It is a very strange sensation: I am here, walking the streets that I knew so well, and yet I don’t, looking at beautiful buildings and yet seeing some so neglected and desolate, passing by luxurious stores and the next door store window is covered inside with enormous sheets of paper and outside by graffiti, seeing the University Library which suffered severe fire damage in 1989 (the Christmas time that all name here the “so called” revolution) and is now beautifully restored and yet at street level there a bank owned by the country’s richest tennis player, walking up the steps of Ateneul Roman with its classic exterior cleaned and refreshed but cars are parked half way on sidewalks forcing pedestrians to put themselves in harm’s way, seeing the streets once placid and maybe intimidated and almost always deserted being now full of cafés and restaurants, seeing within one block three supermarkets full with a wealth of products and produce where we had to line up for hours in the bitterness of winter for a bread, and I see more. And it has been only 24 hours.
There are two of me: one walks the streets and handles the camera, the other watches what I do and tries to figure out what I see.
It’s good. Josette expressed this best today. We were walking by Strada Simu, where there was a tiny and beautiful Greek temple style museum which was, we are told, torched and instead there is a non-descript tall office building. Across from the museum was the School for Music and Ballet, where I met Josette 56 years ago, at a school dance. I went to court a young ballerina and I found a pianist. Anyway, Josette said today: “You know, it’s different from all other trips; I feel at home!”
We arrived yesterday, after very uneventful flights and connections (Bravo! Air Canada for the service!). Our friend V. was waiting for us; I recognised right away the crown of wild hair, once reddish, now white. I hugged him with all the warmth I was able to make him physically feel, and then we picked it up right where we left it almost 50 years ago. With him was his son, whom I never met but Josette has seen when she was here about 25 years ago. He said he doesn’t remember with the same dry humour that runs in the family.
V. knew exactly how to take us in town, and so the first significant building he asked his son to drive by was the “Casa Scanteii” (The House of the Spark, and the Spark was the equivalent of Pravda in Romania), where all media of then Bucharest, and Romania except the Radio, used to be concentrated for better to be supervised and controlled. There, on the fourth floor of the left wing, I worked at the still existent newspaper Romania Libera. Then we drove down the beautiful avenue Soseaua Kiseleff, by the stadium Stadionul Tineretului (The Youth Stadium) where I deployed my pathetic and pretty short middle-distance runnong career, around the Arcul Triumfului (yes, a copy of the Paris Arc de Triomphe), by the lake Herastrau and its huge park, down centre town towards our apartment.
What I forgot is the incredible largesse of this city in green spaces: large parks and many, the older, wide, leafy avenues.
We stopped in front of the building where we stay, but not before pointing the Ateneul Roman, the Bucharest’s charming old concert hall.
A few minutes later, from the door of the apartment I could see the main steps of the Ateneu, two kids shooting the ball right in front of the wide stairs.
This is it for now. That was yesterday, before we settled. More when I find the time. Doamna (Mrs.) A., in whose apartment we stay, has a PC, but I don’t have time. I’ll try to continue when I can still some time; I am a miserable typist.
Its five minutes past midnight here. I got to go; I’ll try to continue from here next time..
This message has been edited. Last edited by: Doru,
Wow... thanks for sharing this with us Doru. To "go home again" and to see your friend after 50 years! It sounds awesome, and it is only the first day. Looking forward to hearing more.
Doru, the emotion in your post is clear across the continents. Enjoy, enjoy, your visit. We look forward to hearing more of your experiences and reactions when you can.
Doru, so happy that you made it "home". I love your description of your first day, you painted a very vivid and distinct picture for us. Thank you so much for sharing. I look forward to reading more about this momentous visit.
Doru, thank you for sharing the first day of your journey "home" and giving us a glimpse of Bucharest through your eyes. I was very moved and look forward to hearing even more about your trip.
Hi Doru & Josette, what an incredibly wonderful description of your first day. Thank you so much for sharing your special experiences with us. Enjoy your trip.
Posts: 790 | Location: California | Registered: 19 September 2004
D - I got all teary reading about your return to Bucharest after 45 years! So happy you're able to reconnect with friends, and that you and Josette had the opportunity to go "home" under much better circumstances than your departure.
quote:
There are two of me: one walks the streets and handles the camera, the other watches what I do and tries to figure out what I see.
An elegant description of your physical and emotional journey. Looking forward to more!
Colleen
Posts: 16049 | Location: The Beautiful San Francisco Bay Area | Registered: 06 August 2001
What a coincidence. I am in Bucharest today for the Enescu festival as well and I observed the very same parking in front of the Atheneum.
I was here as well in 2004 and several buildings in the central area still had machine gun marks. They seem to have been mostly cancelled, but you can still see them on the back side of the larger concert hall (Palatului), where the TV and orchesta trucks are parked.
A lot of buildings have been renovated since 2004, but there is still an huge work to be done. I understand a very large number of buildings are abandoned till property matters are sorted out.
Where were we? First day; arrival. In the apartment. V. left quickly: they had a concert at 5 p.m.
In the house of Doamna A. things are not so simple: we first must eat. This would be the sixth meal in over 30 sleepless hours: breakfast and lunch at home, three airline meals (I never take beef on a flight but this time I did and, Oh!, Air Canada, the beef was excellent!) and now a table covered with all goodies “from back home”: eggplant salad, a vegetarian “zakuska” (don’t ask; think ratatouille or ask GGirl2, who must have tones of zakuska by now in Moldova), an assortment of village produced cheeses, chicken cordon bleu, jambon de Paris, tiramisu, and a demi-sec local wine, of which I have half a dozen bottles in the wine fridge at home courtesy of the Ontario monopole of liquor and wine imports, but I don’t have the heart to say it.
And we have the pleasure of meeting Domnul (Mr.) M., who turns out not only to be a charming man (4 days exactly older than me, I will discover) but also an amazing raconteur.
We meet, we eat, and start turning the chaos of three suitcases into a semblance of order. I worry most about the cameras, and everything seems to be in place. Domnul M. proposed during dinner to give me a tour of the facilities within the two or three blocks of buildings in the area, and so we go to discover: the homeless dogs of Bucharest!
There aren’t as many as there used to be before Brigitte Bardot supported a campaign of neutering, but they still are, just about everywhere, a strange sight, and yet somehow domesticated wild dogs. People are taking care of them in the same way in which cats are taken care of in Rome, but there is no foundation here, just people who take with them wherever they go some food for the local dogs. Because the dogs, a parking attendant tells me, know where people will come, maybe park, and will then descend with bags of food and the dogs just wait there: they have a date! And so I find what is in the package Mr. M. carries. He stops at an imposing mid-19th century building and the dogs greet us from under the steps, tails wagging with enthusiasm, licking Mr. M.’s back of the hand. From the building emerges a guard (human!), and the food passes on so that the security guy will give it to the dogs and we will pick up the pots on the way back. As we go, there is a cat looking with some doubt at the food, but there is apparently enough: the guard tell us the cat will have its share.
On we go on human business, and I find where are the three supermarkets, much like coops in Italy, and the four banks with ATMs, and the private stands with fruits and vegetables and the one with village cheeses where I notice but leave for another day that they have urda dulce de Sibiu, and all I can say is that I don’t how to translate it but I didn’t have urda dulce de Sibiu since I was a kid because it was not available even before I left: the farmers had to give all their quota of milk to the state and some bureaucrat used to decide what will be made from that milk in some centralized facility and where will the product be exported for hard cash. Now we have urda dulce de Sibiu literally on the street. Well, this IS change!
I also notice restaurants and cafés everywhere, and all well lit “a giorno”, and this in a country where people still lined up for food until late 1989-early 1990, and where people were not allowed to have more than one 40 watt bulb per room.
This is astonishing, but we will find out later that as soon as private enterprise took hold suddenly there was just about everything to buy. Money was another question; this took more time. And my friend V. told us today in answer to our question that changing from dark to light was just overnight: the electricity supply was always there but it was never channeled to homes and stores.
We do some light shopping, and return picking up on the way the pots for another trip to feed another day the wild domestic dogs, a unique local compromise, all quiet doggies, all well behaved and still street dogs. Tough to go by them, but people care and take care. Still, for one loving animals, and dogs in particular, it is a painful encounter with no happy ending possible.
Josette is practically done with the baggage and maybe exasperated with it, and this is a great time to take our first tour in the neighborhood: the Royal Palace, now a museum of Romanian older art, where we used to visit from time to time, the edifices of the older regime (the Securitate, the Party’s central location and its wide terrace from where The Dictator tried to give his last speech, the University Library, now renovated and named as a foundation in the name of the penultimate King of Romania Carol II, but housing also an elegant branch of Uni Credit Ion Tiriac Bank (Tiriac was a good tennisman, trained and managed Boris Becker, and became, I believe, the first post-communist multimillionaire of Romania), and then, well and then the local of Restaurant Cina where we had our wedding dinner party over 51 years ago, now called Il Calcio (“soccer” in Italian) but still showing off the beautiful, elegant garden. We leave the best for last and we take the time to go around the building of the concert hall Ateneul Roman. Please google it; I can’s insert links from here.
Back to the apartment, where we have a last chat with our hosts. Mr. M. will leave tomorrow morning to their second house in the sub-Carpathian Hills, then Mrs. A. after we’re settled (and very likely fed again and again).
We have to try to sleep. Tomorrow will be another day. That was Day 1.
I see these two things are still around. 1. all those dogs. I remember "practising" not to secrete or project fear, or we were told the dogs would surely harass us. It was great training and also worked with mean policemen too. -- Do we - well, surely, - secrete a fear adrenalin that dogs and bullies pick up? 2. the lines for bread. How o how can they be still around? When I went, which was right around the time the government fell, I had been told to bring chocolate for children who had never in their life tasted it. Since the bread queues were so long, I ended up eating all the chocolate I had brought in lieu of meals. You bet that cured my chocolate addiction for good. The sad thing was that the children not only had never tasted chocolate, they had never tasted orange either, or any fresh fruit ever, it seemed.
Am curious about , oh, so many things.
- The food of your memories. Does it measure to your mental buildup?
- your language. Is it just as fluent as it was decades ago? Do you not sound "street"? Do you sound "too" correct or formal or old-fashioned? Have your friends commented on it?
Reading about your visiting old haunts and eating childhood dishes, I feel a tristesse that keeps seeping into the happiness...
Originally posted by Americana in Parigi: 2. the lines for bread. How o how can they be still around?
I may have mispoken, I may have been misunderstood: there are NO lines, no lines for anything now except at the cashier, to pay, or to buy tickets for concerts and theatres.
- Mental buildup: so far it is all good and above expectations. This place is in into renewal. It will take time, but good change happens everywhere. The newer generation have no idea what it was like before, and don't care. And the rebuilding, and renovating, and development, will be their work. I am quite sure they will do it. This is not a city in ruin; just in neglect, and capital that moved this way already went mostly into production of goods. I will talk again about this but Bucharest has a most fantastic collection of Art Deco and Streamline Modern archtecture, mostly two-three story houses, but public buildings as well.
