2012_12_16 Report #2 Bulgaria

The snowy busride to Bulgaria was overheated, I kept taking things off and putting them on again. A Bulgarian artist living and working in Montmartre gave me a Sofia city tram ticket and pointed me in the right snowy direction. I had booked a hostel near the city called Nightingale, after the square, with a statue of two brothers, authors, sitting on a bench - I wished I could ask them directions! The instructions were to pass McDonald's (ubiquitous!) and go through the TUNNEL - actually an archway I hadn't noticed. I dragged the suitcase up two flights and Sasha was expecting me. "Alex"?

Long black hair, missing front teeth, a hard time walking, always holding onto something with a six-year-old child living hundreds of kilometers away, Sasha gave me some scratchy linens and I met Alex, an Australian girl who was waiting for a temporary passport. Though twenty-something, she'd lost her passport three times, raising suspicions. We were the only women in the old hostel. The shower heads were above the toilets. You were not to put paper down the hopper, always a can for it. There were two public computers and Sasha was often doing video slots to relieve her stress. I'd been worried that the web-site advised older guests to book private rooms, where you had to pay for all the beds, but the place was so empty, I was welcome.


The next morning, Michael the manager was there, ready with Bulgarian history. "Aryan" is built into their name, and the swastiki is an ancient symbol of the turning sun. Sofia's history goes down 20 meters from the Romans to the Middle Ages to today. A new hotel was built over a Roman amphitheater you can access it from the lobby.


I trudged through the snow to the free walking tour at 11 am. The square was now full of bookstalls. I followed the tramtracks to the lions in front of the palace of justice to meet the tour, which included Israelis, a Rasta dreads from Brazil...we saw a black and gold statue of Sofia high above the main square, numerous mosques and Orthodox churches, a changing of the goose-stepping red-jacketed guard before Parliament, a German Christmas market like the one in Sibiu, Alexander Nevsky mosque. The money is 'lei' or 'lion', a favorite symbol though an unknown animal long ago. There are iron images in front of Parliament of 'kittens with mustache' i.e., lions.

I trudged back to the hostel, exhausted, to find a second roommate, Olga from Ukraine. There was a Moslem man at the computers singing along with Arabic songs that featured execution videos, real or staged, I know not. I shared some Macedonian wine with Sasha and Michael who smirked with disgust. Bulgarian is better! Years ago the French poisoned Bulgarian vineyards, fearing competition, Michael said. 

Alex the Australian recommended a side trip to Plovod but the train trip was too long. Instead I hit the art museums. There were several slide shows of paintings but the colors much more intense than in the originals displayed. I hated the show of recent Turkish abstract impressionism. The city museum had videos upstairs of a dashboard view of a city's roundabout for 90 minutes, radio blaring, a couple visiting a museum and having sex in the toilet, a woman drawing bruises on her body with make-up, a man simulating drug use. Downstairs was the more traditional fare. I had cold potatoes and sausage at the Christmas market. I went to the foreign art museum but it was closed and lost money in the coffee machine - these are everywhere.

My last morning I trammed to the station for my overnight ticket to Istanbul, and tackled the foreign art museum again, which featured the Paris Exhibition of 1900 in film and photograph. There was a huge portrait of Sarah Bernhardt, who also wrote novels and plays and sculpted. It was sad to see the optimism of the first part of the 20th century in view of the horrors that unfolded. The Eiffel Tower then had an enclosed restaurant. Every country built its own pavilion along the Seine. Downstairs was a display of contemporary Japanese architecture. 

I had seen English books for sale in the stall before the hostel, including Lady Chatterly's Lover. I had finished John Thomas and Lady Jane, an earlier version, but it was inconclusive. So I bargained with my last lei - they didn't want a Macedonian bill to sweeten the pot - and got LCL to see how it all ends. 

I knew the evening train would turn into a bus near the border. But the train broke down hours before that. I had to dress hurriedly and join the only other passengers for Istanbul, a German couple from Leipzig, to await a commuter train, then board a bus, then  the border; $20 for a Turkish visa, then another train ride, and another bus ride to the amazingly huge and modern city of Istanbul at six in the morning, hours before toilets or ticket offices would be open. I should have taken the bus, saving time and money! 

Ah, the misery until I find my next couch! 

2012_12_16 Report #1 Skopje (Scupi)

Alexa reporting on her stay in Skopje

Ah, the misery until I find my next couch! 

