A Week in Paradise is a sharply observed and darkly humorous account of three Bulgarians arriving in newly reunified Berlin — a city still trembling with history and possibility. The protagonists, Vladko, his brother Boyan, and Vladko’s wife Teodora, form a classic triangle of temperaments: the introvert-dreamer, the self-assured pragmatist, and the sharp-eyed realist. Through their perspectives, we witness not only the culture shock of East meeting West, but also the quiet unraveling of inherited illusions and social roles. What was meant to be a joyful visit becomes, subtly and insistently, a test of identity.

The story unfolds in a tone that blends irony with affection, capturing the sense of being both awestruck and out of place. Berlin is not just a physical location here; it is a mirror held up to the Balkan psyche — full of orderly flower stands, wealth measured in bananas, and awkward family reunions that blur the lines between longing and discomfort. The beauty of the prose lies in how effortlessly it shifts registers: from the biting sarcasm of internal monologue to the warmth of familial memory, from existential musings to slapstick misunderstandings in train stations and platforms.

But beneath the humour and social commentary runs a deeper current — a quiet meditation on the strange fragility of selfhood when placed against the backdrop of a vastly different, more “functional” world. A Week in Paradise is, in the end, not about Germany at all, but about the intimate collisions that occur whenever one crosses an invisible border — between countries, classes, or selves.