Food: so far we ate "at home" and it's like home; no revelations here. The revelation is that one finds anything one needs.
Language: there is stret language here, for sure, but the "circles in which I move" don't use it much. What is special:
- the richness and variety of accents; - the exceptionally mannered people I meet. Ladies' hands are kissed again, people are invariable addressed with Miss and Mrs. or Mister, and the formal plural is king here, much more formal than the French "vous", almost like addressing the interlocutor at the third paerson plural formal, but a tad more direct. The "Merci" and the "Multumesc" flow with natural ease here.
As to my accent, so far I was told a few times prices in the old currency units, like 100,000 lei instead of the 10 lei now. But this is a double-edged knife because this is how prices are quoted here to elederly , those considered too "old" to have adapted to the new units. I've noticed this frequently in Italy too. And I thought that my clothes will turn me in, but western style clothing is just about everywhere here already. Since I don't wear jeans I am already an old-fashioned local
OK, now Josette meets for lunch at "La Mama" (just like in Italian!) restaurant around the corner a former Conservatory colleague while myself, if I get my fingers free from this keyboard, will go to tour a few book and music stores. The concert today is at 5 p.m., across the street, so I have plenty of time. I already received from my friend V. a bunch of books related to the period which I missed, from '61 to date, and some about things I didn't know while still being here and that came to light in the more recent times.
La revedere, pe curand (be seeing you soon)!
This message has been edited. Last edited by: Doru,
I was at la Mama on Sunday evening; I confess I liked a little more the Atheneum bistro, near the Hilton hotel. And of course the Cara cu Bere beer hall in the center...
By now you must feel not like two people but a crowd, past and present. Thank you so much for taking us with you on this intense journey in a place so well known to you and so little known to many of us.
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit III Sunday, September 13
We are finally getting into a routine. We found most of the stuff we thought that we have left home. We found again that we took way too much clothing with a view to late September and early October. So far, the weather was incredible: 25-26 degrees Celsius each day, full sun, short sleeve days, long sleeve evenings and nights. Perfect. We were told that last winter hardly brought more than a dusting of snow. This is the place that the Crivat, a wild wind coming in from the steppes of the Baragan, used to dump on meters of snow every winter. In early 1954 I definitely recall snow higher than street signs, and using skis to get to work at the other end of the city, meeting similarly on skis in the nomenclature neighbourhood the then Prime Minister, P. G., with his personal guard in front and behind him, on skis too. We said “Buna ziua” (Good day) like the polite people we were, and the PM stopped to ask me where I go and why. I told him I was on the way to write about the workers of the municipal transportation system, who were trying desperately to defrost the motors of the buses, trams and trolley buses that criss-cross the city in normal time. He said something like “good work”; and I didn’t get any medal for it.
But I digress.
This is about September 2009, the 13th more precisely.
We have breakfast with our hostess; Mr. M. is already off to Breaza. We ask and find out that during the revolution this building was under fire, particularly the upper floors. Mr. M. was on the street with the demonstrators but returned home before the shooting started. It is hard to imagine what went on here, but questions linger, doubts worm their way till this day, almost 20 years later.
But this is Sunday, a day in which the infernal automotive traffic of Bucharest slows down, the streets are pretty empty, because “everybody” is out of town. My friend V. and his wife, AP, come to pick us up for a tour of the town by car, a gift from them to us, where we get to see all the places we knew and we get to imagine all those that have disappeared. We don’t get down because V. wants to be practical in using the time they have, since at 5 they have a concert at the Enescu Festival. So off we go at above legal speed to see the famous Casa Poporului (The House of the People) which was built in the last years of the old regime and was not completely finished. It was described as a monstrosity, it is the second largest building in the world after the Pentagon, but whoever was used to the Stalinist architecture, and has seen it in Moscow, Leningrad, Warsaw, etc., is already conditioned to the pomposity and exaggeration of features, and a critical eye, like mine and Josette’s, may say: “Hey, it isn’t too bad” for a monument. Hard to see what use will be found for this thing, but around it we have wide boulevards, with 8 lanes of traffic separated in two by rows of water fountains (all actually functional), and the sides of these boulevards are lined in turn with high rise buildings after high rise which, we are told, were actually built at a high level of quality and with good materials. A new city.
On we go, by my University, on to the Opera, around and around and we arrive at a mall. It is a nice and modern building, with beautiful stores, good espresso found in a café, but I am not allowed to take pictures. A reminder of the paranoia of old times, or just some over-zealous administration?
The point for me is that this mall was built over what used to be Strada Vitan and Piata Vitan, street and open air market which played a huge role in my childhood. And V. well knew. Here I used to come early in the morning, before going to school, to ask the peasants to give me some greens for my pet rabbit. And here rest some of the coldest days and nights in my memory because here, in this very spot, was during the war years (WWII) a centre for distribution of petrol to the population. My father was gone for five years in a labour camp taken there straight from the army, and my Mom and I lined up every week, rain or shine or freeze to the heart inside, to get our ration of petrol. I started at age 5 with a “bidon” of 5 litres, and by the end of the war I was 9 and could carry 20 litres. My Mom carried her share. As I write this, I want to cry.
We went then by the Post Office Vitan, where we used to use the public phones (no private phones till the late 60s, I believe), and nothing left of our little streets. It’s tough to imagine that you were born and grew up in a fantasy, but at least I remember the streets, and the stores, and the “Troita” church whose priest knew Hebrew because he had studied in Jerusalem and who allowed us to play in the backyard and sneak an apple from the trees, and the ”maidan” where we played soccer (“fotbal”) with balls made from stuffed old socks, and the restaurant where I would go with my mother, with bread from home, and get two “mititei”, a traditional Romanian delight made of ground meet and spices, sausage-shaped and barbequed (“gratar”) as you wait. We go by the place where the old stadium was, and the Trade School, and recognize the Depot of street cars and this is one street away from where we lived for a while (we were always renters). But we can’t stop and look for the street; maybe another time. On we go by the big soccer stadiums of my youth, and then we turn towards the totally preserved and still the most beautiful part of this city, the big boulevards, framed by huge old trees, the lake and the parks and the little streets with wonderful houses, late 19th and early 20th century houses, built for the rich of the time and then the place where the nomenclature lived, and V. can point to us each house and who used to live in it.
We end on one of the most beautiful of these boulevards, Soseaua Aviatorilor, and we stop to take in the open air antiques market, a riot of colours and the usual variety in things one finds in these markets everywhere. We spend some time here, and we are taken back home, while V. and AP return to theirs to change for their concert.
We rest a bit, have a light dinner, and walk over to our concert at the Palace Hall, a large and still beautiful concert hall, where the orchestra Maggio Musicale Fiorentino, conducted by Roberto Abbado, plays Enescu and Mahler. We have excellent seats bought for us by V., and from my seat in the box I can see the two seats where Josette and I sat in the late 50s when I managed to get tickets to one of the most sensational shows of those times, the amazing Ima Sumak, who could sing at an unbelievable voice range, and the Peruvian Folk Ensemble. I am told it was an extraordinary event, but I wouldn’t remember because on that evening I had the most terrible toothache one can imagine, and all I saw throughout the show was a white veil of pain, each of Ima Sumak’s thrill a drill.
The tooth went next day; the dentists of that time worried about the present, not the future.
The point for me is that this mall was built over what used to be Strada Vitan and Piata Vitan, street and open air market which played a huge role in my childhood. And V. well knew. Here I used to come early in the morning, before going to school, to ask the peasants to give me some greens for my pet rabbit. And here rest some of the coldest days and nights in my memory because here, in this very spot, was during the war years (WWII) a centre for distribution of petrol to the population. My father was gone for five years in a labour camp taken there straight from the army, and my Mom and I lined up every week, rain or shine or freeze to the heart inside, to get our ration of petrol. I started at age 5 with a “bidon” of 5 litres, and by the end of the war I was 9 and could carry 20 litres. My Mom carried her share. As I write this, I want to cry.
From this point on, I had trouble reading your post, through a vision all blurred by tears. Surviving is triumphing.
Doru, how do you feel that a mall has obliterated the street and the market now? Do you feel closure, or bitterness? Would you have liked to stand in an environment that is recognizable, even if it reminds you of an unhappy past? -- My questions are getting personal. You don't have to answer if you don't want to.
On a lighter note… Something you said earlier… Yes I noticed that eastern Europeans - the Czechs, Poles, Romanians, - got in and out of 50 years of communist rule like a time machine and went back to their former elegant national self. Back to kissing hands comme il faut, dancing the waltz comme il faut, speaking an old-fashioned French comme il faut. But especially the hand-kissing ! I hereby urge all ST ladies to try to get their hands kissed by an Eastern European gentleman. There's nothing like it. Even the French, the Austrians have a lot to learn.
Doru - what an amazing gift you are giving all of us: a chance to share your experiences as you revisit your former home.
Thank you for letting us all see it and FEEL it through your eyes. It has been a moving experience so far, and I look forward to continuing to walk with you.
Judy
Posts: 3899 | Location: Berkeley, CA | Registered: 22 March 2005
Originally posted by Americana in Parigi: Doru, how do you feel that a mall has obliterated the street and the market now? Do you feel closure, or bitterness? Would you have liked to stand in an environment that is recognizable, even if it reminds you of an unhappy past?
The truth and nothing but the truth: I had a happy childhood, and adolescence, and there is no bitterness; just some sadness and envy for those who can still find their places. There will be no case for closure because this is a different reality.
Kissing hand: frequently, when a man thanks a woman, he may say instead of "Multumesc" or "Merci" (me still, after such a long time I am not out of practice yet) "Saru'mana" ("Kiss'hand").
Per pedes apostolorum, walking (like the Apostles), the best way to see any city, but here we have catch-up to do. Camera in hand, we need no maps, we spend the morning hours retracing familiar streets in the centre town. The former Royal Palace on the right as we walk towards the river Dambovita doesn’t seem affected by years. It still shows well its wide open façades but nothing imposing, a classical, honest to goodness palace as it was befitting a Balkan King with good pedigree.
On the left, the former University Library, founded at the end of the 19th century, reconstructed after severe fire damage during the 1989 bloody revolution, reborn as the Foundation King Carol I. Romania has a great appetite for its relatively short regal tradition, which was totally suppressed between 1947 and 1989. There is no serious intent to reinstate the monarchy; the King lives quietly in Switzerland and visits from time to time, when he is received with great affection. Many of the former regal domains and properties were returned to his family. He was the last of the Eastern European Kings to be shoved aside by the Soviet domination.
At the other corner of Calea Victoriei is what used to be the famous building of the central committee of the communist party where Ceausescu tried to give his fateful speech in December 1989, only to be booed by tens of thousands of people. There are many stories and speculations about what happened on that terrace from which he was whisked away by helicopter only to meet his fate about 70 km. north of Bucharest a few days later. It was all on TV. ‘Nough said.
Not far, a smaller building which was burned down during the revolution; the popular tradition says that the archives of the Securitate were kept there. Anyone we would talk to would have a theory about what was really there. ‘Nough said here too.
