It is normal, probably, to expect things to have changed after having been away for any given length of time. Sometimes one wishes that things would change more, that, upon returning, the roads would be smoother, people would be more considerate and that there would not be so much trash everywhere.

Things do change, though — cherry season has become apricot season; the former cleaning supplies store that went pod naem a few days before departure is, upon return, seemingly rented, or the signs have simply fallen down; city traffic is notably reduced, as a good portion of the population has left for holiday.

A coffee avtomat has been installed in front of the little supermarket across the street from my block. And best yet, it has the option of providing one’s own cup (think less rubbish).

Coming back to the coffee was one of the good things of the return to Bulgaria: the coffee on the European river-cruise boat (this being the holiday of choice of my grandma and mum and, hence, me) was horrid.

First impressions once back in Sofia otherwise served to confirm my pessimism — upon landing at the airport, a passenger raised a question about some luggage she had checked late. While the airport crew attempted to find an answer, the rest of us — two buses full — were held in the heat on the tarmac. So, welcome home — the first thing out front is three overflowing dumpsters. Yum.

Being in Austria and Germany was just so... nice. Litter was near non-existent, the pavements did not ruin one’s shoes or break one’s toes, people practised social niceties like please and thank you, men did not go around spitting everywhere and very few people smoked.

Something did, initially, disturb me: the men did not check me out. At first I was worried, like: “Do I look really bad today or something? Do I have a booger hanging from my nose?” And then I realised that (!) they had probably been taught that it is impolite to stare, which obviously would extend to the obvious checking out of women. (Goodness, have I been in Bulgaria for that long?)

Apparently yes, because the first thing I did when arriving on the River Harmony (our boat) in Vienna was to ask at reception if they had any crew from the Balkans. Most of them were, thankfully, because I could not imagine spending 15 days with 118 Americans with an average age of 70, without some kind of relief.

I will not go into the type of people that take such cruises, suffice to say that they are of the surprisingly well-travelled type, but still do not understand why one cannot use dollars in Europe.

Or that the capital of Bulgaria is Sofia, and not Bucharest or Budapest, or that, yes, we do have mobile phones here.

Though, it is easy to see why the world loves Americans —they are the most easy-going, guileless folk, and our fellow shipmates were darling.

With our three tour guides (aka, programme directors: Alex from Austria, Daniel from the Netherlands, Gudrun from Austria), we were led around the 14 most-significant river cities from Vienna to Amsterdam.

(This is possible due to the Main-Danube Canal that only opened in 1992, though such had been attempted as far back as Charlemagne.)

On this cruise, the beds were comfortable; my age was thought to be, on average, 18; that one semester of college German eight years ago (see, I’m much older than 18!) came back; I read and became a proponent of The Song of Roland (hilarious); I realised what a backwards shit hole Bulgaria is; I realised how much I really want to go back to school to study viticulture and oenology; there was a blessing of no computer and no cell phones; there was a case of mutual infatuation (it had to happen, eh) with one of the programme directors; there was much talking and joking with the crew on board; I felt like a good will ambassador for Bulgaria; Mum and Grandma and I had blissful conversation, strolls around towns, and hugs; and there was time to catch up on sleep.

We did, also, watch the final match of Euro 2008 while in Wertheim, Germany, with the town residents on the central square (elation deflated); visit the Wurtzburg Residenz, where an impressive ceiling fresco by Giovanni Tiepolo survived World War 2, and in which America is represented as sitting on a crocodile (Europe sits on a bull, if you were wondering); and Mum and I walked the Weinwanderweg up to Marienberg fortress, and it was so nice to just be with her and talk...

Because no matter where you are, or what you do or where you visit, it is really the people with whom you spend the time that makes a holiday what it is.