Week Nine

Another day, another week, another country (17), except that my Romanian experience starts in Bulgaria at the border, with an invasion of the carriage and the whole train by a swarm of local, homespun gypsy matriachs and their infinite number of bags. The train is immobile for some time, and people swarm on and off - bags of sanitary towels and other odd products are passed in, stowed and stacked. People are installed, de-installed, re-installed: all at three o'clock in the morning and all to the accompaniement of much shouting and arm-waving and strange jerking movements. About 80 people have boarded my carriage, and about 60 of them appear to be trying to independently organise the entire invasion. To finally arrange the train the way they want it takes at least three-quarters of an hour.
We slowly move off, and Bulgarian border control and customs pass through the train in a pretty perfunctory fashion. Romanian border control is more stringent (I have my dollars ready for the visa which the Foreign Office tells me I need), but the guy doesn't seem to care once he's seen my passport. Both the border control and the customs officials wear glorious uniforms - them seem a little detached and don't really look in or around the compartment (otherwise they'd have spotted the people hidden under the seats): possibly this was connected with the significant exchange of money which took place (pressed into the hand, together with the passport). The customs official asks which bag is mine, and whether I'm carrying any guns or drugs: that's all. My only contribution is to fill in the immigration slip of the old woman sitting next to me.
And so I enter Romania (rom'nYA) without paying for a visa, but with only an entry stamp in my passport: whether they have recently relaxed the rules, or whether this is an incidental side-effect of the company I'm travelling with remains to be seen.

Bucharest station (Gara de Nord - I'm going to like this language) is a heaving mass of people as the train unloads, and then thins to a spread of people trying to "help" me (with accommodation, currency exchange, transport, etc.). One particularly smartly-dressed and well-spoken guy is unphased by my "I'm already booked into Elvis' Villa" (a lie, but I'd agreed to deliver a photo from the Sofia Hostel, so I was going to head that way anyway). He claims to work for Elvis and reluctantly I trust him (he buys me a bus ticket, reels off bus/tram connections which major what I've already been told, and ultimately in the face of my scepticism gives me his ID to keep hold of until we get to the hostel: great line, I thought). He delivers me and a fellow traveller (Japanese) to Elvis Villa, after a brief stop at a bank to change money, without a single scam. The journey includes a ticket-free tram stop which ends in a fine - our guide pays for all three, which makes him okay in my book. Checking what I've been given from the bank, I can confidently inform you of a new record - there is a 1,000 lei banknote, worth about 2.5p.

Elvis' Villa is expensive ($12), but busy and friendly: one night's stay includes a free drink, one hour's internet use (they simply give you money to use at the nearest internet place), minimalist breakfast and free laundry. All these fringe benefits are actually worth less than a dollar combined, except the laundry (which is unquantifiable since there are no laundrettes in Bucharest). I opt to stay one night, deciding to check out the Youth Hostel later (it's only $9 with a card) and switch if it's okay.
I chat with the other residents for a couple of hours (swapping notes, and stories, and tips) and then visit the nearby internet café (guided by Vincent, a Bucharest-hating-American-fellow-resident). After that I wander into Bucharest to check it out in the fading light - with the onset of winter, sunset is at about 15.30 or 16.00.

Impressions of Bucharest are two-fold: concrete and pollution. There are a lot of fairly old buildings around the hostel - wooden-built with square towers and angles: the perfect place to film the Addams Family. In fact, they're pretty perfect for the general preconceptions about Romania, land of vampires. But to counterbalance this, and other, nice districts there are acres and acres and acres of tower blocks. Some have imaginative detail and finishing, but most are simply grey and dull boxes. Between these two extremes, some of the larger old buildings (1800s) are either French Revolutionary or a kind of Habsburgian Neo-Classical. It's a fairly strange, mixed-up city from an architectural standpoint.