We go by what used to be Bucharest’s tallest building, Palatul Telefoanelor (no translation necessary here). Josette remembers the clockmaker whose store was at the lower level; I do remember him too and also remember that this was the way I used to walk to the Radio Broadcasting Corporation in the late 50s.
On the other side of the street is the Theater for Children “Tandarica”; Tandarica is the Romanian version of Pinocchio. Across the street is the great Musical Theater, Bucharest’s equivalent of Broadway, now in renovation. A few meters further is the Street Sarindar where initially all major newspapers were having their offices and printing presses. My father worked there in the late 30s and then again in the late 40s and early 50s, after surviving five years of labour camp. Here I have also started in 1951 my journalistic apprenticeship and development, still a gawky youngster awed by the great names around me.
By the Casa Armatei (the edifice of the military regardless of regime, but way before my time the first grand café and ballroom of the modernizing city), and on the other side of the street the literary café Capsa, a big tradition in the city and still there and enriched with a hotel right above.
Slowly we come across the Prefectura, the one-time feared Police Department where one’s life and chance for a passport hung in balance at the whim of whoever had to deal with your file.
But right across used to be the jeweler who made our wedding rings. There is nothing there but empty, dark windows; maybe someday somebody will buy the place and renovate it.
Again across Magazinul Victoria, which used to be called before Galeries Lafayette, the first grand department store of Bucharest.
On to Strada Lipscani, where used to be the Music Conservatory. To how many student concerts I have listened there with Josette, all ages, all instruments, all composers. We step in; it is a bank now there. I ask permission to photograph the cupola of the gorgeous Art Deco atrium and I am told that it is not permitted (there a bank now there; maybe it makes sense…) but I should come back when the Administrator is there and most likely I will be allowed. But not now; the Administrator has left the building…
On Lipscani my mother and two of her sisters were sales clerks in their youth. And an uncle worked as a technician in the Philips store. And the place where used to be Librairie Hachette, famous for being the first place after the war where one could obtain rough, brown packages of sheets of toilet paper. Rough, brown, but it was superior to quartered sheets of inky newspaper.
There are works all over the street, so we need to take a shortcut, give up in checking whether my barber is still there (this was a store with 20 barber chairs till late into the 50s; a gentleman got a shave every day at the hands of his barber!).
We take the new Passage under the crazy traffic of Piata Universitatii. At the other end there used to be a clock and this was the best place to meet your girl: “La ceasul de la Universitate" (“At the clock near the University”). If you were not there on time, you might have lost your girl to another more punctual…
We stop for a coffee and walk slowly back along the grand Boulevards Balcescu and Magheru, by the big movie theatres of the times and back to our apartment.
After dinner, on to the concert: a great Romanian conductor, Cristian Mandeal. We have heard about him but nothing with him. An exceptional evening, conducting Maggio Musicale Fiorentino, crowned with “So Sprach Zaratustra” by Richard Strauss.
It is now nearly 1am in Paris. Doru, I can't sleep without reading your day's instalment…
I still remember the expression on Ceaucescu when suddenly he realized that people were booing him. And it was a long boo from a lot of people from rather far away. In the documentaries, the boos seemed to come in waves. That was one of those historic moments that define and separate a before and an after. Emperor realized he had no clothes! No Holliwood, no oscar actor could reproduce that scene, that expression.
Back to your walks. Your description is just as vivid whether the building is still standing or not. -- In a way it seems more vivid when the physical environment is no longer there. Remiunds me of a description by Bruce Chatwin of being guided around Buenos Aires by a blind (!) Jorge Luis Borges. Borges's memory too, like yours, is more vivid than the actual seeing.
I've been completely without words since your first day's post. But, I agree that this must become a book - a memoir. Please Duro. You must.
One of my all time favorite memoirs is Twelve Little Cakes by Dominika Dery. It tells of her childhood in Prague during the last gasps of Communism. Your tale of life in Bucharest would be many times more interesting, I know.
Deborah Horn In a previous life I was an Umbrian sunflower farmer. I want to do a past life regression and stay there. ----------------------------------- www.petsburg.com My blog: Old Shoes - New Trip
Posts: 5590 | Location: St. Louis, MO | Registered: 04 September 2001
Originally posted by itarchivarius: What a coincidence. I am in Bucharest today for the Enescu festival as well and I observed the very same parking in front of the Atheneum.
I can't explain how I missed this! Are you still in the city? If yes, would you like to meet for a chat? I think 2004 was also a Festival year, so now I can speculate...
Doru, let me add my voice to the chorus who are lapping up your every word. Keep it coming! And, on a musical note, I suspect that if the Maggio Musicale orchestra are still there, then Luca (itarchivarius) will be there with them; but if the Mahler was their last concert, he might well have departed.
Jonathan
Posts: 3394 | Location: Stroud, UK | Registered: 18 November 2001
Originally posted by Jonathan:..then Luca (itarchivarius) will be there with them; but if the Mahler was their last concert, he might well have departed.
This is what I have ben speculating. How could I have been so distracted not to note that first phrase? Bummer It these really too late hours I keep.
Today we severed the invisible cord: Josette went to meet a former Conservatory colleague for lunch and reminiscing at the nearby restaurant “La Mama” and I am free to roam. I propose to go through four bookstores in the segment of Boulevardul Magheru to Piata Romana, the target being books which would cover personal and historical interpretations of the events between 1941 to date. I was too little to fully understand the early 40s, and the take on that period while I was a student needs, I am sure, major revisions, since so much new material has come to light in the last 20 years.
Boulevardul Magheru is a 6-lane major thoroughfare and the building stock along the boulevard doesn’t look very good. While Rome carries dilapidation with the dignity of an Imperial Matron, the peeling façades of some buildings here don’t have the virtue of antiquity. It is mostly neglect, lack of funds, and 42 years of “collective” ownership and lack of private initiative.
To the credit of the new government, I will see many buildings covered with fabric on which it is mentioned that this building or the other are being renovated and modernized at public cost. Of course, signed by the local municipal politician. It will take some time, but this city will get there, because one can see everywhere the buds of private enterprise. Not always successful, but these are big steps forward and reasons for much optimism. This is a very creative and hard working people, so results will show.
Back to my book search, I am disappointed: the stock is pretty thin, and I can find only a couple of titles that may be what I want, both memoirs. I will consult my friend V., who knows well this topic. Till retirement he was chief editor of a cultural weekly here, and he already gave me two books to look up, one about the last 14 days of the reign of then young and still apparently loved King Mihai I (December 17-31, 1947) and another of memoirs of a journalist who seemed to have followed me, first at the same high school and also in the media, although we worked for different newspapers. I am sure I will find in this book lots of known names, above all similar experiences, at the practically same age. Should be bittersweet to read, if I only find the time, as I am every night at this “calculator” (Romanian for computer and for calculator…) or “ordinator” until 1 or 2 a.m. It is the only time I have, and I fall behind more and more. (Note: today I heard in the intermission of a concert the PC being referred to as ‘The Robot”!).
With only a couple of titles on my list and also having scouted for Josette the classical music CD stands, I am heading back to the apartment, not before looking for the first supermarket in the history of Bucharest, “Leonida”. The building is still there, but other stores have taken its place. I am happy to see everywhere cafés and restaurants full of people, tables outside (Romanians are great fans of eating and chatting outdoors) and notice again the green lines of trees and green grass bordering the boulevard, pretty well taken care of, the street pretty clean and being cleaned. Walking requires some concentration as potholes pop up here and there.
Music: This is special, since it is the first concert we will hear at Ateneul Roman after 48 years. We are both pretty emotional about it. We remember so well the beautiful entrance hall, and we are happy to see restored the frescos surrounding the higher part of the concert hall below the splendid cupola and depicting all around the ahll moments from the history of the country and its people. The concert hall appears to be smaller than we remembered, the seats a bit more cramped: we were a lot thinner in our early 20s than now.
We turn towards the second category loge seats where we used to have our season subscription, Sunday mornings at 11, practically till we left in 1961. V. and Ad. sit right now in a loge adjacent to “ours”. Coincidences. We wave and arrange how to meet in the intermission. We also notice that our host, Mrs. A., sits just behind them; she wasn’t sure whether she will get a ticket till the last moment.
Murray Perahia conducts Saint Martin in the Fields and plays piano concerts by Back and Mozart. It’s beautiful. The public applauds enthusiastically.
In the evening, we go to the outdoor stage between Ateneul Roman and Fundatia Carol I, where the Philarmonic of the city of Pitesti plays an operetta and opera program. We sit at a garden table, on garden chairs, under the clear night skies of Bucharest’s sweet September, the best time of the year here. I nurse a beer, Josette has a bottle of water. We are very happy.
Doru, the next best thing to reading your walk down memory lane would be to be there with you. I wish I could have joined you for at least one day. Oricum, ma bucur pentru tine.
Originally posted by GGirl2:Oricum, ma bucur pentru tine.
Yes, we would have loved to have you here too.
I love your progress! How are you getting along with the accent? Mine seems to regain some of the lost, typical Bucharest accent; fortunately, the manners were still at a pretty pretty acceptable level.
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit VI Wednesday, September 16 [1]
Big day, today. Like all walks back in time, there is a story of times, changes and destiny behind this special day.
Today we meet L and N., a younger Romanian couple, whom Josette met in her last visit here, about 25 years ago. At the time she was visiting her aunt, her last immediate living relative. L. and N. were her aunt’s neighbours next apartment door and were extremely helpful to her, as she was handicapped by health issues. When Josette left, they promised her that they will take care of Josette’s aunt and indeed they fulfilled this promise beyond the call of any obligation other than through the generosity and goodness of their characters.
I have never met them before. After the initial telephone contact we arranged to meet today, and because it is an easy spot to locate we chose the steps of Ateneul Roman. And so it was: we met them at 10 o’clock, and there was a lot of emotion, attenuated somewhat by the pretty desperate situation with the parking in centre Bucharest; we had to cut on hugs and kisses in order to get to the temporarily double parked Jetta. And so, the plans for the day were set in a car!
We started with a duty of love: we went to place some flowers and a few thoughts at the tombs of Josette’s aunt and of her uncle. They didn’t have children of their own and so they poured all their love in Josette, and later included me too in their affection. In fact, Josette’s aunt was instrumental in convincing Josette’s father to listen to that young guy that I was when I asked him for her hand. Serious! She also chose the moment, as the six of us were walking towards a garden theatre to see ”Le Rouge et Le Noir” with Gérard Philipe. She thought probably that walking along Josette’s father may let his guard down and accept my plea. All went well, obviously, and I hope he is happy of what went on with the two of us...
The drive to the Cimitirul Spaniol (The cemetery of the Sefard Jewish community of Bucharest), took us along streets and arteries that I should have known but were not the streets and arteries I had in my memory. Bucharest was tortured, taken apart and put again together and most of the results are remarkable, in the positive sense of the word.
