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| 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).
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| Bucharest Old Town (courtesy of Free Tour Community) |
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 18th 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.
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| 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
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