Birthday in Bucharest (Part 3)

 

Arcul de Triumf, Bucharest 
(courtesy of Deposit Photos)

(Part 1 & Part 2)

8 min. read

By Sunday, I’m more than half-way through my stay. I plan to take it easy for the first part; church streaming, breakfast, siesta, a Skype call to sis. In the afternoon I hope to head to the Village Museum before taking a summer stroll organised by a Belgian based in Romania.

I can’t mentally switch off enough to benefit from the siesta. I am also hesitant to call sis. We haven’t had any face time for a while. I’ve already postponed our chat whilst I’ve been away. On the other hand, when I speak to sis, other plans tend to fly out of the window. What’s meant to be an hour max, turns into several hours. There’ll be no way I’ll be able to do everything on my itinerary if we overrun.

And that’s exactly what happens. I have to scrap my plans for the Village Museum, at least for that afternoon. There’s no time to see more of the hotel's locality, which I'd also hoped to squeeze in. I leave late for the Summer walk in the park and call the organiser, Alvin to let him know. I’m still finding Bucharest very tricky to navigate. 

I should never have cut it so fine. I give up on the printed Google instructions, which lead me astray. I eventually make it to Piata Romana metro station. A middle-aged woman stands in front of me, and stretches her hand out as if to block my way. I’m confused. I wasn’t planning on jumping ahead. She looks at me, a smile that is polite but terse. She signals a different door. I assume she’s being helpful and thank her. Perhaps there’s some problem with the train door, or a Bucharest metro custom of which I’m unaware. 

No, that’s not it. 

The door works fine. 

She walks in my direction. I presume she’s about to get off the train. 

No, that’s not it. 

She stands over me. 

I don’t know if this is some form of intimidation but I will not be moved. I stay put until my stop approaches, making a point to walk directly in front of her when I descend from the train. 

Out on the surface, I have no idea where Alvin and his fellow walkers are. I call him. None of the landmarks he mentions are in view. It becomes apparent I’m in the completely wrong part of the vast King Mihai I park. Alvin explains they’ll be reconvening at the Hard Rock Café. A passer-by tells me it’s half an hour by foot. I’ve come this far and would hate to make a wasted journey. I’m tempted to take a taxi but see none heading in my direction. By the time I arrive at the café – a combination of walking and bus – I’m flustered and grumpy.

King Mihai I Park (courtesy of Inn Your Pocket)

 I don’t intend to stay for dinner and I’m not sure about the company. My recent Bolivian acquaintance, David had indicated he’d be happy to meet up again. I invited him to the walk. He’s not there. Thankfully, Alvin’s Belgian connection gives us a lot to speak about. He’s lived in Romania for five years. Having come from the small city of Bruges, he finds Bucharest more vibrant. Alvin speaks little Romanian. His job only demands his native Dutch and his friends all speak English. 

He wishes more Western Europeans would discover his adopted country beyond the clichés of misery and deprivation. It’s misrepresentative. 

He asks me a number of Belgium-related questions and pays a good deal of attention to what I’m saying; to the point I worry other guests feel excluded. We leave the restaurant en masse.  Alvin offers to walk me back to the right metro stop. One of his Romanian guests tells him to ‘behave’ with a facetious smile.

‘Should I be nervous?’ I ask.

Alvin is a slight man with a limp. I’m not in immediate danger. However, I don’t want anyone getting the wrong impression. 

We take the same scenic route on which he led the other guests earlier. Surrounded by lakes, it's a beautiful part of the City.

It’s slightly awkward as I discover we’re heading in the same direction on the metro. We manage nonetheless to keep the conversation going. I look away as Alvin's gaze follows a slender young woman with an exposed midriff.

On his advice, I descend at Universitat metro station. From there, I recollect the route Andrea showed me a couple of nights before to the Old City. Finally! I’m self-sufficient. I make my way directly to the  landmark Manuc’s Inn, said to be one of the oldest hotels in Europe. En route, a platform worker on his bike shouts something vaguely discriminatory in my direction, when I don’t step out of his way fast enough… 

‘...In your country….’

‘What?! What did you say?’. 