After a short while we turned into streets I knew: “11 Iunie” was a street on which family of mine lived. Their daughter was a remote cousin. One day, while visiting them with my Mom, my cousin had there a friend of hers, a beautiful girl, and I immediately fell in love. She wore a whiff of perfume I was told it was ”Je reviens” and for many years it was my preferred perfume scent. I was lost in love forever, and I was all of 8 or 9 years old…
On, to the corner street where my uncle had his hairdressing salon. And immediately to the right from that very same corner was Strada Principatele Unite. The name celebrates the union of Walachia and Moldova, and the date of that union coincides with my birthdate, thankfully mine being about 60 years later, so the street have many meanings for me, not the least being that Josette’s school was moved on that same street after we have already met and so I was pretty frequently in that neighbourhood, as one would easily imagine.
At the cemetery, L. and N., who are Christian, knew all that was needed and the locations, and took us first to Josette aunt’s place, then to her uncle’s. The cemetery suffers of neglect but the headstones were washed with water brought by our hosts for the day, and we said a silent prayer and took some moments to remember them both.
The cemetery had quite a few dog residents, of the semi-domesticated variety, very harmless, following our every steps as if missing that human contact. They are left on their own, although it seems they are fed by people everywhere in the city.
On the way out, I had to stop suddenly and take a step back, surprised to find the tomb of my absolutely ever best teacher, a man whose image I have carried with me since high school, where he taught us history: antiquity, medieval, modern and contemporary, one topic each full year, from Grade 8 to 11. He was an inspired teacher and my fondest memory of him is that of a lesson on medieval history when Prof. G. started with us the period of the Robber Barons. We had a huge, end to end blackboard. He started with the dynasties of the Robber Barons at the top left corner of the board and worked his way, chalk dust flying all over his shiny bold head, criss-crossing here and there and everywhere to link all those families and baronies, dancing along the blackboard while talking to us till he finished, now I think totally exhausted but then I didn’t know any better, finishing as I said, at the bottom right corner. He turned to us triumphantly and then… the bell rang and we all scooted out of the classroom. I loved him, I never forgot him, and now I met him again, next to him his wife who was an illustrious, famous violinist. A few more familiar names, musicians, artists. These passed away after we left, but we knew their names, we met some. There was also a monument in the memory of those who perished in the earthquake of March 4, 1977. It was the way the dice fell that one of the buildings destroyed completely, The Carlton Building, housed many artists, poets and writers. Some of them, or their memorials, were here.
From here we went to a much happier place, Parcul Carol ( a park that regained its old name, after one of Romania’s Kings). We walked in the park, which again brought back memories since Josette and I were here quite often, walking hand in hand. It was told that in some of the dense bushes much more serious stuff went on as the evening fell, but we were good kids, just walked or came to shows at the Arena Romana, an amphitheatre with the capacity of a few thousand people. Today we stop in the park for a coffee and water, and to finally talk. The park is beautiful, well maintained and clean. The only grinding note is the mausoleum of Gheorghe Gheorgiu-Dej, the first communist leader of Romania. We couldn’t ignore its presence, crowned by huge, elongated marble arches. If one is of a forgiving mood one can think of a similarity with the St. Louis, Missouri Gateway Arch; in a less forgiving mood the viewer may be reminded of the McDonald Arches…
So to remain into the theme of the past, we went to the famous “Palatul Poporului” (“The Palace of the People”), the huge megalomanic edifice that dominates Bucharest and that was built in Ceausescu’s time over a good part of the city that I knew.
It is hard to have one single opinion about this place. Yes, the architecture is Stalinist Extreme Overdone. Yes, a huge part of Bucharest’s past was erased without even attempting to retain some of it. Yes, Dealul Arsenalului (The Arsenal Hill), which was the tallest of Bucharest’s three hills at about 250 feet, was excavated to make room for 11 stories outside and about 6 below ground. But around it, huge straight boulevards were cut, one or two kilometres of living water fountains separate the 3 or 4 lanes in each direction, kilometres of high-rises were built, and with good materials and care, we are told. The goal of The Father of the People was to have all and everyone under his immediate control. The end result is that he is gone and that this part of Bucharest is now vibrant, modernised, and pretty well built.
The problem is the price that was paid, the energies and wealth sucked out of a people to produce this pretty unique place.
Thanks Doru, Moldovenii tell me that my accent is really good. I continue to study on a daily basis, fortunately, I find Romanian very easy to learn and to grasp. Some days, however, my brain gets tired and my tongue does as well. All in all though I am enjoying myself.
I totally can relate about dog situation. It is the same in Moldova. I have to blog about it sometime.
Glad that you are having such a great trip. This is definitely one for a memoir. Keep the posts coming. Such a lovely story of your lives. I am also enjoying reading about the history. It is sad that so much of is was erased. I think that sometimes when people want to forget the dark parts of the past that they rob the generations to come of a huge part of their own history. Hopefully it is chronicled somewhere with photos.
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit VI [2] Wednesday, September 16
Palatul Poporului (The Palace of the People), formerly Casa Poporului (The House of the People), is a colossal architectural edifice, practically covering the horizon atop what used to be one of Bucharest’s modest hills. It dominates its surroundings as its intention was to be, and its frontage dominates a huge wide boulevard, Boulevardul Unirii (Unity Boulevard), straight as an arrow, 6 or 8 traffic lanes wide. It is an attempt very similar to Mussolini’s Via dela Conciliazione, just much longer and much wider, its middle island lined with water fountains. Going through my notes I see that it carries 12 floors above ground, not 11 as I wrote yesterday, and 8 underground, rather than 6.
It is said that one of the disappointments of the Leader was to discover that the terrace of the Palace was way too far to carry his voice to the masses which were expected to be assembled there to listen to his frequent public appearances. With regret, he had to give up this dream and return to the stage of his very last speech, at the building of the central committee, across from the old Royal Palace.
The building is not finished yet. Its completion proceeds at a much less demonic pace, and the Romanian humour mentions the completion time span of this construction in the same breath with La Sagrada Familia…
Mr. L. had arranged for us to visit the Palace with a tour guided in Romanian. There are also tours in English, French, and maybe other languages. We had the pleasure to meet the guide, a young man who was likely born very close to the end of the old regime; he could not be older than 25.
At the entrance we had to leave our passports, something I didn’t do with ease, but there was no choice: passports for tourists, identity cards for locals. Photography is permitted, at a small extra cost.
The Palace has over 330,000 sq. meters, which makes it the second largest administrative building in the world, following the Pentagon. Its volume is slightly bigger than that of the Pyramid of Keops, and the comparison is not purely symbolic....
The young guide commented with bitterness on the enormous effort which mobilised and thus immobilised the resources of a people. The Leader wanted all materials used for this structure to be local, and the numbers are astounding: 1 million tonnes of marble, all Romanian marble, 900,000 cubic meters of wood, almost 3,000 candelabra using thousands of tonnes of crystal, more than 200,000 sq. meters of carpets, all weaved in the country. Halls the size of football field, all fully carpeted. At least two public halls, one for concerts and the other for meetings. The place defies imagination, and logic, and sense. It is not even an easy place to convert to other uses, although it now houses the Romanian Parliament, and there are congresses and exhibitions held here. For Canadians a matter of curiosity: the only material known to have been imported was wood from Canada, used for the giant carved doors that can be seen everywhere.
It is also explained to us that the stairs of the Palace had to be all torn down and completely redone at a smaller scale since the Giant of the People was rather short in stature… Romanians have the natural talent of finding a bit of humor in the most difficult situations.
Beneath this place and around it, an entire sector of Bucharest was demolished to make room for it. Here there was an older part of the city, cartierul (neighbourhood) Uranus, all small houses, low-rise buildings. This is the source of the vagabond dogs of Bucharest: people were literally forced to leave their small houses with gardens and backyards, and were moved into crammed high-rises, built without much consideration for the needs of their residents, in new suburbs which popped up overnight for the purpose of receiving these masses of displaced people. They had to leave their cats and dogs behind since there was no room, nor permission to bring them into the replacement buildings. So the house pets and guard dogs had to be left behind, without care, without supervision, and they were too many to be taken care off in an organized manner. Over the years, many efforts were made, sporadically, to deal with the problem through neutering and spaying and for a while in much more forceful manners. There is now a sort of armistice between the dogs of Bucharest and its residents. But wherever one sees these errant dogs, one can not help but notice that the dogs still seek the proximity, and maybe the affection, of their humans, even those dogs born in the wild, without anything but their atavic instincts.
The visit went on for 45 minutes, very interesting, very imposing in dimensions and context, but one can already see that this building is too much, too big, to be maintainable over time. The marble will last, no doubt, but there is discreet decay everywhere, most visible with the carpets, but also with some huge windows that wait repair, cupolas and candelabra waiting for cleaning.
What impressed me most was the passion of the young guide, the heir of this thing that nobody wanted, nobody needed, and the bitterness at this waste of resources and labour that could have been better used to benefit the entire country. Time will pass. Passions will even out, maybe the Palace will find some existential use, the old narrow streets will be forgotten and the new boulevards may still be admired sometime ahead.
I felt as if I have passed another bridge and I could understand the youngster who had to deal with this problem two generations after mine.
After the visit we drove to the apartment of L. and N., where we were treated to another of those generous Romanian dinners “ca la mama acasa” (Suzette, you translate this, please?).
We spent a few more hours together with the wonderful couple, who were holding for us a folder full with photos and documents left from Josette’s aunt, some of them new for us.
Mr. L. drove us back to our apartment, which is more like a bed and breakfast since Mrs. A., who is about ten years younger than us, has adopted us and treats us like her children. Wonderful to be taken in and cared for with such love.
Music: Philarmonia Orchestra conducted by Vladimir Ashkenazi, who was decorated, on the stage, by the Romanian State for his contributions to arts and culture. Pretty special moment. Followed a Schumann piano concerto splendidly played by the Romanian pianist Dan Grigore, who used to be a few classes younger than Josette at the Conservatory, then a boy in short pants, and now is a giant of a, well, middle aged man… Then one of my favourite composers, Shostakovich, and the huge “Stalingrad” symphony.
Tough to go to sleep after this symphony. So I go to Mrs. A.'s PC and thus close Day 5.
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit VII Thursday, September 17
Our hosts for the day are again L. and N. The plan is to leave the capital and drive out to a resort area around the Lake Snagov.
In our time there were few people who owned private cars, and there wasn’t regular public transportation to this beautiful region. By default, this was a region for privileged few: rich landowners and industrialists before WWII, the nomenclature after the war. As it were, Josette came here 25 years ago, with the very same L. and N, when the access to the lake was blocked by armed military guards prohibiting any approach, by road or water, to the villas of the fathers of the proletariat. L. and N. were here again about 15 years ago, and again met barriers interdicting public access just about everywhere. I was here first and last over 50 years ago, to cover European rowing championships that took place on this calm, beautiful lake.
So it was all new for the four of us. With one exception, where the road out of town is being improved by the addition of a tunnel still under construction, driving out wasn’t too bad; it surely did not live up to the suspense we were prepared for.
And so we were soon moving at high speed on a very good highway, which took us past the International Airport “Henry Coanda” (Otopeni), where we arrived 5 days ago, and soon we were in the former little village of Snagov, now a metropolis of villas hidden behind long, treed entrance ways, the residences themselves all but invisible from the road. It seems the more things change, the more they remain the same: there a new type of nomenclature which claimed the villas of the old. This was facilitated by the fact that all property under the old regime was owned by the State and, theoretically, continues to be owned by the State, although many properties were reclaimed by their initial owners of two nationalisations ago. Complicate stuff, I tell you. So today, when say, the Minister of Health loses his job, the new Minister of Health gets the villa. Simple.
