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Being Brave In Romania
Bucharest, Romania

First Impressions From a Spoiled American

My first moments in Bucharest, Romania, were spent in a taxi. The driver swerved frantically around parked cars, tall buildings with centuries old architecture, and a scarf-clad lady pulling a cow down the street. I wondered if they’d just been to a bar and I wished I could join them for a frosty glass of something.

The driver’s cigarette was stifling, so I opened the window and let my hair blow like cornstalks into my face. A pleasant alternative to suffocation. There were people dancing precariously close to death as they tried to cross the busy streets. I figured they were really brave to attempt it. Just like Frogger in that popular old video game- he’d rush out, change his mind and try to find a log for safety. Eventually he’d get across with both legs intact. I, personally am not that fast, and worried that I’d go home to my family missing a few parts. I think as babies, Romanians learn how to cross those streets with ease, the same way they learn to ride the metro standing up holding on to a pole for dear life.

We found the hotel. I can’t remember it’s name but I remember the metal elevator and the noisy chains that went up and down all hours of the night. It was a paneled box with no escape and never quite reached the next level. On some floors, a big piece of steel blocked the exit and you had to find a secret latch on the side to get out. But the lady at the front desk seemed nice.

The last two days flight had been grueling and I wasn’t in the mood for a room without a bathroom. At least it had a sink and I could clean up before dinner. I turned the key on the inside, closed the curtains and slipped into something comfortable. An hour later- after a German episode of Friends on the TV, it was time to leave. But my door wouldn’t open. My luck. It was the fourth floor, no phones, and silent as the grave. I tried wiggling the key in the lock and shaking the door back and forth like a wild woman. To no avail. So I just started screaming and pounding my wrists upon the wood. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Surely someone would come eventually? My arms gave out but my anger was immense. Undignified. I hadn’t been undignified in a long time. A southern blonde middle class American Republican? It felt good.

A suave dark haired Romanian gentleman came to my aide. Why do they have to be so romantic looking? Even the older ones could kiss your hand and send stars into your eyes. He taught me to say thank you in Romanian. Multumesc. It’s tricky but effective if you’d just spent time locked in a room no bigger than a closet. The next morning he brought me a glass of orange juice-orange something that smelled remotely like fish, but it was a nice gesture.

For breakfast, I had a pastry at a small shop. No cheese, but plain, dry, and safe from digestive misfortune. I was afraid of having stomach problems in the middle of Eastern Europe. So I stayed away from anything remotely questionable. (Except for a “Greek Mac” at the train station that tasted good, but left me feeling less than great.)

As far as money is concerned, most things so far had been cheap. 100 lei is around 3 dollars, and spending it is like passing out Monopoly bills. Even the ATM machines give out lei. You have to be careful how many zeros are on the numbers you’re taking out.

We went to a special arts district that was surprisingly expensive. But they had hand- blown glass perfume bottles and delicate vases. I was fascinated by the colorful animal hair wall hangings – masks with bulging eyes, long protruding noses, clown lips, and horns at the top. Residents use them during holidays to scare away evil spirits. I almost brought one home but I had already thrown out my clothes to make room for souvenirs.

So the day ended on a two-hour train ride to Busteni. It was overcrowded and we sat in separate places, this small group of five writers and our two guides. I’m sure my face was pale. The seats were old, crusty, and filled with strangers. In the midst of this alien countryside, the air was hot and exciting; stuffy, and strangely wonderful.

The People’s Palace: Armed Men Don’t Like Cameras

Back in Bucharest, we went to see the People’s Palace, or the Parliament building as it’s known today. There were five of us – three Americans, one Serbian and an Australian. We walked for what seemed miles but you couldn’t go around the whole thing. It was too massive. We didn’t try to go in. The guards looked at us strangely.

It’s second largest-sized building after the Pentagon. One has to wonder what the communist dictator at the time—Ceausescu—was thinking. Sure, it’s impressive until you know the history. A hateful thing and nothing more than a glorified mausoleum now. It stands as a reminder of those bleak years when the secret police fired upon protestors, and huge areas of land were replaced with oversized concrete apartment buildings. Not to mention the Christmas execution of the leader himself, but that was a good day.

However, beyond the palace, there is beauty to be seen. I roamed through the streets of Bucharest, gazing at giant mansions with stone statues and carved pillars. Angels and demons alike adorned the window ledges, rafters, and doorways. The whole area is panoramic feast of Romantic, Neo-classical and French architecture.

But you have to be careful. Many houses are foreign embassies with armed guards lurking around the corner and beyond the gateways. You can feel their eyes as you pass by. With one arm resting casually on a semi-automatic, you can’t afford to make them mad. You walk lighter as if you could be invisible, floating across the sidewalk. Hands to your side and your camera hanging lifelessly. This was my strategy. But never try to fool a man with an Uzi.

One of our group starting taking pictures before she knew the danger. There was a flurry of activity. Some angry words we couldn’t understand, and a mad dash for the camera. I shamelessly hid behind a car, hoping they wouldn’t think we were together. It was soon over and we all laughed about it later.

Sitting at a café was the highlight of a long day. Time is different in Romania. You walked everywhere so at mealtimes no one wants to leave. We talked forever. I had to restrain myself from grabbing the bill and heading out right after dessert in true American fashion. Like a kid who fidgets during story time, it took a while to settle in and share my thoughts with those who would soon become my friends.

I can’t remember when I’d ever laughed before this. We had Ciorba (soup with or without intestines), and salad with tuna and tomatoes. Schnitzel or pig’s nape (I’m not sure where a pig’s nape is located but I passed on this one). And we had beer…lots of beer. Tuborg or Carlsberg. The meech was quite good. Small sausages made from a variety of meat piled high on a platter, along with olives, tomatoes, oil and vinegar.

I actually didn’t have anything bad except for a run in with some packaged herring that our hosts tried to pass off as snake. Sometimes those blonde jokes hit close to home. I also believed it when our Australian friend convinced me that in her country babies were started out on formula mixed with beer to get them used to a drinking lifestyle. It sounded right to me – especially on this side of the world.