I wrongly assumed that my hostess Zoya would be working, and going to her home in a residential area after my all-night bus ride, stranded outside all day wouldn't be good. 

Macedonia-FYROM is the Couchsurf listing. What is FYROM? I asked Zoya by email. Former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia and a symbol of our subjugation. The Greeks like to claim Alexander the Great of Macedonia as their own. At her urging, I signed an online petition that nations have the right to name themselves.

You need small money to use toilets - which are increasingly holes in the floor - and a kindly Macedonian gave me a 10 bill when the change guy wouldn't deal with my Serbian or Macedonian cash at the station. It is so hard to spend all your cash before you leave a country, you never know when a border will pop up. Rivalry between former Yugoslavian provinces seems intense. Typically, large bills come out of the Bankomats, which can be as good as no money at all. 

Taxi drivers were hounding me. I showed one Zoya's address and he said it would cost 200 to get there. Never trust...I repaired to an Internet room in the train station where for a dollar (Bosnian money accepted!) I could catch up for an hour and email Zoya. There was a small shop with a public phone but I couldn't reach her (she was in the garden) and finally the shop girl handed me her own phone and Zoya called back but after I'd returned to the Internet cafe and seen a message from her: 200 is too much for a taxi, call this number. Soon I was off up the hill to warmth and safety at last!

Zoya lives on a mountain overlooking the city. There is a fountain and garden and grape arbor in her yard and trees with a pawpaw-tasting fruit I never saw before. The taxi driver lugged my suitcase up the steps. She rents the lower floor to students and thinks of converting it into a hostel. After waiting for me all day, Zoya was in the shower and her orange and white longhaired cat Kiki looked out at me. She is unsure she should neuter him. I'm all for it.

Zoya finally appeared, a tall former model with excellent English from working as an au pair in the states, where her sister lives. She has worked for NGOs and is now preparing for another trip to the US. She sees her cozy house as a burden left her by her parents. Though built in the '70's it is showing its age. Her principle task is keeping the wood-burner stoked, but there are also electric heaters (the price falls late at night). She had a lively friend over for rakia, wine and banana cake, Sylvana.

The next day, map in hand, I ventured down the hill to the city of Skopje, the famous stone bridge, and the Albanian bazaar. Skopje is statue-crazy! The main square is littered with oversized statuary, seated rulers, heroes on horseback, even a couple of modern ones of women, but they are shopping teenagers who do us no credit. A squat shoe-shiner on the bridge extended his hand to me and before I knew it my clodhoppers were being polished. He wanted double the price of my taxi ride but accepted a third.

There is a hilltop fortress, Kale, across the Vardar river and I found a modern but mostly empty art museum. Next I visited in the bazaar a two-story Turkish Inn, Kursumli An, around a courtyard, dating back to the Ottomans in the 16th century. It reminded me of a hotel I knew in Marrakech. A former bath house, Daut Pasha, has been turned into a modern art gallery. I bought an assortment of Turkish delights and sesame sweets to share with Zoya. The national art gallery was closed. Vagabond dogs were everywhere, and roasted chestnut peddlers. Another night visitor, a Hungarian woman, whose parents love to stay in Macedonia, it is like Hungary was twenty years ago.

The next day Zoya set off to buy a chainsaw (assembly required) and get Kiki washed and let me off at the old train station, a partial ruin since the 1963 earthquake stopped its clock, now a museum of Macedonian history from the stone age to the present. I was the only customer and took my time. On Macedonia street I saw a modern memorial museum to native daughter Mother Theresa, born in 1910, but it was closed. I spent the day trying to hunt down an outdated exhibit at the British council. I took off my shoes and peeped into one of the many mosques, delighted to find free deserted toilets nearby. 
Zoya and I talked about going to a winery for the night - a Groupon deal - but the falling show made her cautious, and we went instead to an Arabian restaurant in a shopping center - another coupon - and she delivered me to the bus station with moments to spare. She appeared again, having parked her car, to make sure I made it, the dear soul. She was so stylish in her brimmed hat and long strides. 