We try to see if now access is permitted to the villa of the Ceausescu family. Sure enough, military guard is still there, and very pleasantly and politely, shoes us away. Who is now here? We can’t tell you. Is there anyway we could drive past the barrier? We can’t tell you. Is there a part of the village of villas open to public traffic? We can’t tell you.
So we give up and drive to some clubs L. remembers in the region. We find the first one, with a well maintained public beach, with a beautiful building for visitors, but all empty except for a gardener who is a bit more talkative than the military guard. Turns out that this is also a public property, that of the Administration of the Romanian Railways, but it is open to the public. Apparently people come here only during weekends. Yes, we can visit to our hearts’ content.
As we move around and take photos we are followed everywhere by 9 or 10 dogs of all sizes, ages and varieties, all very peacefully walking with us. They don’t bark, until what seems to be a dog from another territory tries an infiltration, and then the intruder, running away, the local dogs return to us and follow our every step. It is eerie.
From here we drive to the club Snagov, a gorgeous property, recently renovated and used by locals and also for conventions and conferences. No errant dogs here. The beauty of the vegetation, the sparkling cleanliness, the peace, the quiet waters of the lake, are all worth the drive. We speculate for a moment whether to stop here for lunch but then L. has another idea, and we leave.
L. wants to show us Pipera, a totally new neighbourhood, former sheep pastureland. One of the locals seized the opportunity after the revolution and bought huge tracts of land for practically nothing. Then, the land was parceled and sold; the individual became one of the first Romanian billionaires, became involved in politics, owns the most successful “fotbal” club of the country and is a member of the European Parliament! And this is private enterprise! No matter that a new small city sprouted here without any infrastructure. Somehow we get into a wrong way turn and then we try to maneuvre through a kilometer of huge potholes, L. visibly strained with worry for the suspension of his car.
After seeing modern capitalism in action, we return to the city and have a delightful lunch at Piccolo Mondo, a restaurant which, despite its name, is actually a Lebanese restaurant, and a very good one too. One of the attractions is that we eat in the garden, under the shade of trees and vines. Another is the huge pitas, a signature item of this restaurant, huge as in being bigger than one of our extra large pizzas, inflated (I think with a pump!), freshly baked and topped with sesame and roasted cumin seeds. Amazing just to tear chunks of it still warm from the oven. We accompany this with lamb chops (the men) and delicate chicken skewers (the ladies), bracingly fresh green salads, and I have a bottle of the renowned Romanian beer Ursus. Turkish coffees to all. Excellent restaurant; I must remember to write a review for Slow Travel!
Our hosts will leave the city for a few days to visit friends so we are safely returned to our apartment, where we spend some time giving Mrs. A. the full report of the day. We also find out that she managed to get the cell phone number of a former colleague of Josette’s, a violinist now known conductor, whom we missed when he was in Toronto, and who in his youth was a riot of a guy. We are quite sure he did not change! We brought with us some photos from our wedding, when the now Maestro towered with a full head of hair over the group of friends and colleagues in the photograph. We have also seen him on You Tube, with substantially less hair and with more roundness, playing with his son, himself now a successful violin soloist. It gets to be really fun, because I also manage to find a colleague of mine from university, and I also have photos for him, from his own wedding, to which we were invited. Oh, my!
Music: At Sala Palatului, Helène Grimaud plays a wonderful second piano concerto by Rachmaninov and then Yuri Temirkanov and the Sankt Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra treat us to a Russian like no other “Pathétique” by Tchaikovsky. What a treat!
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit VIII Friday, September 18
Today we are on our own. We take again via Calea Victoriei, along the same route described in Part IV of this report, but we turn to the right as soon we meet Casa Armatei, and enter strada Constantin Mille, previously Strada Sarindar. Sarindar used to be the street where many of Bucharest’s newspapers were located both before, and also for some time, after WWII.
There are two strikingly different memories linking me to this street, one funny (at least for me), and the other pretty serious.
The funny one relates to the times when movie theatres lined Boulevardul Elisabeta, a major street crossing here Calea Victoriei. At that time all movie theatres had lots of attendants; labour was cheap. Ushers and usherettes would lead everybody to their seats, flashlight at hand in case of late arrival. At the end of the main movie all doors would open on the opposite side of the theatres and, blinded by the sudden light, spectators needed to be directed. Thus was born the famous call “Iesirea prin Sarindar!” (“Exit to the Sarindar Street!”) which became part of the Bucharest folklore. I know that this may make no sense to many who read these lines, but those from the Bucharest of my time “get it” and crack up with laughter.
The serious memory is linked to the fact that my father started working on this street as an apprentice typographer in the late 1920s, and so did I, about 30 years later, as an apprentice journalist who collaborated to the weekly publication of a supplement for children. I was sent for, through my father, by a former teacher of mine from primary school who remembered that I “used to write well in Grade 3” and wanted to give me a shot at representing the side of the intended young audience of that supplement. For the next 7 years I combined school and later university with work at this newspaper where I received lots of love, guidance and was indoctrinated with exigency in style, grammar, syntax and, above all, punctuation. The newspaper Romania Libera, at the time the official daily of the Romanian government and municipalities, was considered more moderate than the newspapers controlled directly by the communist party.
The supplement for children was not enough for my energies and, after much supplication, I found myself in the sports department, a kid in short pants, surrounded by some of the most famous figures of Romania’s sports of the time: first and foremost the now passed away but then still the glorious Angelica Rozeanu, I believe 9 times world champion at tennis table singles (and I have lost the count of her world titles in doubles and national team competitions); S.D., then the middle distance running champion of Romania, C.R., the fastest woman in the country, champion of track for short distances of 100 and 200 meters, etc. All these people were legends in their time and there I was, asked to pick up some information from the wire service and prepare a short note for the Sunday edition on the "fotbal" (aka soccer, calcio, football, fussbal, etc, etc.) games on Stadionul Unirea Tricolor!
Over time, I got to know them all quite well. I was received first with some amusement, I am sure, but it was never visible. Over time it became affection, support, mentoring. My evolution went from sports writing to writing on economic topics and finally, in the Walhalla of the journalism of the time, literary reportage, wide epic topics which covered usually a number of the inner pages of the newspaper and required frequent and pretty long travel around the country.
At some time, I believe in 1956, the building of Casa Scanteii (named after the Romanian equivalent of Pravda) not even finished, all newspapers were ordered to move to the new location, another example of “glorious” edifices of the time, and Strada Sarindar, now named Constantin Mille in the memory of a pre-war journalist who was chief editor of the newspaper where my father worked, was left almost deserted. After the press exodus, the street died. Now, as we pass the side of Casa Armatei, all buildings are literally ruined. The façade of the building in which I worked is presently covered with sheets of canvas but I couldn’t guess whether it is because it falls apart or because some renovation of the building is going on. The smaller house across the street, where the economics department was located for a while, is still being used and the sign indicates that the building remained “in the profession” since it now hosts a publishing house. At the end of Constantin Mille we meet Strada Ion Brezoianu, where was then located another newspaper, “Informatia Bucurestiului”, where I wrote as an extern sometimes. I spoke last with the then chief editor only a few days before leaving Toronto; he is living presently in New Jersey.
Thus the wheel of the world turns…
We turn as well, towards Bulevardul Elisabeta, the street of movie theatres, ministries and of the famous Patiseria “Spicul” (“Wheat ear” Patisserie) where the cheese patties used to be baked in wheels of 1 and a half meters diameter. Triangular portions would be cut and presented from hand to hand; nobody worried about bacterial transmission at the time. Alas, “Spicul” is gone, some other eatery took its place, and I am too disappointed to even check it out.
Instead we enter Gradina Cismigiu, one of the jewels of Bucharest, a gorgeous garden in the heart of town. With long, treed alleys, rows and rows of old style benches with iron work frames and the same sturdy wooden seats more than half a century old, a meandering lake on which young couples still row around the shore and under bridges, swans floating peacefully, kids playing, alleys with romantic names like “Aleia Rozelor” (Rose Alley”), “Aleia Indragostitilor” (“Lovers’ Alley”)...
Here nothing has changed.
We know each alley. The flowers nay be different, the trees older and the vines thicker, but it is the same Cismigiu, whose name has an interesting etimology. Since the Pricipates of Walachia and Moldova were for many years under the domination of the Ottoman Empire, many Turkish words made their way into the Romanian language. In this case, at the beginning there was probably a water well, with a hand pump, in Turkish "cisme” (pronounced “cheesh-mé”). Since in Turkish many trades carry the suffix “giu" (pronounced “djìoo”, in one syllable, like the Italian “giù”), the man who provided and controlled the water would have been a "cismigiu”, or provider of waters from the tap. Around this well grew over time this quiet place in the heart of an energetic city. One enters Cismigiu and immediately everything slows down, voices change to murmurs, flowers replace cars and buses, benches are occupied by people reading, or opening their food package, or checking on the kids running around. Walk downshifts to “au ralenti’.
In this garden, sometime in 1958, on my way to the building of Radio Bucharest, I met sitting lonely on a bench, shoulders tightly covered in a brown jacket despite the sunny day, one of the tragic figures of the Romanian communist history: Ana Pauker, former member of the central committee, former Minister of External Affairs, probably at one time the second most powerful person in the country. She was purged from the party in 1952, at a time when similar purges took place in all communist countries at the instigation of the Soviet regime. She was imprisoned, then placed under house arrest, finally let free after Stalin’s death, never reinstated (or “rehabilitated” as the word was then). She died a few years later, in 1960, still a figure of a mysterious destiny, a controversial historical figure.
On the day I saw her in Cismigiu I didn’t know what to do: to just walk by and turn my eyes away, to stop and talk to her, just move on as I haven’t noticed her? I chose to just nod, say “Buna ziua, Tavarasa Pauker!” She nodded back, and I went on to my business but never forgetting this figure symbolising the shortness of the road from the peaks of power to the anonymity of garden benches. Others had worse fates.
That was then. Today, Josette and I enjoy every moment of this walk, sit for a while in a café by the lake and have excellent espresso (the espresso has usurped the reign of the Turkish coffee here. If I want to have Turkish coffee I may have to find a way of making it myself…) and, after a while, we go back towards our apartment, but not before passing by the building of the Academy of Music where Josette studied, a classical late 19th century mansion of sobre lines.
Music: A second evening with the Sankt Petersburg Philharmonic. A beautiful Suite by George Enescu, followed by the Tchaikovsky violin concerto played by Nikolaj Znaider, a musician we have not heard before. Fragments from :Romeo and Juliet” suite by Prokofiev close an excellent concert.