Apart from just wandering to get a feel for the place, the only building I specifically check out today is the Palace of Parliament - Ceaucescu's great creation. Apparently it's the second-largest building in the world after the Pentagon. Presumably while they're rebuilding/repairing the Pentagon after the attack, it's the largest building in the world: I don't know, and no-one else seems to. Curiously (and like the Pentagon) it totally fails as a large building: it just doesn't give the impression of being that large - something to do with the monolithic design, I think. The Parliament building in Budapest, or even the Palace at Versailles, are somehow much more impressive despite being considerably smaller. They generate the impression of hugeness.

The sun sets over Bucharest, except that it doesn't - or, at least, it doesn't go below the horizon first. Initially, it sets through the thick pall of smog and pollution that hangs over the city - it's a pretty strange and frightening effect. Two related phenomena, on a pollution front: when you spend any time walking near the major thoroughfares, your mouth and throat become coated with diesel and petrol: breathing through a cigarette gives you a cleaner breath than the "fresh air". The other symptom is that your hands become quite obviously dirty and oily, just by walking.

I grab a (salty) kebab and spend some time in a café, and then an internet place, before returning to the hostel at about 22.00. There's a new girl at the desk, Milena (m'LEHna) and we get talking about my trip so far (I'm carrying some photos) and our respective backgrounds and politics. An ethnic Serb and close relative of Ceaucescu, she's much more interesting than I am: she's also the first person I've met who outrightly supports the September attacks on the US: her thoughts on the Afghan war are more ambivalent, since she also has an abiding hatred of Muslims. Her background as a Young Eagle, and later a Pioneer are fascinating - her demonstration of the Dance of the Textile Workers (performed at a state occasion) is a highpoint of the conversation. She also makes me a hot tea with honey to help counter my Greek flu. We spend some time arguing about everything - for example, the NATO bombing of Serbia: there's no real answer to the question "Do you know what it's like to be in a city being bombed for 78 days?"
Elvis and Vincent interrupt us by returning from a heavy drinking session at about 03.00, and I eventually retire to bed some time later.

After many hours of talking last night I get up later than intended and, after breakfast, finally get out into Bucharest at about 10.30. The city is pretty much centred on the Piata Universitatii: major thoroughfares run northwest, east, south and north from there. The small river (Dambovita - the Danube doesn't go through here) runs (very slowly) east-west, to the south: that's where I head first. The hostel lies directly east of the Piata Universitatii, so I cut southwest down Calea Mosilor (passing something that calls itself the "Scottish Club") to the large open square at Piata Unirii (with a shopping centre and metro station).

En route to the Palace of Parliament, I detour via the Patriarch's Cathedral (small) and Palace: I arrive just at the end of a service. The tiny cathedral is packed with standing worshippers, and outside is a crowd leaving a narrow channel between the cathedral and palace: the people inside and outside are singing. As armed soldiers look on, the Patriarch emerges (all in black, wearing a severe gold chain and a big fuck-off Old Testament beard). Other monks/priests lead the way, gently pushing people back to ensure that his route is clear. As he walks, in conversation, the Patriarch lays his hand on the heads of the worshippers: many of them step back afterwards with beatific smiles on their faces. They find benches and sit in conversation, as I belatedly realise that I didn't take any photos.

I continue along Bulevardul Unirii to the Palace of Parliament, which (as mentioned yesterday) is basically boring despite the scale. Most of the buildings around it are new - the whole area is a massive example of monolithic communist urban planning, and must have entailed tearing down a lot of the older buildings. A lot of government departments are based in these new buildings - also, some of the buildings are lying unfinished, as if the entire project was put on hold half-way through (I suspect it was).

