Gothic churches. Neo-gotchic churches. Eastern Orthodox churches. Greek Orthodox churches. Modern churches. Ruined churches. Painted churches. Restored churches. Churches in session. Churches in atheist nations. Tours of churches. Empty churches. Churches at night. Churches in the rain. I've seen a lot of churches.

I have not, however, given up on churches. Like a bacteria adapting to the latest antibiotic, I've developed countermeasures again the pennicilin of ennui. Sometimes I'll pay excessive attention to a single detail, perhaps the facial expression on a saint or the texture of a candelabra. Other times I'll try to imagine the church as it was centuries ago, gregorian chants reverberating between the stone walls. Adventuring beyond the designated pathways can revive a church as well; a closed door is not a locked door.

Still, these strategies require effort. On certain days the call of the hammock wins out over the church bells. I readily succumb to indolence and cease the impossible struggle of soaking in every experience while traveling. For these reasons, it was all the more rewarding when I happenned upon a church that genuinely captured my interest. No special effort required. I'll allow some photos to capture the essence of its hauntingly austere interior.