We sit for the third time next to a person who seems to have the respect of many who come by to salute him, using the appellation “Father”, which here is used to address priests. This is a very imposing gentleman, who has an unusual habit: he always stays for the first part of any concert and leaves at the intermission. Josette always take his place and the entire row in this Loge 2 advances by one seat after her. We will find out that this gentleman was the head of the Armenian Orthodox Church here. Years ago, it was decided to build a tall office building next to, and practically adjacent, to the Church. There were protests that this new building would tower over one of the great churches of the city, to no avail. There were protests when cracks started to appear in the foundation of the church because of the work next door, to no avail. The Father was “liberated: of his position. A few months ago a fire broke in the “Blocul Milenium" (“The Millenium Business Centre”) which caused the roof of the church to also catch fire. Repairs are under way. The Father and his community were right to be concerned, but the “Business Center” towers and will continue to tower over the Church. Such is when “progress” meets, and clashes with, tradition.
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit IX Saturday, September 19
My friend and former colleague P.H. calls and asks if this would be a good day to meet. We had nothing planned and so we agree to meet at 11 a.m. in front of Ateneul Roman which, due to the uncertainties of recognition after such of a long time, becomes a very convenient point for us to meet people. P.H. had asked if Josette will come too, and I said “Of course!”; we didn’t think otherwise anyway.
P.H. was a dashing young man half a century ago. I brought with me photos from his wedding, to prove it. The elderly gentleman that rises from one of the benches, visibly still pretty fit, with a wide green all over his face, doesn’t look like my P.H. except for a small physical detail which has remained unchanged. We look at each other, laugh, say to each other “Ce mai faci, mãi, Relule, mãi!; “Ce mai faci, mãi, P., mãi!”, popular greeting between friends who haven’t seen each other for some time, practically a more emotional, very personal version of “How do you do…” We hug, laugh again, look at each other with some disbelief, slap shoulders, agree that if we would have passed by on a street we wouldn’t have recognized each other for sure, but all is well, obviously neither of us decrepit, so this is a relief…
We take P.H. to “La Mama”, which appears to become our headquarters for meeting old friends. We sit for about four hours, over coffees, and then lunch and beer, and again coffees, and we talk non-stop. P.H. is one of those friends who also listen, so both our stories of the last 50 years are told and heard. Throughout, P.H. smokes non-stop, an unusual thing for us, and remembering how I used to burn through three packs a day I just can’t believe it now.
It is mid-afternoon by the time we’ve exhausted the stories. At his time P.H. was a boxing commentator and writer of books on the boxing arts in the country, and obviously he has lots of stories from the field of sports. He sustains that a friend, M.F., whom I have thought passed away, is still alive. I tell P.H. that I have not been able to track M.F. and he promises to call some people and inquire. At the end we commit to meeting again before we leave, we hug again and say our goodbyes. Outside falls a light rain, the first time we have no blue skies since we arrived.
Josette and I use the time before this evening’s concert to get a bit better organized: one of our favourite pastimes in the last few days was to ask each other where we have put that thing or the other.
Music: tonight we hear the most extraordinary concert so far: the Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra conducted by Mariss Jansons, playing Weber, Haydn and Dvorak. The ovations go on for a long time, and the public is rewarded with three orchestral encores. Everybody is also very proud that the first violonist ("concert maestru" here) of this great orchestra is a Romanian.
This is an exceptionally successful festival. Just today, for example, play here, at different venues, such great artists as the pianist Maria Joao Pires, the cellist Yo-Yo Ma with the Silk Road Ensemble, the Ballet Theatre of Monte Carlo, the Vienna Chamber Orchestra, of course the Concertgebouw, and Angela Gheorghiu sings at the outdoor venue of the Parliament Palace. And more. This is just one day!
Our impressions on Bucharest were influenced so far by the deep emotions of meeting friend, by being driven to various locations and given explanations, all veiled with a layer of jet lag.
We feel we are now ready to meet some of the past on our own. It is a long walk, but with the added safety of a guidebook of the streets of Bucharest which also lists streets with both old and new names, we take the challenge and start walking towards Piata Universitatii. Our final target is farther away but we have a few points of interest to stop by on the way.
At one point we pass the former Aglican Church, now locked, and face a memorial to two young women who were shot there during the 1989 upheavals. Candles, fresh flowers, a big cross, mark the point which, 20 years later, is still lovingly cared for. People pass and cross themselves.
The next stop results a terrible disappointment. In our time, one of the most elegant recital halls was the intimate Sala Dalles. V. told me not to be surprised: the recital hall is not visible from the street anymore, its façade was torn down and the hall was incorporated into a high rise building. Indeed, we can’t find the entrance till we ask and then walk through a small used books store and into an entrance hall we don’t recognise. Lots of kids with their parents come and go. It becomes quickly clear that a children’s fair takes place here and we gently infiltrate ourselves into the former recital hall, now in a pretty bad state of disrepair, colours faded, seats needing replacement. And it is so small! Here, years ago, Josette played too, in a national competition. And many others of our generation. Sad, but life goes on, and kids are chirping all around us, and they are the future. Maybe one of them will return the hall to its former beauty.
We cross Piata Universitatii via the modern, functional underpass, stop for a moment at the front yard of the Museum of History, where an antiques market takes place, and walk towards Sfantul Gheorghe, the place named after the local church, one of the biggest in town; as we walk by, we can hear the Sunday morning service...
We find the street on which one of our friends lived, then the completely unrecognizable former major shopping street, Strada Lipscani, now a collection of buildings falling apart, with only a few timid signs of some sort of attempt to reconstruction. Since it is Sunday, there is no work being carried on.
From here we use another underpass (underpasses are necessary here because the main thoroughfares are very wide), and start pressing towards the older town, in the hope of recognising some of the streets, maybe even houses. And indeed, after some confusion because our entire orientation context is completely scrambled by the many demolitions and the presence of new buildings, we start to meet familiar names. One street takes us to one of the nice synagogues of the city which was turned in the meantime into a museum of the Jewish community of Bucharest. We missed the closing just by a few minutes, but the place would have probably been closed to the public anyway because of the Jewish High Holidays. The museum carries the name of a former Chief Rabbi of Romania, a controversial figure in the eyes of some because he was close to the regime, praised by others for the protection he obtained for houses of cult and for the ever older local Jewish population. The young version of Rabbi Moses Rosen also had the obvious distinction of being for two years my teacher of Religion and I, in turn, had the unusual distinction of being the frequent target of his rather unorthodox (pun unintended!) disciplinary methods. I was then 9-10 years old, and quite lively in class…
There were over 400,000 Jews in Romania before the war, 800,000 if one includes Bessarabia and Bukovina, the latter now parts of the Republic of Moldova and of Ukraine. There are now circa 8,000 Jews in Romania, most in Bucharest, mostly old people. Some institutions still exist, and there is support for renovations of synagogues, and some were left standing when even churches were taken down. There is an active community, it even has a representative in the country’s Parliament, like all other religions, an old tradition in this country.
We try to find another place of worship, the renowned Templul Coral (Choral Temple), the largest and the most beautiful of the city’s synagogues, but cannot locate it.
Slowly we move between demolished houses side by side with still standing ones. The decay is visible everywhere, and although our memories tend to embellish the sites of our childhood and imagine them bigger and more beautiful than they really were, I know inside that this was already in my time a region of much poverty and neglect and that sooner or later it had to be discarded, and built over because, with some exceptions, it was not really salvageable. So The Leader, in a way, facilitated advancement with the dictatorial powers of his disposal.
As a general observation, what was done to the city should work well in the long run. Much like the reorganization of Paris by Baron Haussmann, and by Julian II with the new St. Peter, cutting these huge boulevards, lining them with kilometers of reasonably livable, modern buildings, trees and green lanes, and adding the accompanying infrastructure, were necessary measures. So we can sigh nostalgic, but the city we see having sprouted from the demolitions is surely a much more livable one than our city of times gone.
What was terrible was the human toll: people were forced to leave ancestral homes for temporary or permanent accommodations, uprooted, separated. There were suicides, and a huge human tragedy, all the unfathomable price of this change.
As we look at street signs and try to figure things out, Josette identifies the street where my high school was, and still is. Liceul Matei Basarab (Matei Basarab was a ruler of Walachia, among his achievements being the introduction of the printing press in the early part of the 17th century), now Colegiul National de Informatica “Matei Basarab” (high school with special curriculum for informatics science) is still a handsome building, the statue of the Prince still in front but somehow much lower, and smaller, than I remembered. We walk up and down the front of the building, peek into the still very large playground, take photos, then I remember that across the street used to be a military recruitment centre which now seems to have been pacified into a private residence, further down I recognize the big and unused now building of a home for the aged that I used to pass daily on the way to school, and more and more.
We try to find the city hall where we were married and ask directions from a young policeman, who looks at us with some wonder as we inform him that we were married there over 50 years ago. He gives us directions, we get to the street but at one turn we find ourselves heading towards a wide boulevard which I recognise as Bulevardul Unirii, and indeed, to our right is “The Palace”. We feel we're done for the day, we stop a taxi and for the equivalent of less than three dollars we are driven back to the apartment by a very polite driver with whom we chat amiably.
Some things are still incredibly inexpensive here because of, or thanks to, subsidies. We stopped today to buy a bread and paid for it 1 leu, the equivalent of 30 cents. When the Euro will replace the RON (the new leu was valued 1 for 10,000 old ones, and people still price things here in millions, like in Italy) they will have a terrible shock. I don’t know how they will cope, with the small pensions and the subsidised cost of just about everything, from food to utilities. It will be tough.
It will be also interesting to see how the new, democratically elected governments, will find the political will and the courage to complete this change in a more humane way.
On the way home, we stop next door for “mititei” and fries, baked and pickled red peppers, a beer for me, and coffees, at (where else?) “La Mama”. Josette tells me that my accent returned to its roots after only a few days spent here!
Music: A “midnight” concert at Ateneul Roman, starting at 22:30 p.m.! The Wiener Kammerorchester conducted by Heinrich Schiff plays two Schubert symphonies, the 3rd and the 9th, “The Big One”! Outstanding! It is almost 1 a.m. as we walk out of the concert hall together with our friends, V. and AP, and our host, Mrs. A. Not too far, just across the street, we are home.
Yesterday, at the concert, V. was not very happy hearing about our wandering around the old neighbourhood and finding only a few of the places we were looking for. So this morning he calls to tell us that he will come to pick us up, to try tracing back some of the places together.
But we first go to the ticket booth of Sala Palatului to buy tickets for two more concerts, for evenings in which we didn’t have anything specific planned. So we fill the two evening, and also pay a visit to the “Muzica” store, specialised in anything related to music, and Josette enriches her collection of DVDs with four more DVDs, excellently priced, but not before I verify that they can be viewed on our DVD players, because North America and Europe use different DVD protocols. Josette’s choices indicate “0 Worldwide” on the back of packages, which makes them compatible with our players.
Back to the apartment, I call V. and he arrives 15 minutes later with his “city” car, which is the car that he doesn’t care if it gets dented.