After walking all the way around the Palace of Parliament (fairly pointless - it turned out to be pretty much the same from all sides - and quite a trek), I head into the Old Town (between the Palace and the Piata Universitatii), crossing a little footbridge over the river. There's a slight hill here - about the only one in Bucharest - and many of the streets are cobbled and narrow. The buildings are of various ages (only 100 to 400 years old), and are in various architectural styles: notable is the neoclassical box which used to be the post office, and is now the natural history museum. The headquarters of one of Romania's banks is here, complete with armed guards outside - a number of other banks (including various foreign ones) have offices in the same area. From a tourist standpoint, the most significant building is the remains of Vlad Tepes' palace (complete with neoclassical columns): next to it is the tiny oldest church in Bucharest (St. Anton) - over the road is a neat café/bar/restaurant with courtyard. Cutting north a bit takes me to Lipscani, a pedestrianised street of stalls and hawkers, including a number of places selling a great mix of hot pastry products.

I emerge by the (New) Church of St. George, walk up towards the Piata Universitatii (giving me a chance to despise the Hotel Inter-Continental, which fits in perfectly with the pervading "concrete block" style of modern Bucuresti), and then wander around the eponymous University. It's a kind of pseudo-French late 1800s affair with neoclassical and Germanic touches, and includes a specific University church just to the south.

Striking north along Calea Victoriei leads to a large double-square and traffic hazard (Piata Revolutei and Piata Enescu), flanked by the University library, Royal Palace and Atheneum (Concert Hall). The Atheneum has a few interesting concerts in the near future, and an expensive-looking café/restaurant/hotel just over the road (with a British theme). The Royal Palace (which also houses one of Bucharest's art galleries) is so dull that I have a look round the other side and discover a strange domed entrance which looks like a 1960s shopping centre. Ah well.

Continuing up Calea Victoriei leads to the imperssive Piata Victoriei, a windy road junction turned into a wind tunnel by the straight rows of high concrete blocks which converge here. North up Kiseleff things get much classier: much less concrete and not a tower block in sight. Instead there are low luxury flats, tidy detached villas and the occasional sprawling mini-mansion: a couple of them lie empty, and a number seem to have become embassies - two or three have armed guards outside.

There's a triumphal arch at the end of the street, much like the Arc de Troimphe but here called Arcul de Triumf, at a roundabout next to the huge Herastrau park. I catch the metro back into the centre and wander eastwards back to Calea Mosilor, which runs SW-NE just to the east of the centre and is a good semi-suburban sprawl of shops, cafés, the ubiquitous kiosks, restaurants and so on. I search for a photo place which can do index prints for me (I have three rolls of film to develop), but only find somewhere offering a 24-hour service (no good, since I intend catching an early morning train up to Brasov in Transylvania tomorrow). Instead I buy a phonecard and call Milena (from last night - she gave me her number, complete with an offer that she could suggest things for me to do in Bucuresti if I ran out, and I've run out). I've woken her (she was on the night-shift, after all), but she wants to meet anyway: she tries giving me a couple of sets of directions to her place, but we fail to work it exactly out (she lives off the Lonely Planet map) and instead we agree to meet in/outside McDonalds at Bucur Obor (wherever that is - apparently at the end of Mosilor).

Bucur Obor turns out to be a large tower block with a bustling indoors market in the ground floor: you can buy pretty much anything, and it's all cheap and it all has marked prices. It also has no non-Romanians except me. Excellent. Even better, there's a Kodak Express place over the road which will develop and index print my films in one hour for less than £1.50 per film. While waiting I grab a "McRustic", which turns out to be an okay pork burger.
Milena turns up at 17.20 and kill some time in the market (she has a watchstrap to fix) until my photos are ready. She offers to cook dinner for me, and we collect supermarket supplies on the way back to her flat: she also becomes paranoid about my Western preconceptions on the way back and, with 400m to go, starts explaining that I shouldn't expect great things of her flat, etc., etc.
Her appartment turns out to be on the top floor of a grey concrete tower block (pretty much confirming my Western preconceptions). It has effectively one large room (with balcony), bathroom and kitchenette. The "terrace" (her word, ie. roof) is accessible by climbing out one of the kitchen windows - it has a thin gravel layer, in which she has inscribed a Nazca-style rendition of a Hindu iconic symbol (as an invitation to aliens and/or dieties). The view from that side looks over a depressing vista of infinite grey, and down to the street below: actually, the view from the other side is pretty much the same. Central heating and hot water are provided on a block basis, rather than flat-by-flat: the radiators don't seem to be issuing any heat, so her principle heating mechanism is to leave the cooker gas rings on full.
The main wall, facing the bed, is filled with photos and photocopies - Che Guevara, Albrecht Durer, Arkan, revolutionary slogans, quotes and poetry. In a corner is a different iconography: religious icons and family portraits/photos going back four generations. She uses them to tell me the history of her family, from arrival in Romania through the wars until now.
Dinner is pasta-based, and throughout it she manages to convince herself that it's too spicy/hot for me (it isn't). We drift into the morning to the accompaniment of Nationalist Serb music on the stereo, and VH1 on the TV.