2012_12_13 report #2 Sarjevo

I hadn't considered visiting these countries of recent wars earlier, and wasn't sure if they had been Communist or not. But the wars were twenty years ago. I was very nervous in the dark strange city of Sarajevo until my next host, Oliver, appeared with his 'limo', an old car powered by liquefied natural gas. We stopped in an underground supermarket, then drove up the mountain overlooking the city. He built the large house himself - it's not quite finished - and in season it is a youth hostel. Two loving cats, Sylvester and Dodi, made a fuss over me but hate each other. One black and white puppy, Ursula, is allowed inside. The place looks like the abode of a Hollywood star with large picture windows, no interior walls on the first floor, a wood burning stove, a pave stone floor with gravel between the rocks. He said Angelina and Brad had visited. Anything is possible!

Oli has a bar in town, one of the first since the war to reopen, and a meeting place for former enemies to relax and forget about it. He is his own boss and decided not to open up the evenings I was there, except one afternoon when friends were shooting a film. He would never see it; all that interests him is science fiction. Like Londoners during the blitz of WWII, he said the best parties were during the war. They didn't have enough to eat but a little booze had a big effect. 

Armed with a map, I explored the old town, found a small museum in a former market, and met Oli for a meal in his old neighborhood. Archduke Ferdinand was assasinated near the stone bridge when his driver took a wrong turn. Tensions were such the First World War would probably have occurred without this event. 

Oli advised me to visit the newest museum, of Srebenica, which he helped found. The town is infamous for the ethnic cleansing of the Muslim population. There are hundreds of photographs of the male victims, and hours of computer files re-creating day by day that terrible month's events. The United Nations forces underestimated the ferocity of the Serbs and failed to protect the people. There were also lengthy taped interviews with survivors, and over two days I managed to watch four of them, mostly women, recounting the horrors, the loss of their families and the terrible privations. They were reduced to using road salt to flavor the little food they had. Humanitarian aid was woeful; plenty of pots and pans and damn little food.

The view from Oli's house of Sarajevo at dusk, covered with snow, lights tinkling, is a living Christmas card. I wondered why I rushed from capital to capital on this trip, ignoring the countryside. 

I had finished the wonderful British diaries of adolescent Adrian Mole and saw what Oli's guests had left behind. There was an early version of "Lady Chatterley's Lover" called "John Thomas and Lady Jane", slang for sex organs. But I'm not sure the last chapters were there so I just bought a copy of  LCL here in Sofia. Oli gave me pomegranates for my trip to Skopje, and a big bag of Serbian Yugoslavian and Cuban coins. But I was only briefly in Serbia, changed buses in Kosova (Euros) and then it was Macedonia-FYROM

2012_12_13 report #1 Belgrade

 

Troubles not over yet, none of my couches came through for Belgrade. A young girl on the bus spoke English and had a smart phone. She looked up Hedonists' Hostel for me and I just got the directions as she was getting off the bus. But once in Belgrade, I couldn't find a shop to sell me a bus ticket. Perhaps they couldn't understand me. But Vlad at the tram stop told me the controllers were never on this line in this direction at this time, and even tried to escort me to the hostel on the hill, but it was on a broken street and he was late for his appointment. I found it! Lovely hostel with an outside garden, basement lounge and kitchen, with a big bowl of welcoming popcorn. But my bunk was just feet from the vivacious receptionist's desk, the only other woman in the hostel, so despite the posted quiet jimhours I had to use those earplugs. 

In the morning I met Tanya' the 50-year-old cleaning woman, single, with little English but lots of enthusiasm. She wanted to know if I talked to my cats over the phone as she did her bird.

I took advantage of the free walking tour (tips encouraged) and found a lively bunch of students behind the horse statue at Republic Square. Unfortunately the art museum is under permanent renovation, it seems, and the modern art museum closed when the paintings started melting in the summer without air conditioning. Serbia is chronically short of funds.

Our guide led us to the Bohemian street, the party street, past the zoo to the old fortress. As many people died in Belgrade in wars over the ages as live there today - 6 million! I corrected his English and planned to take the next day's tour to a small town on the Danube.

One couch, Sanja,  couldn't host me because her father was recovering from chemotherapy, so we met for dinner in a restaurant. She told me how hard it was during the war. Her upper class family had no relatives living in the country who could provide them with food. What an intelligent woman she is! I wish I could remember more of what she said.

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Many of yesterday's students returned too and we all took a tram across the Danube past a huge and empty derelict Hotel Jugoslavia, just a part of it open as a casino. The area must be lovely in the summer but now it was dreary. We visited several churches and waited to hear the beginning of a service. Women stand on one side, men on the other. We climbed medieval streets to a church on the hill with quite a view. 