Here a few words about the traffic in this very large city. The main arteries were freed from most public transport, the metro links all parts of the city, supplemented by buses, street cars and trolley buses everywhere except on the central arteries, which are dedicated to the car. Most of these central arteries are three to four lanes in each direction, many of them one-way, with pedestrian walks from one side to the other very far spaced. The car is king on these boulevards and the traffic in these parts of the city moves with dizzying speed. Sidewalks are very narrow in many parts, further aggravated by the parking on sidewalks, so pedestrians are always conscious of the opportunities for crossing. On the other hand, crossings not marked by stoplights are generally respected and pedestrians get the right of way. Sort of. It is best not to count on respect and to use caution. Where the entire system fails somewhat is on the old, narrow streets, which bottleneck the side traffic and pedestrians navigate with peril between the idled cars.
So through this kind of traffic V. takes us back, “à la recherche du quartier perdu”, searching for the old neighbourhood.
First stop takes us to the Templul Coral (The Choral Temple”), once the most beautiful and largest synagogue in town. No wonder we couldn’t find it yesterday: we passed by it at least twice, but didn’t pay any attention to it because its presence is not marked in any way and the façade is covered with tarp as the Temple undergoes major renovations. It is here that a Bucharest urban legend tells about the rabbi who officiated a wedding, and at the end of the service, seeking to impart to the young couple some wisdom and advise, took the hands of bride and groom in his hands and addressed them thus: “It is important that you have respect and tolerance for each other. You, (bride’s name) should tolerate your husband, and you (groom’s name) should tolerate your wife, and may your home be a house of tolerance!” The only problem was that “house of tolerance” is discreet Romanian for “brothel”, like the French “maison de tolerance”. Untold thousands will tell you that they have heard that sermon in person, myself among them!
And a personal note: after the war, returned from labour camp, and before the status of newspapers began to clarify itself, my father had a small typography shop right across the Temple. I used to spend lots of time in the shop, dizzy with the scent of ink and the heavier smell of lead letters, and turning now towards where the shop was, nothing looks the same as I thought I remember. I start counting the doors at street level to try to figure out which of them opened to the typography, and I decide it’s all gone. The street is the same, the building is the same, but 63 years later I feel lost…
Next stop is the city hall where we got married. Bucharest is divided in administrative units and each had, and still has, a city hall, where civil weddings took place. Our “religious” wedding was performed in Josette parents' home because such ceremonies were severely frowned upon at the time. We don’t even have a classical bride and groom wedding photo; just Josette had photographs taken in bridal dress at the home of a well known photographer here whose son was Josette’s student. All very hush-hush. So our "official" wedding photo is totally civilian, protocol unidentifiable
On the other hand, we had a wonderful civil ceremony, in a large hall full with flowers and people: family, friends, Conservatory and, respectively, University colleagues, Radio co-workers. At the end of the ceremony we all went outside and photographs were taken. These are the only photographs we were able to smuggle out (a no-no at the time), when we left, and these are the photographs I enlarged from their old small format and brought with us to show them to the friends and colleagues we will meet. Some are already given away to those we met. Some of the faces there we will never meet again…
In front of the city hall I ask V. to take some photographs of us on the same steps of long ago. There is a security guard at the entrance. We explain what we want to do and we are not only allowed, but even encouraged to go up the steps, while people entering or exiting the building are delayed in our honour and so, in a way, we renew vows…
From here we move on to Piata Vitan and its famous Central Post Office; the siren that used to urge us during the years of WWII to the relative safety of temporary shelters is still on the top of the building, now sharing the roof with satellite antennas and cell phone towers. Where I stand right now, was the pharmacy. A bit farther on the other (now a non-existent) sidewalk, used to be the bakery, the movie theatre where I saw movies with Zorro and Tom X the son of Zorro, Laurel and Hardy, the French Pat et Patachon. And further down I imagine the restaurant where I used to get my weekly treat of “mititei la gratar” (let’s call them grilled kebabs, for ease of reference.)
So if all this is gone, what has replaced it? The street, called Theodor Speranta after the name of a writer and folklorist, is now lined with handsome 10 story apartment buildings on both sides, but a few of the old houses were somehow preserved. 50 years ago, on this very long street, one could count of the fingers of one hand the houses reaching two-stories.
Alas, No. 20 is not among the few left standing.
Our friend V. also makes a personal discovery here: he finds the house of his grandparents, with whom, it turns out, we were almost neighbours back then. Small world, always!
V. and I imagine where the local soccer stadium used to be, and we discover the Trade School, and I think I find the building of my kindergarden. On the way to the kindergarden, one day, a German officer stopped my Mom and I. I was very, very blond, my Mom had a typical darker Romanian complexion. The officer caressed my head and said to my Mom in German: "What a beautiful Arian child!". I guess my Mom was happy to say "Thank you!" and walk away, but somehow this memory is still alive in my mind, with unlimited glee! Arian child!
Satisfied with the day, the three of us decide to continue by car, and V. drives us along some of the most beautiful streets of the city, around Gradina Icoanei, Strada Polona, Strada Dumbrava Rosie, Bulevardul Dacia. V. knows every corner, every house, points to where this or another of the artists and musicians or political figures lived, and where many still live. This is a region of embassies, huge private mansions, high security even today.
At the apartment Doamna A. prepared for us a surprise: she received from the country a huge chunk of homemade cheese and makes for us a “mãmaligã”, the Romanian variant of polenta, with small sausages known elsewhere as “karnatzeleh” . It is a real feast, lovely with delicious Romanian white wine. It gets close to Heaven.
Music: A different kind of heaven will wait for us at today’s concert at Ateneul Roman where the absolutely unequalled cellist Mischa Maiski takes us up there, as high as it gets, with Fauré’s Elégie, the concerto by Saint-Saëns, and a bunch of encores. Did I already say “Heaven”?
Day 10 closes with a walk not far from where we stay, again areas we knew, but central. We talk about the last two days and we agree that we have reached some kind of closure with the past and have now a much better understanding of the present.
Overnight the outdoor stage where some of the Festival Enescu events took place was taken down. We are approaching the end of the Festival; only four days remain.
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit XI Tuesday, September 22
An anachronism, a paradox.
I realise I forgot to mention an interesting story about one of our stopovers the day before. This is the unusual story of the theatre called Teatrul Evreiesc de Stat (The Jewish State Theatre) of Bucharest. We made a stop there yesterday and, like with many other places since our arrival here, although we knew the building well, we couldn’t recognise it in its current, out of physical context presence. Years ago, it appeared as a smallish building, at a street corner, at the intersection of many similar streets, populated by small houses.
Today, with everything around it demolished, it stands on its own. It was spared the fate of its surrounding neighbourhood, and now presents itself as a very substantial building.
This Theatre is possibly unique in the world, and it is both an anachronism and a paradox.
The Jewish Yiddish theatre in Romania has a long tradition, started in the late 1870s in Iasi, the largest city in the region of Moldova (N.B: Not to be confused with the Republic of Moldova.). It was the first Jewish professional theatre in the world, with its own cast and financing.
In Bucharest, the present building, known as The Baraşeum (pronounced Barasheum), houses the theatre since the 1930s. Before the Second World War the city supported no less than four different Jewish theatre companies, of all styles: variety, musicals, and the dramatic pillar, The Baraşeum.
With the exception of a few months during the short reign of the fascist Iron Guard, the Baraşeum continued its existence uninterrupted, even after the German army took practically possession of the city, and of the country, and the theatre went on under communism as well.
With a Jewish community now practically extinct or on the way to natural extinction, the Jewish theatre continues to function, with government subsidies and efforts of the modest community, and this commitment seems to be in place for the long term.
This would be the anachronism.
The paradox is that there are, with few exceptions such as the well known Maia Morgenstern, no more Jewish actors here. So ethnic Romanian actors find employment here and form the vast majority of the cast, and of the stage hands, and since all plays here, without exception, were and are in Yiddish, they learn the roles in Yiddish, by heart.
On the other hand, the spectators (and the theatre is quite well attended) have no Yiddish knowledge whatsoever, and listen to the plays in Romanian translation, using headphones installed in the seats!
Back to today. This announces itself as an interesting day because we will get together with a very well known Romanian conductor, Maestro I.
I. was a colleague of Josette’s in the Conservatory, a friend and one of the attendees to our civil wedding so, of course, the then violin student I. a tall, handsome guy, towers over everybody in our pictures. And we have a few copies of the photos for him, but what to expect? What happens to a violinist become conductor over a period of 50 years, how will he look, what will he say?
Remembering him, I know we will have a good time together, confirmed also by a few phone conversations between him and Josette to make arrangements for the meeting.
The Maestro will come all the way from his city of residency, Braşov, three hours away from Bucharest by car or train. Josette arranged to meet him right below our apartment, at the Ateneu Bistro (spelling intended), at noon.
The two of us descend to the Bistro and yes, it is him, still tall, but now somehow bigger than life, both by girth and by disposition. Josette and he hug with much warmth and enthusiasm and I embrace him too, and we sit down, and the concert starts. It will go on for about two hours, a concert for a pianist and a conductor, the leit-motives being “what happened to…”, “what do you know about…”, and it is also like a ping-pong match, as names of colleagues, and teachers, and musicians, and orchestras and cities, are tossed back and forth between the two. It’s great fun for me, as I have little to contribute but to watch, listen and be entertained; I know all the names, so I have a context to the verbal fireworks. Josette and I. exchange gifts: she gives him enlargements of the photos I made, in which he appears at age 22, taller than everybody else in the photos; he presents Josette with two CDs and one DVD with his recordings, some in which he accompanies his own son who is now a violin soloist, and a book published at the 30 years jubilee of the chamber music festival of which he is musical director. Now semi-retired, I. continues to be full of life and energy, jokes cascading, stories following one after the other, and it is easy to figure out why his public loves him so much.
Well, time passes too quickly and we separate with more hugs (here kisses are given on both cheeks) and a promise that, should we pass through Braşov when we return from our trip north, we will call him and get together again.
After an afternoon rest, we take a walk in the opposite direction of Calea Victoriei, towards Piata Victoriei, a major crossroads in town. We pass by the Church Sf. Vasile (N.B.: Sf. comes from the word Sfântul, which means Saint), by the beautiful and peaceful park Nicolae Iorga named after a pre-war politician and academician murdered by the fascist Iron Guard, and by the Museum George Enescu.
We stop by the Museum and totally unplanned, unexpected, we have one of the most interesting hours since our arrival here. It all starts with me asking a security guard what are the days and hours when the museum is open, and if I may take some photographs of this beautiful and imposing building, the Palace Cantacuzino, built for a fabulously wealthy former Romanian Prime Minister. It was inherited by the widow of Cantacuzino’s son, and eventually the widow married George Enescu.
The building houses two structures: the palace and the house in which Enescu lived. At the time it also included a coach house, now separated from the two buildings.
The Palace itself has a rich history. At sometime before WWII it housed the Government Council of Romania. The Ministers’ meetings took place in Sala Mare (The Big Hall). But during the war the palace was requisitioned for the German Kommandatur and, as the wheel of history turned, it was later taken over by the Soviet military command in Romania. Ceausescu wanted to turn it in his residence, but the palace was too small for him and the remodelling he required could not be supported structurally and so the palace was turned over to the Union of Composers of Romania, and eventually into the present use, as the Museum George Enescu.