He does not repeat it. It’s the second suspiciously racist interaction I’ve had in as many hours.

Manuc’s Inn is busy but not as boisterous as when I passed by on my first night. A raucous live recording of folk music streams through the speakers. The customer service is hit-and-miss. I’ve experienced incredible instances of friendliness on this holiday. Yet, I’ve also encountered an abruptness that lives down to less flattering stereotypes about this part of the world. The meal is passable and not too expensive; if lighter than expected. At least I’ve ticked Manuc's Inn off my must-do list.

I still have some space for dessert so I make my way to a Lebanese sweets café that I’ve had my eye on. Each time I walk past, the owner entreats me to patronise them with a cheekily aggressive flirtation. It turns out he’s not the owner. He’s a Romanian lawyer called Lenny (Leonardo) looking after the shop for a friend. None of the other employees are Lebanese either. 

 Lenny tells me I have a look that Romanian men find ‘exotic’. I don’t approve of this fetishisation but I find him more entertaining than I should. The good-natured younger employees make up for Lenny’s lack of professionalism. The ice creams are of excellent quality and distinctively flavoured. I joke in French with Lina, the Algerian waitress, assured the other two don’t know what we’re muttering about.

Village Museum (Izi Travel)

I’m in good spirits. The streets are still busy – if not as much as the night before – and for the first time I make it all the way back to my hotel on foot, no problems.

On my last full day in Bucharest, I have a number of options. I had initially wanted to return to Sinaia Village, to visit the monastery. However, after the rather frenetic nature of Saturday’s all-day excursion to Transylvania, I don’t have the appetite to leave the City again. If I’d had an extra day, I would.

There are also some sites in Bucharest that I’m yet to explore, such as the Village Museum and historical places of worship.

David sends me an effusive message the day before, suggesting he’d like to reconnect before he flies back to Bolivia. After some reflection, I invite him along to the Village Museum. He accepts with zeal, only to cancel in the morning. He has to go to the airport earlier than planned, he says.

Whether or not this is the case or he just has cold-feet, I’m not too fussed. I’m re-discovering how to hold these ephemeral encounters loosely. 

I’m not a museum enthusiast but I am sufficiently intrigued by the concept of the Village to give it a go. It houses replicas and originals, of traditional Romanian homesteads and agricultural materials from mainly the 18^th and 19^th Century. In the early days of the museum, during the first half of the 20^th century, some inhabitants continued to live in the homes once they were transferred to the site.

As is my custom, I try to give as many as possible of the exhibits my attention (one of the hazards of these activities, I find). Only some of the homes are open for the public to enter and during set periods of the day. We otherwise have to be content to look through the cobweb-surrounded windows. Several exhibits are in the process of renovation. All that awaits visitors are empty rooms and plastic coverings. 

After spending over two hours at the Museum, my curiosity is satiated. It’s back into town for lunch and more sightseeing.

At the Old Town I walk through backstreets and pass mercurial drunks to find the Curtea Veche - or Old Church. I realise on entering these Eastern Orthodox sacred spaces, that I don’t have the same relationship with them as I do with other church buildings. Whilst I have never belonged to Western Orthodox traditions such as Roman Catholicism or High Anglicanism, I’ve had more exposure to them. 

 After an underwhelming shop at German pharmacy chain DM, I head next to the Stavropoleos monastery, dating back to the early 18^th century. Having glimpsed it on my first night, I now have time to explore in earnest. I’m more fascinated by the interior than I was by that of the Curtea Veche, which is larger with a more impressive façade. I observe the rituals furtively performed by most of those who enter both spaces. It makes me wonder how much these religious rites become an end in themselves; taking our eyes off the One whom we claim to worship. It demands self-scrutiny; how often do I lose sight of God through force of habit?

As I exit, I hear an older American proclaim loudly ‘...These aren’t saints. Not in the biblical sense…’, presumably in reference to the icons. Even if I don’t subscribe to these aspects of Orthodox worship myself, the arrogance of his tone irks me. He could at least save his disapproval for when he’s out of earshot of the on site clergy, et al.

It’s a late Lebanese lunch for me. On my way to the café, a local calls out, using a Chocolate-related epithet. The fetishisation is starting to grate. 