That night the staff made crepes for the guests of the hostel, and I scrounged travel tips. A Canadian who supports tar sands development (because that is where his travel funds come from) raved about Bosnia and wondered if he'd have trouble bringing home bullets fashioned into pens. I left the city in the morning for the bus to Sarajevo. A woman on the tram who'd had businesses in Thailand in the '80s invited me to stay with her next time. 

2012_12_08 perspective on couch surfing

Travelling Couch to Couch - written for Athens Unitarian Universalist Fellowship Greensheet

Is anything more disturbing than arriving in a new place, full of strangers speaking an unfathomable language, laden with baggage, alone and friendless?

Is anything better than meeting a friend you've never seen before who rescues you and takes you home?

This is the world of Couchsurfing, an international online hospitality club members of the Athens Time Exchange told me about.

Couchsurfing has made it possible to visit countries too expensive (Scandinavia) and too foreign (Moldova, Estonia, Latvia, Macedonia) for the solo tourist. 

If I had the funds to stay in hotels for the nine months of my travels, I think I would be very lonely and depressed.

Instead, I move into the home of a new friend I found by searching the Couchsurfing website by location, and often filtering for gender, language, age, and whether the person has been vouched, verified, referenced by past visitors. Their profile contains photographs, philosophy, mission, countries travelled, grown up in, desired to visit, and a description of their 'couch' (often you have a guest room and sometimes the host gives up their own bed). I usually stay for three days ("fish and guests" stink any longer), assist them by correcting their English (they appreciate it!), learn an insider's view of their country, receive maps and tips and transport information, enjoy drinks and meals together.

Sometimes others have seen my request and offered their homes. Serendipity led me to a Croatian filmmaker and a Russian hookah party. Staying in a household of twenty-somethings or with a mother-in-law with no English whatsoever or families with children is fun as well.

Relaxing under the stars in southern France or gazing at snowy, silent Sarajevo, a living Christmas card, I bless the adventurers who formalized the idea of people to people friendship.

I know some hosts get addicted to the international traffic enlivening their routines.  

People precede and follow me in their homes, but the friendships are often deep and intense. Would an American hand you their keys? 

In Spain and Russia, France and Ukraine, Copenhagen and Bucharest, Budapest and Bialystock, I have learned the transportation system and supermarkets. I have negotiated the terrifyingly long and deep escalators of the Metros in Moscow and St. Petersburg and Kiev and photographed the heroic tableaux deep underground.

I have lost my Visa card, left or lost my camera (found in Bucharest!), been arrested for overstaying my visa in Russia (I was on the overnight train to Estonia), been proposed to and fallen in love (our secret!).

I expected extreme poverty and hosts depending on me to feed them. I found successful people with large luxurious homes and cars. Everywhere I found traffic and air pollution and plastic bags and bottles. 

I fear for the future, yet the present is fantastic.

And this is not my last trip. I've just gotten started!

2012_12_08 Report #2 Romania Brasov and Sibiu

Still in Romania..

So far I'd been visiting capitals and just glimpsing the countryside from train or bus windows. So many trees had balls of parasitic mistletoe in their crowns. I began to see men tending sheep. The Romanian I met in Split had urged me to visit monasteries. Lonely Planet talked of Transylvania and Aline of Moldova had said Brasov, where she went to University, was a beautiful town. So once again I sat in Kentucky Fried Chicken with a coffee frappe and brought out my Kindle as I waited for the next train to Brasov. No one had responded to my couch request, but Hugo had stayed at Rolling Stone hostel there, so I looked up the directions. 

With a heavy heart I boarded the train, joining three matrons and a silent youth in my compartment. One was very curious about me and finally broke out in German. People peddling magazines were working the train. One fellow wanted $10 for a plastic-wrapped National Geographic. You can get it for a quarter in any thrift shop in America! I offered him 5 Romanian lei, and he laughed; that was enough to use the toilet. But he hauled my suitcase up to the overhead rack and I watched it nervously the whole trip. Would it fall on the woman sitting opposite me? The German speaker gave me a Geschenk, a city bus ticket to the hostel, 8 stops away at Piata Uniti (Unity Place) and other helpful strangers made sure I got off at the right stop and directed me to Rolling Stone Hostel. 