We didn't get up until midday, so I guess I'm not moving on to Brasov today. Breakfast, belatedly, is coffee: I phone the hostel, in case they're concerned (they aren't) and check Thomas Cook - I'm effectively too late to leave today, if I want any daylight when I get . . . well, wherever I go. At about 17.00 I finally go out, to collect my rucksack and stuff from Elvis' Villa. Not only do they charge me for both nights (okay, so I did book a second night there), but my clothes are still wet (they offer a free laundry service: I tried to put a load in yesterday morning, not realising that they didn't have a parallel drying service). Bleh - oh well, fuck 'em.
While at the hostel, I also give away my last 13 leva (about a fiver) to a fellow resident who's heading for Bulgaria. I tried to change them a couple of times, but no-one was interested. The stock answer to my question 'Do you know where I could change them?' was 'Bulgaria?'

By the time I leave, it's raining: pouring, in fact, and that makes the Bucharest pavements even worse than normal. Lemme tell you about Bucharest's pavements - they melt in summer: presumably some vital ingredient has been left out. The result is that they sink - pot-holes are formed under the tyres of parked cars - and make for treacherous walking conditions. All of Bucharest is like something out of Hitch-Hiker: everyone's looking at their feet, but not because they're approaching the Shoe Event Horizon - it's to avoid tripping and breaking their ankles.
I get back to the flat, therefore, with soaking wet clothes (both on and off), and it doesn't take long before Milena's place looks like Bea's did - my damp socks and underwear everywhere. We spend the evening talking, and watching the Romania-Slovenia game which puts Romania out of the World Cup. Milena has about 50 cable channels (including the usual MTV, BBC World, Eurosport, CNN and so on) - a major change from the bad old days, when there was only 2 hours of TV during weekdays and 8 hours at the weekend. Bizarrely, one of the programmes they used to get was Dallas - presumably as some kind of moral lesson.
We eat dinner at about 23.00, and eventually to bed.

Once again we get up about midday and then do nothing constructive for several hours (so I guess I'll be in Bucharest again today). Unfortunately we have no food in the flat, whichg eventually forces us out to do some shopping (we also have no toilet paper left, which is equally pressing). Bucur Obor is only two bus-stops away (Milena, incidentally, doesn't believe in paying for public transport), but we get there pretty late: the small collection of stalls out the front are deserted. Round the back, previously unobserved by me, it transpires that there's a large food market and I mean large. Unfortuntely, I also mean empty: of the 100-120 stalls, there are perhaps 4 or 5 still open. There's a covered food market just behind, with space for another 100-150 vendors - it has perhaps a dozen people still there, all with stalls of fruit and vegetables. Families of rats frolic and play among the empty rows (unnerving Milena, who claims never to have seen them here before). With the general absence of anything else for sale, I point out that it seems my Romanian girl has brought me to the market to see the rats. I'm not sure how well she appreciates my sense of humour.
From the dregs that remain, she manages to pick up the bits and pieces she needs (and from a couple of supermarkets on the way back), but then decides that we should go out and eat instead (and I agree): after all, we've hardly been out of the flat for some time. The eatery-cum-restaurant is very French - a mix of American diner, bar and school dining room (round tables seating 4 to 8): dinner is a stew of some sort, with a piece of soft porous corn bread/jelly.
Back at the flat, we drink and smoke into the night - I'm in a country where vodka costs from 25p per half-litre: the stuff we're drinking is about 55p (a little less than a pack of Marlboro - about the most expensive brand available).

