Romania

As any honest jet-setter will tell you, not every locale is splendid and storybook exciting.  Sometimes a stop along the way is just that . . . a stop, a meander, a moment.  Last spring I spent about a week in Romania.  I was there for a professional conference, but as with how these things go I also squeezed in some moderate sights along the way . . . as most travelers do. 

Yet, this petite country on the edges of the once Communist impressed Eastern Europe and on the fringes of the old Ottoman Empire and nestled at the base of the Balkans served more as a conversation piece.  Unlike Rome—during the 2012 Christmas season with marzipan delights toppling counters and market stalls and Vatican City abuzz with clergy seemingly dancing in the unusual snowfall of the festive air, Romania was more of a cup of tea on a porch swing and not a debutant’s ball.

I arrived in Bucharest, on a spring evening, and after the airport and hotel drop I wandered for a moment to find dinner.  At the time I was working on an article discussing Chinese American take away, so when I saw the “first Chinese restaurant in Romania” I giggled and called it kismet.  I can’t say dinner was a five-star experience, but as I ate solo with white table cloths and candles fueled with flammable gels I gazed out the window into the darkness sprinkled with lights and cars and . . . a light drizzle.  Looking back, it all seems rather fitting, a little damp drizzle to mimic the cozy need of a cup of tea while watching life on a porch swing. 

I met my friends the next morning, back at the airport, but first I took a long leisurely shower, ate a slow breakfast complete with neon green juice (which I am told is green apple) and what Americans will always dub as lunch meat (variations of salami) and hard boiled eggs.  There were a couple of olives (remnants of Ottoman influence all those years ago) and more than a few cups of coffee.  As we left the airport, into our shuttle to take us to Constanta for a few days we crammed ourselves in—like adult sardines—and then promptly began to wonder how we would survive two hours like that.  The driver drove fast and loose, so much that a police officer pulled us over at one point—on a two lane road that was largely removed of traffic and people—and as we watched the countryside roll by cascading with fields of yellow rapeseed crops four old friends nestled in for a weekend’s conversation.  One contemplating the dramatic angst of her teenager and life with her husband, the other three of us childless, one not married, one married, and me . . . almost a year post divorce finalization.  That being said, when we stopped for water and our driver to smoke (I was the one-time smoker of our group, a habit I’ve long given up) we poured out of the van like clown car minarets flailing our arms and pointing our legs like deflated Rockettes.  Into the truck stop, for provisions of water, crackers, and variations of caffeine the irony of international travel to road trip and eat roadside wares was not lost on us. 

Summersaulting back into the van, we nestled into our seats, opened our drinks, and chatted while the world literally rolled on by.  Long pauses, of comfortable silence balanced out the chit chat and giggles, and when we finally made our way to the beach town the sight of our hotel was met with glee.  Of course, the view me and my friend Tanfer had made everyone jealous as we made a nightly occurrence of watching the sun’s golden rays fall over the Black Sea.  And, yes, there was a cocktail or two involved as—after all—we sipped those drinks while talking about the loves of life, how they change, and of random tid-bits itself.  Walks through the town’s center, after conference talks, were meet with largely open streets and few people . . . after all, the beach town wasn’t in tourist season (about two weeks away we were) and the laid back life of the Romanian countryside certainly infiltrated its way back into the city’s core.  After filling our heads with work discourse, and filling our mind’s eye with endless visions of fiery spring light on the salted waters of Romania’s coast, we packed our bags and headed back into another van—once again crammed like sardines—to head back up to Bucharest. 

This time, with my friends flanking me, we wandered this somewhat sprawling city, still filled with cobblestone streets and outdoor cafes (largely unused in late March).  The rain found us, but as we huddled under umbrellas, watching our carefully crafted hairdos frizz and curl into unruly mounds of flutter, stopped for cake and coffee in lieu of lunch, and spent an endless amount of time wandering a book shop (as it was dry, warm, and cute inside) the silent feel of the city really wasn’t what this trip was about.  In Rome, statues and art drove the curious mind, in Amsterdam Van Gogh and the canals of the city ignited the fires of exploration, and in Istanbul the layers of the city, the hills, the sweeping views, the hustle and bustle of it all fueled our imaginations, hungers, and curious desires.  Different fragments of these three ladies have found me in each of these cities, and yet the mellow rhythm of our walk and the ease of conversation turned our palate this time. 

Romania, a little country nestled away, home to Dracula . . . it really wasn’t on our greatest hit list of the world—so to speak—but in the end I think of it as a country escape far removed from the urban lives we all lead, removed from the fast paced lives we all hurdle through, and even though we may not have gone to a Grand Tour spot we did travel, see, and explore.  I came home with some plum jam and a few pieces of fabric to remember my days there.  The vibrant colors of the silk remind me of the sunsets, and the muted maroon and cream silk top I made is reminiscent of the understated tone, and quiet feel, of Bucharest.  The Peasant’s Museum, my favorite stop there, showed parallels with Ottoman art and the handcrafts of the Romanians reminded me—as now—the slower moments of life still exist.  Walking Romania with three friends in tow, with a few cocktails and glasses of wine to relax our mellowing souls is really what it was all about . . . there was no Louvre.  There was no Central Park.  Instead, the foreign scenery nestled four friends as we gingerly walked along passing comments on life and each other.