This day begins with packing and a cup of tea. A couple of cars have been booked to take us to the train station, and the train isn’t until later in the morning, so there is no rush. We have nothing booked today, apart from the train and the accommodation at the other end. Apparently, we are about to enter a war zone.
Last night, Jenine and I chatted to a lady who was also staying at the unusual hotel. When we told her where we would be staying in Bucharest, she recoiled in horror, and like the village woman in Jonathan Harker’s journal, practically begged us not to travel there, and if we must, then to take this wreath of garlic and the crucifix. Nice. Thanks, missus. Really looking forward to our stay now.
We ended up having about an hour’s wait for our train, during which time I found a pharmacy in the railway station, half-hidden behind metal grilles, and we found the shop/café, so coffee could be arranged, and we witnessed another passing of the Romanian Bear Dance, banging their huge drums which boomed and echoed throughout the 1960s station concourse. When the time came, we girded this and that, wrapped up that and this, and headed out into the icy morning to find the platform.
To reach the main Bucharest line and the waiting train meant crossing a set of tracks, as if that final outpost of a platform had been tacked on after the underpasses had been built, and no-one had thought to put up a bridge. It was a bit of a thrill, to cross an active railway track, looking left and right as though a locomotive was going to suddenly bear down out of nowhere, and to skip a little as if that would help speed you up, but we made it across, bags and all, found our carriage and then our table, and went through the, by now, standard rigmarole of ‘Making one’s self comfortable.’ In our case, this meant finding a place for the hat, unpacking the sandwiches, biscuits, treats, drinks and phones, and muttering, ‘It’s a good job we booked,’ because the carriage was just about full.
It was while on the way to Bucharest that I realised how much (some) Romanian trains had changed in 12 years. Our previous experience of the same journey had been… okay, but the train had been basic, even in first class (for €15.00 each). This time, I had cause to use the facilities, and was dreading what I might find, but the experience was not what I was expecting. The WC was in the next carriage, so I walked through, and after passing some seats, took a few steps down to a large open area which had a couple of stools at the window, and one random seat, and realised this was the wheelchair access area. There was a coffee machine set into the wall (though you needed to bring your own cup), and a wide, clear path to the WC. This had a curved door as the bathroom was a cubicle pod fitted into the middle of the carriage, with its door facing the first couple of rows. It was a large door, and when I pressed the green button, it slid open gracefully to reveal a man doing up his trousers. It was only then that he realised he needed to press the red button once inside, so I stood back and waited, while the rest of the carriage had a peek and a snigger. Once I’d gained private access (and pressed the red button and heard a reassuring clunk), I found the bathroom massive, with everything working and clean. There was a drop-down table for laying out your picnic, or a body. I expect either is acceptable. There were soap, taps and air blowers you didn’t need to touch, plenty of paper hand towels too. The only thing missing was the TV screens like you have in the gents’ public toilets in the Rhodes Old/New Fish Market. No, honestly. Sometimes, it’s tempting to pop in just to have a look. The screens are above the urinals, and they play endless loops of people falling into swimming pools, tripping over dogs and so forth. Nothing too hilarious, as they don’t want to be responsible for splashback, but nicely quirky all the same. I don’t know what they have in the ladies’, but I doubt they have urinals. Anyway, that might have all changed by now, because the last time I was there (last month) the whole area was being ripped apart and renovated. But I digress…
The mountains fell away to leave us travelling a long, flat plain all the way to the industrial outskirts of Bucharest, and then, into the heart of the city by cab and a walk to our accommodation. A walk, I reckon, because Mr Grump in the driving seat didn’t want to hack the one-way system, but we weren’t to be thwarted. Mr Grump was, after all, only an NPC (a non-player character), a means to an end, or almost an end, for our journey ended on foot as Harry led the final push into the area we’d been warned not to stay in. This was a loft apartment up several winds of stone and marble stairs, with the entrance secreted in a corner of a little-used, small square that also housed a restaurant (closed for the hols), a rough-looking block of flats, and closed or derelict buildings opposite, but just around the corner from everything the Old Town had to offer.
And what does the Old Town of Bucharest have to offer? Touts, for one. Either leggy young ladies outside bars and restaurants trying to tempt you inside, or kamaki guys doing the same – and all good naturedly, I should add. All very friendly, although you could see in their eyes they didn’t really care if you came in or not. There were other things on offer too…
I’m walking along apart from the others, enjoying the architecture, when a cheery middle-ages man comes towards me saying, ‘Ciao, sto dicendo una sciocchezza totale, come qualsiasi italiano saprebbe leggere, ma poiché non parlo la lingua, non avevo idea di cosa stesse dicendo quest’uomo.’
I gave him a hard stare, and replied, ‘I have no idea what you just said.’
‘You are not Italian?’
‘How observant you are.’
‘Where you from?’
On these occasions, it’s rude to say, ‘Mind your own business,’ so you go through the ‘England but live in Greece’ thing, and usually, the investigator replies, ‘Oh? What do you do in the winter?’ or similar, and off you go. In this case, my random investigator sidled closer and whispered, ‘You want a woman?’
There isn’t time to explain why I decline, so I thank him but say no, and point him in Harry’s direction.
And onwards through the Old Town streets to find the tiny orthodox church where we once bought Harry an icon of Ag Haralambos (the church was closed for Christmas). Through busy, bustling streets, still admiring the huge classical buildings and the parts of the city that Ceaușescu left intact, and on to a late lunch.
The rest of that day has become something of a blur, and my photos run out at lunchtime, which was, if I remember correctly, late afternoon, so more like an early dinner before an early night. There were still several things lined up for us over the next three days, including a guided tour, a guide, and a tour. Before that, though, some photos.
