In a sun-dappled park on the outskirts of a quaint Bulgarian town, the murmur of spring leaves blended with the hushed conversations of its elder residents. Among them, a small group of old ladies, their faces etched with the wisdom of decades, gathered on a worn wooden bench. Their usual discussions of grandchildren and garden woes soon turned to a topic that had recently dominated the national news: the euro.
“Do you know,” began one, leaning forward conspiratorially, “the Bulgarian currency, the lev, is going to be replaced by the euro.”
A collective sigh rippled through the group. “When?” another asked, her voice laced with a familiar apprehension.
“Starting next year, they say. January 1st, 2026,” the first replied, her tone reflecting the gravity of the announcement. “The lev will become worthless, they claim.”
“Oh, I don’t want that,” exclaimed a third, her hand instinctively clutching the worn fabric of her purse. “We’ll be penniless then, won’t we?”
The news, officially confirmed by both the European Commission and the European Central Bank just the day before, had indeed marked Bulgaria as the 21st nation poised to join the single currency area. The Commission’s “convergence report” lauded Bulgaria’s economic alignment with the euro zone, stating it met the formal criteria for adoption. Yet, for many Bulgarians, particularly those who had lived through profound economic and political shifts, the official pronouncements carried a different weight.
“We have to exchange our money before that happens,” a more pragmatic voice interjected.
“What’s the exchange rate?” came the immediate query, a practical concern outweighing the emotional.
“They haven’t said clearly yet,” was the uncertain reply.
A moment of silence passed, filled only by the distant laughter of children. Then, one of the women, her gaze fixed on the ancient oak tree before them, declared, “I’m going to keep half of it in lev.”
“Why?” her friend asked, bewildered.
“Because the EU will collapse someday anyway,” she stated with conviction, a sentiment shared by a significant portion of the population. A recent Eurobarometer poll revealed that 50% of Bulgarians now harbored skepticism about the euro, a stark contrast to the initial enthusiasm when the country joined the EU in 2007. Fears of price hikes, a common concern in previous euro adoptions, loomed large.
“Right,” her companions nodded in agreement.
“The pigs of the former Soviet Union are gone, and now the pigs of the EU are acting all high and mighty, but they’re still pigs,” she continued, her voice gaining a quiet intensity. “One day they’ll suddenly turn their tails between their legs and run away somewhere.” Her eyes, though clouded by age, held a sharp memory. “The reason my brothers and sisters didn’t starve to death was because I didn’t tell the pigs about the money I had hidden under my floorboards.”
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the park, highlighting the enduring resilience and deep-seated caution of a generation that had learned to trust little beyond their own resourcefulness. While Brussels celebrated a new milestone in European integration, in the quiet corners of Bulgaria, the transition to the euro was met not just with anticipation, but with a profound, historical skepticism that time and official reports might struggle to fully assuage.
EU gives Bulgaria green light to adopt euro from start of 2026
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