It's the 16th of November, and the last time I used my interrail card was on the 11th - 5 days wasted: the same as Morocco, but now I only have 5 days remaining before it expires. Again, though, by the time we get up there seems little point moving to somewhere else: Besides, I'm quite enjoying staying here. I go out during the afternoon/evening to do some internet updates, wander about, and get some fresh (and wet) air.
More observations about Bucharest:

• 24-hour stores are marked "Non-Stop", as in Bulgaria: in Bulgaria it's even stranger, because not only is "Non-Stop" written in English but it's written in Latin characters. God knows what the Bulgarian pronunciation of these characters is.
• Beggars, mostly Gypsies, stand out (about) one in five street corners and in (about) one in two underpasses. They don't do anything, except stand with their hands out (and often with babies clutched to their breast).
• Marlboro are just launching a 14-cigarette pack, which will be priced at about the same level as local 20-packs. I'm not sure who this deception is intended to fool.
• Vincent, the American staying at Elvis' Villa, complained about locals continually bumping into him and not apologising. I've hardly bumped into anyone and, analysing this, I observe that people here weave with the same body language as people at home.
• There's still a noticeable Jewish population in Bucharest, which is unusual for most of Europe (since WWII, anyway).

Anyway, after most of the day out wandering and thinking, I kinda decide that I'm quite happy with the idea of shelving my proposed travel in the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland and instead spending that time here with Milena, to see how things go. It surprises me that I've become so attached to her so quickly, when we disagree so completely and comprehensively on eg. religion and politics.
That evening, typically, my communication skills let me down, we argue, and she decides to kick me out. We sleep on opposite sides of the bed - it seems I'll be leaving tomorrow for Brasov after all.

Saturday, and we make up: the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland get struck off my list of places to visit again. Milena calls the Ukrainian Embassy for me to get details of visa requirements, since that will now be my next (direct) stop. They provide the necessary information (including the stipulation that I need to give details of where I'm staying, which is a pisser), and that they will be open for processing visa applications on Monday morning.
I go out, again, largely to stop us from spending all our waking hours a.) together and b.) indoors; do some internet research on various visas; grab a McDonalds (another McRustic); and then back to the flat via a supermarket to pick up more vodka - it's getting cold and wet in Bucharest.
Milena has been busy during my absence, apparently using the time to split up with her current (now previous) man. We have an unwinding, happy and alcoholic meal.

A big shopping day, despite it being Sunday (Sunday and Monday seem to function as half-days here - most museums and other attractions are open on Sundays, but closed on Mondays). We hit Bucur Obor, looking for somewhere to cut a copy set of keys to the flat: two of the three required keys are no problem, but the third is some strange Chinese template which we'll have problems with. Then Bucur Obor market, and this time it's packed with busy stalls and people: prices (food, textiles, toiletries, fruit 'n' veg and meat) are 8-15% cheaper than the supermarkets, and there's a lot of grey market stuff available. There are no rats in evidence today. Stopping at a supermarket on the way back, to pick up the various items on our list which we haven't found, knocks the total spend up to about £8 (enough food for two people, for three days, plus miscellaneous toiletries and a few packs of cigarettes).
That evening VH1 (the TV is pretty much permanently on) plays Dido's Hunter - the song's been pursuing me around my travels: I'd heard it in every country so far, and had been beginning to think that I'd escaped in Romania. Not so. After so much exposure, of course, I now quite like it.