The place was full of Spanish Erasmus students studying in Italy. Three French kids stayed in my room; they had been doing construction work on an organic farm (WWOOF). Judy was the resident cat. An American tenting in the mountains had been frightened by a bear and returned to civilization. I got on the computer looking for news of the camera from Babs; nothing. The gas in the kitchen was faulty so I boiled water in the electric kettle, sliced carrots and cooked pasta in the microwave. The French fellow in the bunk above mine was an enthusiastic snorer. I called him 'le grand ronfleur' in the morning. He happened to have a box of earplugs and gave me a couple.

The next morning there was a minivan going to see Bran Castle 45 minutes away. I first walked ten minutes to the old square. Brasov is very picturesque in daylight. There is a funicular up the mountain, and one of the narrowest streets in the world. I paid my fare and joined the eight Spaniards in the minivan. They were negotiating a price to leave at 1 am for Bucharest airport to return to Italy. A mongrel tried to befriend me as I waited to buy a ticket. Then I hurried up the steps to the castle leaving the young Spaniards far behind. 

Bran castle sits on a hill past a warren of souvenir stands. It was once a customs house, a very homey castle with many sweet little rooms on different levels. I watched the other tourists obsess with their cameras, click away without seeing anything, feeling superior to all those shutterbugs. There were displays going into detail about Bram Stoker's Dracula, which is entirely fiction. Stoker was an Irishman who never went to Romania. He was inspired by Vlad the Impaler who was not so evil by the standards of his day. On gaining power he opened the prisons but warned the criminals all crime was punishable by impalement. A sharp stick in the lowest body cavity; gravity did the rest. Bran Castle is so charming, there are photographs of the last royal family who lived there and left it to the nation. I bought a glass of hot wine and a bar of homemade chocolate from street stalls on the way back to the van. We discussed the economic crisis and the dim outlook for the Spanish students ever finding jobs or leaving their parents' homes.

That afternoon I took a walk around the hostel and found an old church on a hill with a vast old cemetery where the plots look like bathtubs. The next morning I took a bus to the center, saw modern mosaics of women displayed on the sidewalk. I was the only customer in a cavernous restaurant that offered free shots of schnapps to hostelers. I packed to leave and then got very nervous when the bus to the train was late, but I made it. On the train I sat opposite a man with a smashed face and an artificial eye. Dumb candy bar peddlers worked the train and knew this man. They were effusive as he bought a bunch of candy bars from them. He was kind but spoke no English, and got off before we got to Sibiu.

A dentist in Sibiu had offered to host me and give me a free dental exam, but then found it impossible, so with the help of the police, I got an honest taxi to the hostel. I'd prefer to find the right bus than use taxis, but I'd just seen an article in the Times how some travelers go too far to save money. The hostel was right in the square of the old town; the only other guest was an Australian named Alice, a cute blond with red glasses and a love of Romania, who recognized me from the tour of Ceaucescus' palace. I cooked my pasta and carrots, washed my socks and shorts and chatted with her. She never heard of Noel Coward's wicked, witty song, "Alice is At It Again." She starts her teaching career soon back home.  

The next day we both went to the open air museum out of town by bus but at different times. All the houses were locked. I walked around the lake and took the next bus back, fascinating another German-speaking Romanian woman with my travels. There were homeless dogs around with plastic tags in their ears. I learned from Information they were 'vagabonds', and neutered. Not so the cats. Back in Sibiu I walked through the fortress to the old town and found a Christmas market of stalls selling candy, hot wine, gifts and food and an ice skating rink. I went to an old palace, Brukenthal Museum, that was turned into an art museum with impressive paintings from all over Europe and even a small Romanian art gallery. The hostel staff looked up train and bus schedules to get to my next stop, Belgrade. I kept calling George, the dentist, and finally we had an appointment to meet at 8:30 at night in front of the Orthodox Cathedral. He said he could clean my teeth for $20.

I'd tried to change a $20 bill and neither the change place nor the bank would take it because of a small hole in the center fold. I thought of giving this bill to George. He led me to his new office next to the cathedral. There was no furniture yet, and the light of the dentist's chair didn't work. He had to sterilize his instruments which took a half hour. He recommended SAGE TEA for dental health, not the expensive preparations. He cleaned my teeth with ultrasound cooled by water, claiming he had enough light to see. In the end he returned half my money because my teeth were in such good shape. We walked back to the hostel (he knows the owner) and he met friends in the bar below as I prepared for another day of travel.

