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.