The contrast between the Old Town by day and by night is stark. There are establishments that won’t open at all until evening. For the first time, I notice a bar called Aren’t We All Sinners? in English.

I have plans to reconnect with Andrea. She proposes an afternoon drink. It’s all her schedule allows. I text her an update but receive no reply. She’ll later inform me that my message only arrives hours after it was sent. It’s not meant to be.

The restaurant is virtually deserted. I receive courteous and attentive service from the multicultural staff.

Curtea Veche
(courtesy of Sygic Travel)

Back at the hotel, I’m greeted with the unpleasant news that I have to pay for the damage my make-up stains have apparently caused to some towels and sheets. It’s not a small amount. The receptionist, Leonid is very uneasy about having to break it to me. He's visibly relieved when I offer to pay up promptly.

For dinner, I take the long way round to Cabu’ Ca Bere; via the Athenaeum and Queen Elisabeth Boulevard. I pass a large crowd gathered outside a neighbourhood church. A disembodied male voice intones a hymn, whilst the faithful line up to receive blessings from the priests. I look on intrigued, alongside other tourists, their phones at the ready.

Cabu’ Ca Bere is oddly busier this Monday evening than it was on Friday night. The waiting staff can just about seat me. I pop to the loo. My table has gone by the time I return. Thankfully, it’s easy to seat one. My waiter looks beleaguered. Originally from South Asia he’s been living in Romania for less than a year. I try something new from the menu. It doesn’t have the same spark as the feast I ordered for my birthday. Still, I have no regrets.

I decide to pay one last visit to the Lebanese dessert café. I pass a sketchy fellow sitting outside a bar whom I’ve seen earlier in the day. I return his leery look with a scowl.

The young staff at the café, Farid and Lina, are pleased to see me. Lenny is more subdued. Lina whispers that, whilst on his watch, a woman stole their tips. 

Before long, Lenny returns to his cheeky ways. When Lina and I remark on the abundance of strip bars in Bucharest, he insists it’s not his scene. I remain incredulous. I’m a lawyer, not a liar! He declares. They're often one and the same thing, I retort, only half-joking. I did study law in a former life, after all.

I get some more French practice with Lina. Farid elaborates about his medical studies. He’s working at the ice cream parlour just for the summer. He’ll return to University shortly after I fly back to Brussels.

Lina offers me a free pastry, despite my protests to the contrary. She asks if I’ve enjoyed Bucharest. I confess it’s not the most charming city I’ve visited but it has a rich history. What will remain with me, I continue, is the warmth of spirit I’ve experienced. The sort that I'm enjoying at that very moment.

Soundtrack: Tutto Passa by Gianni Brezzo.

LVC is on a break for the rest of the (N. Hemisphere) summer. A la prochaine...

Birthday in Bucharest (Part 2)

Parliament Palace, Bucharest (image: TripAdvisor)

 (Part 1 & Part 3)

11 min. read

The morning of my birthday, I indulge in the hotel’s respectable continental breakfast before returning to my room to connect with my online prayer group and some mindless fun on YouTube.

I have two cultural engagements that afternoon; a visit to the Parliament Palace and the postponed City tour. I set out a little earlier than planned to give myself time to find the meeting point for the Palace visit. It’s still not enough. I don’t know if five days will be sufficient to get accustomed to the layout of Bucharest’s perplexing street system. I’m not great at following directions at the best of times.

I nevertheless make it to the Parliament in time for the start of the tour. Our guide, a short and portly young man called Marius, speaks fluid English in an adenoidal monotone. He gives off a diffident air. With time, I realise it’s all part of the presentation. It serves to make his humour drier still. There are plenty of self-deprecating jokes amongst astounding facts and figures. 

The Parliament Palace is the second biggest administrative building after the US Pentagon and reputed to be the heaviest. There’s one million m3 of marble onsite alone. We're told it costs as much to maintain as a medium-sized Romanian city. 