We chatted quite a bit with the guard who allowed me to take pictures and talked about times past, him being much younger than us. At one point, to our surprise, he asked whether we would like to visit two halls which are usually not included in the visits of the palace. Almost without waiting for an answer he told us to follow, and he took us on to a side stair, and from there to a door, which he opened. That was the door to the huge conference hall, where the Council of Ministers used to have its meetings before the war, and was subsequently the major meeting room for the various users of this palace heavy in history. The guard turned on the rich candelabra lights, pointed to the beautiful stained glass windows, and encouraged me to take pictures, then opened another door and took us to a small, round concert hall, all marvelous marble, and a stage and on the stage a Steinway piano, and since I told him that Josette is a pianist he insisted that Josette have a picture taken at the closed and covered Steinway. Josette, who has a "history" with being invited to play the Steinways at the Steinway House in New York (this for another time…), acceded to the guard’s request and to mine, and had her picture taken in Enescu’s palace!
Back to the Conference Hall, there was an upright Beckstein, and here Josette was allowed to open the piano and try it on.
We thanked the guard warmly, stayed a bit longer to talk about him and some of his personal history, and… discovered we are almost late for tonight's concert.
Music: In the Palace Grand Hall Nelson Freire plays the second Brahms piano concerto with the Orchestre du Capitol de Toulouse, conducted by Tugan Sokhiev. In the second part we are treated with a fantastic Symphonie Fantastique by Berlioz, and three orchestral encores. The public stays on its feet applauding for a long time.
In Bucharest-Tempus Fugit XII Wednesday, September 23; Thursday, September 24
On Wednesday we took a very long walk from Piaţa Palatului to the river Dâmboviţa. The river has not changed; its waters are still brownish, its course lazy in the summer. From the Piaţa Natiunilor Unite (United Nations Plaza), one can look along Splaiul Independenţei (Independence Quai) both ways, pretty far away: at one end is the Parliament Palace, at the other lies the direction in which we took, hand in hand, so many walks together in our youth. The river passes further down by the place where used to be the house in which we lived after we got married. A traffic bypass tunnel was built over that segment of "our" Bulevardul Mărăşeşti.
Things are slowing down a bit for us and the respite is welcome. We are happy with having daily relatively inexpensive but tasty lunches of varying typical local foods at "La Mama", almost next door; stopping at cafés for coffee and a cold beer (the coffee is excellent here, the espresso variety, since the Turkish coffee in "ibrik" seems to have almost disappeared); leisurely walks; the music in the evening. The weather is absolutely glorious.
Josette rediscovered the "covrigi", a local type of pretzels that are delicious when still hot from the oven but could devastate teeth if left to dry. If the covrigi get old, a bit of microwaving gives them back some limp life. Anyway, every morning Josette goes to get half a dozen of fresh ones for the two of us and for Mrs. A.
Mrs. A. continues to treat us like her children, although we are both older than her. Because she knows I like the local cold cuts, yesterday she placed on the table a chunk of headcheese, that we try together with the cabanos that I have bought, the latter known elsewhere as "kabanosa", thin sausages of varying degrees of spiciness, depending on the region. The Prague ham and the Jambon de Paris are also delicious here when fresh, and I rediscovered a sweet sort of cheese called "urda", made basically off whey (siero di latte, in Italian). It is delicious and I can have it any number of times a day. Then, she received from the country a massive quantity of freshly picked apples from their house in Breaza, and now we roll in apples.
Another pastime is visiting book stores, and trying to figure out changes that occured here, both in writing and in publishing. Gone are the 50-tomes of Essential Works of the various Fathers of the People; the present variety in topics and publishing styles is astonishing. It is as if the world changed overnight from an opressing, heavy, dirty gray to the lightness of rainbow colours.
Music, Sept. 23: Orchestre du Capitol de Toulouse with conductor Tugan Zokhiev return with the excellent French violonist Renaud Capuçon in a concerto by Saint-Saëns, and then we hear a briliant "Le Sacre du printemps" by Stravinsky, and the inevitable and welcome three more orchestral encores.
Music, Sept. 24: The fantastic Leton conductor Mariss Jansons returns too, this time with his other orchestra, Symphonieorchester des Bayerische Rundfunks, a mouthfull for the Radio Symphony Orchestra of Bavaria. The programme, including Beethoven's 7th symphony, Prelude and The Death of Isolde by Wagner and The Rozenkavalier Suite by Richard Strauss turns the public delirious. More orchestral encores.
Friday, September 25. After the almost frantic two weeks since arrival, we now slow down the pace. The Enescu Festival is also coming to a close, and we start thinking about our upcoming trip, with V. and his wife, AP, in the northern part of the country.
We return to the Cişmigiu Garden, where we meet with L. and N. for coffee and ice cream, and to spend some more time together. The part of the garden towards the Strada Stirbei Vodã features a small, charming lake populated with swans, white and black (so both Odette and Odille are represented here), and a variety of species of ducks and geese, including our compatriots, the Canada geese. Suddenly a trumpet-like sound breaks the peace and quiet and it’s a loon! It is by itself, parading up and down not far from the shore, its colours somewhat diffuse because of the play of light and shadows, but it’s a loon for sure. Last I saw and heard one on Farlain Lake, near Penetanguishene, Ontario, at my younger son’s cottage. This in itself made the walk worthwhile!
We have lunch in the apartment, and after resting for a while, prepare to close the Enescu Festival, with two concerts, both at Ateneul Roman, one at 5 p.m. and one at 22:30 p.m. The first concert features the Romanian string quartet “Voces” and the Japanese pianist, Fumiko Shiraga, in quintets by Schumann and Brahms. In the hall we spy some of the greatest Romanian musicians, among them the conductor Cristian Mandeal and the venerable but still terrific looking pianist Valentin Gheorghiu.
The night concert feature is Mozart’s Missa in c minor, with Kammerphilarmonie Bremen and the Romanian National Choir “Madrigal”, one of the soloists being the great French opera singer Natalie Dessay.
Twelve consecutive days of concerts close past 1 a.m. on Saturday, the 26th, and it was a memorable time.
Saturday, September 26. In the morning V. and AP come to pick us up and we drive for a "working lunch", about 130 km. out of Bucharest, on the shore of the Danube, near the city of Cãlãraşi. The tiny tourist stop Chiciu features no less than two large restaurants, and both have also big outdoors terraces, near the docks of the ferryboats which cross over to Bulgaria and to the largest Romanian port, Constanţa.
After less than two hours of drive, because it is a Saturday and the traffic is light, we stop in the city of Cãlãraşi for coffees and then go on to the shores of the Danube, 5 minutes away.
At Restaurant Monica in Chiciu we have what one would expect here: fish. We have ciorbã de peşte (a Romanian bouillabaisse), fish on the grill, warm pickled fish with mamaliguţã, a bottle of refreshing rosé Busuioaca de Bohotir, mineral water, coffees, and a good time watching over the slow action on the river. All this for 145 lei, or circa 50 dollars. Without a local friend to drive one here, it is unlikely that the tourist will find this place, but just in case: Restaurant Monica, Soseaua Chiciului no. 1, Calarasi, tel.024 231 2447.
Between courses we go over the trip plan. We will drive over 450 km. to get close to Suceviţa, in Bucovina, a region on the northeastern ranges of the Carpathian Mountains and their lower plains, very close to the border with Ukraine. In that region, difficult to access and rich in history, there is a treasure trove of old painted monasteries, wooden churches and picturesque villages, and we will do slow travel there, exploring the region in concentric circles. Monday will be a long drive day, to get as close as possible to ou target in Suceviţa, the pension Poiana de Vis ("The dream meadow"), which will become our base for 3-5 days, depending on the weather.
Today's drive from Bucharest to Chiciu and back brings me back in contact with the Romanian villages, and the changes are evident: houses are better maintained, new housing is prominent everywhere. Roads are excellent in the most part, most highways are better than ours in metropolitan Toronto and surrounding areas.
Sunday, September 27. Preparation day: we need to select the clothing for the road, keeping in mind that the temperatures with which Bucharest spoiled us, 24-27 degrees Celsius daily, will be substantially lower up north, particularly at night, when we can expect going under 10 degrees centigrade, and at least for Tuesday rain is expected so we have to be ready for that too. We will leave the rest of the luggage in the apartment, waiting for our return and the last four days, days of farewells from the many friends we've met again, or the new one we've made.
Lunch at “La Mama”, a really excellent and generous complete meal, with drinks and desserts for two for only 60 lei (circa $25). Later a light dinner in the apartment, between walks during the day, then completing the packing. A special moment after lunch: as we take the usual after lunch walk, we pass by Biserica (Church) Boteanu, just as a small group of parishioners comes out, with a baby in arms, and on the side another group wait for their turn. It is Sunday, a day for christenings. We enter the small Christian Orthodox church, so different it its Byzantine decoration and icons, and talk for a while with a young man, who deplores the decrease in the number of young people attending church these days. "Too many distractions!". He tell us about the church and its recent history, including the fact that a close counsellor of Ceausescu was for the last 50 years also a member of the church choir. Logistically at least, this looks pretty logical: the former building of the central committee is only a couple of hundred yards away. As to the metaphysical distance, one is left to ponder...
And it so that we assist together with her parents, her godparents, family and friends, to the christening of the baby Ana Maria. Our young interlocutor has disappeared a few minutes ago, but now we find him again, this time in officiating vestments, one of the three priests introducing Ana Maria into her faith.
We will be picked up tomorrow at 7 a.m,, and then on to Bucovina and its monasteries and natural beauty. It seems there is Internet access at Poiana de Vis, but we will see what can be done when we get there. The first part of our trip is over.
Doru, I resisted the temptation of reading your story in bits and pieces. Instead, I printed it out thru yesterday and read the entire thing on the plane to Grand Rapids yesterday. I agree with AinP et al - it has the makings of a very good book.
Each time my tears had dried after reading one part and I thought that the coast was clear, you got me with another heart wrenching chapter in your story. You're so honest with your emotions and it really permeates the writing. So, thank you so much.
I look forward to reading the rest either in installments, or maybe, I'll wait and print out another 30-page segment to read at one sitting.
BTW, I had no idea that the Enescu Festival was so fabulous. What a treat for you both!
Just spent 10 heavenly days on the Cote basque. This is the 1st thread I read when I come back to slowtalk. The guard's story is astounding! -- Actually I had an experience like that at the Heavenly Temple in Beijing. First the guard would not let us in because it was 45 minutes before closing time. Then something clicked in our communication, and he let us in for a private tour and even urged us to try the thousand-year instruments ! (Hope this message does not land him in a labor camp…)
Doru, everywhere you go, you and your story touch people. Doors open for you. Things happen to you. Not only friends but anonymous people will always have you in their memory. They will talk a long time afterwards: "remember the time when…"
don't use it much. What is special:
, those considered too "old" to have adapted to the new units. I've noticed this frequently in Italy too. And I thought that my clothes will turn me in, but western style clothing is just about everywhere here already. Since I don't wear jeans I am already an old-fashioned local 
It these really too late hours I keep. 