Alice and I woke up at 4:30 am to walk downhill to the station in the dark for the 5:30 bus to Timisoara. She was going to stay, I continued on another bus toward the border but there was really no bus into Serbia there. First a brief  taxi ride to the border at the insistence of a drunk. I met a van-driver headed to Belgrade but had to walk myself through the border and didn't see him again. It was starting to sprinkle and I put my thumb out, thinking I had a walk of a few kilometers to the first town but it turned out to be about 15. Luckily a Timosauran gave me a ride to the town. The fields by the road were covered with plastic litter. In the town eventually I found a bus stop that would carry me to Belgrade! 

2012_12_08 report #1 Romania Bucharest

BUCHAREST

Headed for the land of the gypsies (explode that stereotype!) by train overnight from Chisinau, Moldova (a dingy sleeper, without tea), I had two potential couches but no phone numbers, addresses or directions. 

An anxious taxi driver latched onto me as I descended from the train. I only knew the Metro stop - Aviatorilor, presumably near an airport; he let me know it was far, far from the city and petrol very dear. General hint: never trust a taxi driver near a train station. 

I needed to change a 5 dollar bill for Romanian lei to get on the Metro. A laughably pitiful amount to get to my destination by taxi, he intimated. Usually there is a McDonald's at train stations with wi-fi, but here it was Kentucky Fried Chicken. I bought the cheapest item, a coffee frappe, and pulled out the Kindle Fire to find directions from Barbara, my Viennese hostess (with Slovakian forbearers). Troubles over! The taxi-driver kept an eye on me as I descended into the Metro.

Metro stop Aviatorilor is next to a big city park, Parc Herastrau, on a lake of the same name. It has an open air museum of old houses and churches from all over Romania. I dragged the suitcase, also wearing my Sierra Club daypack and my blue Doylestown Ohio Tree City USA food bag, towards the upscale embassy neighborhood, past gated luxury apartment buildings to a side street where Barbara's high-end unit lies. She answered the door groggy from sleep in a Tshirt and undies, an Australian long-haired Couchsurfer sprawled on her living room sofabed. I whispered I wanted to secrete myself in the kitchen with my Points of View short story collection but she was up for good, coffee and cigarettes.
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At thirty, this indominatable Austrian is the private chef for a wealthy lawyer's household; he earns millions. She also has an apartment in Vienna. Her boss was tired of Romanian food. Babs also prepares the meals for his staff of nannies, bodyguards, and maids. Her furnished apartment and car are perks of the job, but she is unhappy and plans to give notice soon. A friend wants her to be his chef in a new Viennese restaurant. Her employer's wife insists on a no-carb menu for her family and tells her husband and children when to stop eating! They often don't even try what she prepares; Babs has the best leftovers in her fridge! She also has a Romanian boyfriend, Vlad, who tolerated my jokes about being the Impaler. When he slept over in the bedroom, I told Babs I didn't hear any impaling going on. "Just my heart," she said. They communicate in English.

Babs went to work. Not speaking Romanian and having to be brusque in her job to her sous chef, she finds the company of foreigners a liberating pleasure. Stefan the green Australian lawyer headed out to see the sights, I relaxed in luxury and caught up on the Internet, only venturing out to a local supermarket. That night she took us in her car to a Romanian restaurant in the old town. A tipsy young gypsy was the self-appointed guardian of the free parking. Refusing to tip could risk getting your car keyed (scratched). Stefan the vegetarian had trouble finding a dish, and settled for a cold soup. One item on the menu was not translated: Morality. It turned out to be an assortment of testicles. As always, I had a dark beer. Weakening, I ordered sausages. There were strolling musicians hopefully serenading the tables. Little gypsy girls offered single roses for sale.

Then we were off to a nearby bar with a technobeat and a gay vibe, unusual in Romania. Babs had insisted on paying for dinner so I bought a round. Back home I noticed her adding something green to her hand-rolled cigarette. She sounds like Marlene Dietrich when she speaks. Stefan and I enjoyed an exquisite dessert of quince and pistachio cream her bosses spurned. We were in our beds by three.