Having avoided researching the Palace itself before the tour, I’m surprised by its modernity, completed only in the early 2000s. It’s opulent but not garish. Almost everything is made in Romania, and mainly from the Transylvania region. Ousted dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu spent an unspecified amount on this glorified vanity project. It’s ironic – even poetic justice- that he never saw its completion.

In theory, the tour ends early enough for me to have a good siesta. However, by the time I make it back to the hotel, I have less to spare than I thought. 

 The meeting place for the next tour isn’t far from my hotel. We’re to gather on the steps of the Athenaeum, a monument I’ve wanted to visit. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of running around and sweating – even going past the meeting spot – before I find my bearings. Thankfully, I locate the group just as the tour begins in earnest. There are quite a few Brits in the mix. A friendly German man recognises me from the earlier tour of the Parliament.

Parliament Palace: the Ballroom 
(Nico Trinkhaus)

It’s a highly educative walk through the City, with our guide, Stefania. She recounts Romania’s short-lived, ethnically-German monarchy, the country’s brief alliance with the Nazis during the Second World War and the last king, Mihal’s forced exile with the arrival of Communism. We spend a substantial amount of time on the events that led to the downfall of Ceaușescu and the martyrs who were killed in the revolution that toppled him. We learn that Ceaușescu began as a relatively moderate leader, receiving visits from Western leaders of capitalist states. It’s believed that it was his trip to North Korea in the early 1970s that drove him towards autocracy. 

Once nicknamed the Paris of the East, we hear of the French influence on Bucharest's architecture during the monarchy phase as well as post-communism (Ceaușescu’s attempts to outdo the Champs Elysée and the copycat Arcul de Triumf being notable examples). It’s a deja-vu moment for those of us who have visited the Parliament, where the current tour concludes. We pause across the road where, elevated above surrounding pine trees, the splendour of the Palace façade is all the more evident. Stefania provides additional facts about the behemoth building, sometimes overlapping with the Parliament tour (Ceaușescu demolishing adjacent neighbourhoods, an anecdote about Michael Jackson’s infamous visit to the City in the 1990s) and a few new titbits. 

I’m in a good mood. The birthday wishes abound, some from unexpected quarters. They trickle in throughout my trip.

It’s back to the Old Town for dinner in one of the best known and most reputable restaurants in the City, Caru’ Cu Bere. That is, if I can find my way. Even with a clearly marked out map, I take a wrong turn. Outside a nightclub playing tantalising New Jack Swing, I request directions from a (presumed) local. I’m still led astray.

I stop a random woman and enquire if she can steer me back on to the right course. She goes one better. She walks me to the restaurant, the opposite direction from where she was heading. Her name is Andrea. Her husband is working late and she has no firm plans that evening. Why don’t you join me for dinner? I ask. 

It’s possible to get a little too used to one’s own company. I keep telling myself to work on my spontaneity. What better opportunity than my birthday? (True,  I’d have liked to spontaneously accept an invitation to dine by a handsome single man but no point being rigid about that detail.)

It’s a great decision. Andrea is a psychotherapist as well as the co-founder of a NGO promoting the arts back in her home town in Southern Romania. We speak candidly about our lives. As the night progresses, there’s no shortage of stimulating discussion about trauma, cultural stigma around therapy, relationship dynamics, socialised gender norms and even a digression into the debate around reproductive rights (without the shrillness). Her English is near-native level. Like my tour guides, I’m fascinated by the advanced language skills of the many people I’ve met from the former Eastern bloc. Even amongst other Eastern Europeans, Romanians are considered to be on a special level of multilingualism. I can only assume a good education system is to credit; a hallmark of former – or current – Communist regimes.

Whilst Andrea opts for a light fish dish, I haven’t eaten properly since breakfast. I order a meat platter which exceeds expectations. I don’t quite get through all of it, although I make a worthy effort. 

 Good food, good company and to top it all, decent live music. I couldn’t have picked a better venue for my birthday meal.

Seeing how generous Andrea has been with her time, I insist dinner is on me. If I threw a party, it would cost me a lot more, I reply when she protests. Andrea is kind enough to walk me to my hotel, which happens to be en route to her house. Walking back from the restaurant, I realise how close I came to finding it on my own. Ah yes, but then we would have never met, Andrea observes.

Revolution Square, Bucharest
(image: Visit Bucharest Today)

I’m apprehensive about swapping numbers, not wanting to over-extend another holiday-only friendship. Andrea is nonetheless eager to share details and even suggests grabbing a drink before my holiday is over. Only two days into my trip, I’m pleasantly surprised by the openness and amicability I’ve encountered. It’s highly unusual  in a Capital city.

The only downside to my impromptu dinner with Andrea is the late night. It wouldn’t normally be an issue whilst on holiday, except I have an early start that Saturday morning. I’ve booked a place on an all-day Transylvanian regional tour which encompasses Peles Castle, Brasov Village and the so-called Dracula’s castle. Those who know Romania have all advised that I don’t miss the opportunity to see the stunning landscape beyond Bucharest, including the Carpathia mountains.

I rise after a mere four hours of sleep to give myself plenty of time to walk to Queen Elisabeth Boulevard, where I’m scheduled to be collected by mini-van.  Whilst I'm power walking to the stop, a local youth aims an enthusiastic smile in my direction before paying me a lovely compliment. He's on the young side. I laugh when he says he’s 25. Dream on, sunshine. This ain’t Cougar Town. 

Now that I am more familiar with my hotel’s neighbourhood, I can appreciate why it scores high for location. I’m at the designated bus stop well ahead of schedule. 

Two identical vans arrive at the same moment, apparently belonging to different companies. By fluke, I guess correctly which is mine. The tour guide, Marguerita, is accompanied by her well-behaved young daughter. 

Marguerita is no-nonsense about time keeping, often repeating how long a window we have for each stop-off, factoring in traffic, if we are to make it back to Bucharest by mid-evening, as planned. It’s going to be a whistlestop tour. The most leisurely aspects are in transit. Marguerita gives a brief overview of Bucharest City history. It’s an opportunity to get a look at landmarks I might not have time to visit later.

 We pass the scenic village of Sinaia a couple of times. I’m interested in returning to visit the celebrated monastery. Marguerita signs herself furiously when we pass the holy site, as she does with every church we encounter. She informs us that 86% of the population identify as Eastern Orthodox. The role of religion has already come up several times on my tours as well as in conversation with locals.

The first destination is Peles Castle. Our entrance fee only covers one floor. To see the rest would cost extra. 

No time! Marguerita reminds us. 

We're taken swiftly from room to room, where she describes their function and the many international influences on their designs. Resplendent wood panelling is a constant throughout the castle, also lending it a sombre air. We learn of the dourness of King Carol I and the brilliance of his extremely cultured wife, Elisabeth; a hyper-polyglot who spoke several classic and modern languages and played a number of instruments, including the harp. Their only child, Marioara, died aged 4; something for which the Queen apparently blamed her husband. The little girl was said to have fallen ill when her father took her hunting.

After our fly-by-night tour, there’s just about time to take in the formidable view outside the castle. In its environs, Roma women and girls flog local forest fruits. I suspect I’ve paid too much for mine from a vendor in early adolescence. I was never very comfortable with haggling. An older woman pleadingly reminds me of a by now forgotten assurance that I would patronise her after my castle visit. I feel awful.

By this stage, I’ve conversed with a couple of other members of the group. There’s Jean-Michel, a middle-aged gentleman from the South of France with a strong Midi accent. He's irked by the hurried nature of the tour. Kurt, an amiable young Aussie, makes conversation as we queue up at a local café. Over four months, he’ll journey his way West from Eastern Europe, ending in the UK where he has family.

Peles Castle (Authentic Romania)

In the van, I hear Marguerita peppering a telephone conversation with Japanese phrases. She says she doesn’t know much else. She has working knowledge of at least five languages, some of which she never formally studied. As usual, she credits her mother tongue’s Latin connection for a facility with acquiring others from the same linguistic family (and yet I’ve not met as many French or Spanish polyglots as I have Romanian). More so than other compatriots, Marguerita also praises the education system under communism.

As we approach the mediaeval town Brasov, Marguerita casually mentions that bears are known to roam the streets. She reassures us they’re unlikely to attack, although it’s best not to approach them.

We’re let loose on Brasov. It sits in the basin of tree-covered hills where giant, Hollywood-style white letters spell out the town’s name.

And it is more of a town than I anticipated. I expect a quaint village with cobbled streets frozen in time. Instead it’s sizeable and contemporary. Brasov hasn’t escaped the blight of the high street.

I’ve seen a couple of churches I’d like to check out. Andrea has warned that it’s not as easy to make detours into these spaces as it would be in other European cities. They’re less open to tourists. In addition, given my demographics, I’m more likely to attract askance looks from parishioners. When I approach one building, apparently in full mass, I see what Andrea means. I retreat back to the main town. There are many places of worship to see- including the landmark (Catholic) Black Church - but alas, so little time. As the day progresses, it becomes apparent that the tour is too ambitious. Marguerita keeps worrying about us arriving back at Bucharest around 11pm, as has happened to her colleagues.

I have just enough time in Brasov to eat lunch (my first meal of the day) and walk down the high street. I still have to rush back to the mini-van, a few minutes over time. 

Our final stop is Bran Castle aka Dracula’s abode (albeit not the 'real' Dracula's castle, apparently). Irish writer, Bram Stoker’s creation is a product of myth and historical fact.  He never set foot in Romania. 

Count Dracula the character was based on Vlad the Impaler, who – as the name suggests – was notorious for skewering his enemies. He wasn’t the first to do it. Former occupants of Romania, the Ottomans, were also fond of this method of slaughter.

Dracula is a play on the etymologically-close Romanian words for ‘devil’ and ‘dragon’ (both present in the country’s myths). The sobriquet was attributed to Vladimir II; translating as ‘son of the devil’.

Bran castle is far more modest than Peles; looking a lot like a very elaborate Tudor home. Kurt is underwhelmed. It’s true that it would have been better to start with Bran and work our way back to Peles, but it’s the furthest of the two from Bucharest.

The winding layout, narrow passageways and comparatively cramped rooms are at times disorientating. One floor is dedicated to Romanian legends and superstitions, involving siren-like creatures, werewolves, vengeful centaurs and, of course, the ‘living’ dead. So much time was spent avoiding or trying to appease the wrath of these sinister beings, it’s a wonder rural Romanians got anything done at all. 

 Yet again, we’re on another tight schedule. Exiting the castle, there’s scarcely time to check out the nearby crafts and souvenirs market before we have to get back on the road to Bucharest.

With all our rushing it still takes us almost four hours. We’re slowed down by rain. Like much of the time we’ve been on the road, I drift in and out of sleep, glimpsing the downpour. We make a pit stop that slows us down further. I am the only one who doesn’t leave the van. 

 Thankfully, when we arrive back at Bucharest, around 10pm, it is still buzzing. I appreciate cities that don’t have an early bed time. Families as well as revellers roam the streets. Heavy basslines vibrate from various establishments. Restaurants are still taking orders. I stop to listen to a father and son duo, performing Jazz covers. The lad, no more than 12, is skilled on the alto sax and has a decent voice. 

I opt to dine at a lively-looking Turkish place. The food is good but the service is poor, at least for that night.

Not only do I wait an age for someone to take my order, they mess it up when it does arrive. 

Fortunately, I’m kept company by another customer, David, who’s equally disillusioned by the service. He gives up on the dessert he’s ordered but sticks around for a chat. Originally from Bolivia, he has spent significant time in the US, UK and Spain.

 He recounts that the initial purpose for his Romanian visit was humanitarian. 

He intended to see if it were feasible to assist with the refugee effort near the Ukrainian border. It wasn’t. He has spent the remaining time in Bucharest, taking it easy. He also embarked on a similar three-stop tour of Transylvania. From the sound of it, it was not nearly as frantic as mine. 

David shares much of his life story. How he rejected his middle-class upbringing and ended up on the streets of La Paz for a time. How his ethnically-ambiguous look seems to land him in trouble wherever he travels. His work in the film industry; the time he lived in Iraq, splitting up with his ex-wife and sharing custody of a 13-year old daughter...

We both extol the virtues of travelling alone; the freedom and flexibility, the ease of speaking to strangers. Of course, being male, he has an advantage.

David is down-to-earth, congenial and favourable towards me. He has one more full day in the city and hopes to link-up again before he leaves. I add him to my list of possible meet-ups, alongside Felice and Andrea.

Between the talking and slow service, I don’t leave the restaurant until nearly 1am. Elsewhere in the City, the party is just getting started. The bars and clubs heave with activity. I pass an establishment with scantily-clad table top dancers. Restaurants don’t look like they’re in a hurry to close and the streets are teeming with people. It makes me feel safer about walking home. Alas, I still haven’t mastered the route back from the Old Town on my own. 

I’d like to walk off dinner but given the late hour, once again I reluctantly hail a taxi. He takes a circuitous route back to my hotel for a negotiated price.

Soundtrack: Intergalactic Soul by DJ Spinna feat. various artists + Tutto Passa by Gianni Brezzo.

Birthday in Bucharest (Part 1)

 

Bucharest from the Rooftop
(image courtesy of Design Milk)

5 min. read

As I prepare to commemorate entering another year of my naughty 40s, Eastern Europe calls again. I strongly entertain the idea of visiting Sofia, the Bulgarian capital. Recently-acquainted polyglot chum, Ludwig, puts me off the idea. There’s not much to see. He recommends Bucharest instead.

Oh yes, I have always wanted to go to Romania.

I recall all the good things I heard as a youngster, when the country started to open up for tourism. Better still, flights and accommodation are cheap in that part of Europe. I book the holiday months in advance of my getting old day, when funds are slightly less constrained and I presume I’ll be back in work by the summer.  

Fast forward to July, and I have no regrets. Sure, I’m on a modest budget but it’s still an opportunity for discovery. 

As is now my custom, I book myself on a few tours. For the rest, I’ll improvise based on research and personal recommendations.

By chance, I become acquainted with a number of Romanians based in Brussels leading up to my trip. They are less enthused by the city than foreigners appear to be, including Bucharestians themselves. I'm advised not to spend my whole time in the Capital. Even the most favourable accounts claim I can cover all that’s worth seeing within a couple of days.

I’m therefore taken aback by the scale of Bucharest. I did gauge from my searches on Google Maps that locations were spread out. Still, it’s not the provincial size I’ve come to assume. 

Having survived a curt and fastidious passport control, I take advantage of the bus ride from the airport to absorb my surroundings. I pay more attention to the Romanian script on billboards, to detect similarities with other Romance languages. Although I can hear superficial correlations with Italian and European Portuguese, I feel the Slavic influence on Romanian is often understated.

Admittedly, the views from the bus are not very inspiring at first. A lot of empty plots, places under construction and a surfeit of strip clubs (a staple feature, apparently). The majestic buildings finally come into view as I near the vicinity of my hotel.

I’ve chosen a very reasonably-priced boutique residence with rave reviews on Booking.com, including top marks for location. It’s quite a walk from the bus stop and parts of the neighbourhood look sketchy. It’s on the quiet side too.  I wonder about safety at night. I hear mum in my ear, particularly nervous when I venture solo to the East of the Continent. The villa-like hotel itself is pleasant, with aspirations of plushness. There are nice little touches like a generous supply of toiletries. The mini-fridge is also well-stocked, although I’m sure that’s not included in the price.

I’m shown around by one of three receptionists on rotation, two of whom are coincidentally called Leonid. He dutifully gives me some survival phrases and dining tips when asked. I retire to my room for a shower and some rest. (I had to pull another all nighter at Brussels airport to catch my early a.m. connecting flight via Vienna. Sleep has been fitful, semi-upright on a coffee shop counter with Folk-Rock blasting in the background). 

Bucharest Old Town (courtesy of Free Tour Community)

I'm obligated to change plans that evening. The walking tour company cancel that day's session. They suggest I rebook for tomorrow- my birthday.

I know too little about the City and hoped the tour would get me a bit more up to speed on my first night. I’ll have to wing it. There’s so much to see and Bucharest is more intimidating than I expected.

I decide to start with the Old Town, accessible by foot from the hotel. Leonid gives me directions- twice.  I still stop at a chemist’s to check if I’m heading in the right direction.

A kindly woman overhears the pharmacist and offers to show me where to go. She introduces herself as Felice. Our encounter seems fortuitous. Hailing originally from Transylvania, she has lived in Bucharest for several years and was once a tour guide. She says my colour-coordinated burgundy and white combo caught her attention. A simple (to my mind) wardrobe choice but Felice seems to appreciate such details. Her aqua-marine dress and accessories match the colour of her eyes.

I note that Felice is taking me the scenic route to the Old City, contrary to Leonid’s instructions. I’m concerned about how I’ll get back. For now, I’m not likely to lose my way if I’m with someone who knows it well. And indeed, thanks to Felice’s guidance and generosity with her time, I’m able to tick off all the landmarks I initially had on my list. We sneak into the grounds of the beautifully-preserved, still active 18^th Century Stavropoleos Monastery before it closes. We pass by another stunning ecclesiastical edifice, the Curtea Veche and the famous Manuc’s Inn; said to be one of the oldest running in Europe. I make a mental note to stop there for lunch or dinner at some point.

Leonid mentioned that there are many eating options in the Old Town. So much so that it’s overwhelming. As Felice and I stroll through the streets, we’re approached by highly attractive young Romanians (almost always women) of all descriptions. In naturalistic English, they try to coax us to eat, drink and/or dance at their establishment. Each time I think I’ve settled on a place for dinner, another pops up and I change my mind.

Felice is recognised and stopped by a large American man in late middle-age, with a distinctive southern twang. He’s Larry, from Mississippi. They met through a Meet-up event. It’s his tenth visit to Romania and he’s currently on a three month summer sojourn. As he dashes away, he encourages Felice to join him soon for one or other social.

Stavropoleos Monastery (image: Viator.com)

Before Felice and I part ways, we exchange numbers. I'm glad to observe that, like me, she eschews smart tech conformity for a simple feature phone.

I mention something about our meeting being providential. She seems pleased to hear I’m a Christian. We will not reconnect during my trip but I remain grateful for this brush with serendipity.

 I return to the Old City, hungry and determined to get back to the hotel before dark.  Whilst I’ve not yet seen anybody who looks like me since leaving the airport, I rarely receive peculiar stares. When I do see another melanated woman, I give her a cheery wave as if we’re old friends. There’ll be similar shows of solidarity with other Afrodescendants whose paths I cross.

I return to a restaurant serving a mix of traditional food and gourmet crêpes. Their list of cocktails include some X-rated sounding concoctions. It’s there that I learn that the non-alcoholic equivalent of Sex-on-the-Beach is called Safe Sex. I make a mental note to try it.

I’m safely under the restaurant's canopy when it begins to rain. I order some sea bass and grilled veg, with a savoury crêpe and a sweet one for dessert. I’ve had little sustenance all day and it’s caught up with me. 

I don’t leave early enough to beat nightfall. The journey back to the hotel is not as straightforward as it appeared in the safety of Felice’ company. I take the metro to Piata Romana as advised. The bus I require to continue my journey does not arrive. In desperation, and partly to escape a volatile drunk, I hop on a bus to the next stop only for it to take me further away from my destination.  I concede to hailing a cab. I’m so frazzled that I bang the side of my head on the taxi door, leaving a small scar on my right eyelid.

The cab driver has limited English but enough to ask where I’m from and to say he likes my look.

My looks are none of your business, I shoot back.

My hotel is tantalisingly close. He quotes a reasonable fare: 20 lei – roughly £3 or 4 euros. Conveniently for him, he doesn’t have sufficient change. I end up paying more. He dumps me somewhere close to my hotel but not near enough.  A kindly local gentleman with a slight British inflection shows me where to go. It’s a risk following strange men at this hour but it pays off. He’s legit.

If I’m to avoid being ripped off by taxis, I can’t risk any more detours. I need to arrive back at the hotel at a chaste hour. (Too chaste, since sunset is at 9pm.)

Famous last words...

Soundtrack: Intergalactic Soul, by DJ Spinna feat. various artists

Part 2 & Part 3