The other Couchsurfer took off the next morning after replacing the bananas I'd bought the day before. Babs had told him to help himself. I can see eating one banana, but two? I walked back to the subway, befriended by a homeless dog, and gazed at paintings all day.  Sometimes it's a relief not to be permitted to photograph the pictures. At times they charge more for it than for admission. I feel I'm hurting the pictures' feelings if I don't deem them worthy of a snap! The two-museum collection was so extensive, I spent too much time on religious art and ended up dashing through the more interesting 20th century galleries. 

Babs' Lonely Planet guide advised making a reservation for the guided tour in English of the second largest building in the world, Nicolae Ceausescu's Parliamentary Palace. A neighborhood damaged by earthquake was levelled to make an avenue wider than the Champs Elysee leading to the huge building on the hill. Presenting passports and going through airport security I joined dozens climbing the marble staircases to immense meeting halls with huge chandeliers but few paintings. It was Thanksgiving Day! Vlad the guide told us the grand staircase had to be rebuilt several times because Ceausescu didn't want to have to look at his feet when making a grand entrance! He never lived there. I noticed peeling contact paper of renaissance paintings on some walls. Vlad explained it was cheaper to rent the palace as a film location than the Vatican it was supposed to represent. He thought the title of the Romanian-Italian film was "AMEN."

The modern art museum is on the other side of the second largest building in the world so it was another long hike to get to that entrance. I rewarded myself with a salad and a lemonade in the cafe on the top floor and worked my way down through a variety of exhibits which I photographed. You'll see them in 2013. Babs brought home Thanksgiving leftovers but I left her and Vlad to enjoy them. I was stuffed.

A Romanian girl had accepted my couch request after Babs so we arranged at least to meet. I enjoyed Herastrau Park, buying hot wine and photographing statues before I met Irene at the subway. Babs had done the research and there were tickets available for the ballet Don Quixote the next night. Irene took me to buy my ticket. We strolled through the narrow streets of the old town and she treated  me to a rich soup in a bowl of bread. Her English is excellent because she was married to an American for 11 years. She  plans to give up her apartment and move in with family to save money to travel. Irene is lovely, works for a multinational pharmaceutical company, but would never consider dating a Romanian man. 

Ten years ago she worked for an NGO helping gypsy children with AIDS. She also engaged in participatory theatre and met her husband on the Internet. She takes care of her whole family.  I've met one decent Romanian man, Vlad the Impaler, but Babs has him. Irene wanted to meet Babs and have me over for dinner the next night before the ballet. She presented me with a packet of reproduced antique postcards of Bucharest. I took our uneaten bread bowls home for stray dogs but they languished in Babs' refrigerator.

Another couchsurfer arrived, Hugo from Portugal, a handsome chef with much about cooking to discuss with Babs. She had forgotten her phone and he'd had to stay at a hostel, where an Indian guy kept trying to make moves on him. Vlad was going off some medicine that forebade alcohol, so they planned to celebrate. First we all went out for breakfast. Vlad had a glass of wine as well as coffee. I'd scarfed Babs' delicious leftover macaroni and cheese, so I just had a carrot juice. Babs thought of joining me at the ballet - it would be many times dearer in Vienna! - but in the end we just drove to Irene's for crudites and soup. I'd brought a bottle of wine. The apartment had the sad look of Soviet-era housing. Irene has a parakeet. She gave me a snug white hat for the cold I didn't look so stupid in as the one I had. Suddenly it was late and I dashed in a taxi to the ballet. My seat was in the first row. Don Quixote acted confused, and Dulcinea did not appear to be a slut. Sancho Panza played it for laughs. Ballet is starting to feel like the circus - acrobats showing off for applause.

I really didn't want to go drinking but dutifully called Babs from the Metro. She told me to wait for her at McDonalds'.  I was expecting the car when Hugo, Vlad and Babs came bounding up from gay times in a restaurant. They'd left their cars behind. I saw a statue of a wizard advertising an upcoming movie and got my camera out. We went again to the Mechanic's bar and drank shots and called Irene, who joined us. Gypsy girls tried to sell us roses. Vlad's brother and his girlfriend also arrived. 

A good time was had by all but the next morning on waking I realized my camera was gone. I'd had it between my legs in Irene's hat. Irene called the taxi company. Babs would call the bar when it opened. Hugo took off for a chef's job in Switzerland. Babs dropped me in the city, I was too disturbed to stay. She was hopeful it would be found. I hadn't downloaded pictures to the cloud since Estonia. I thought of all the hundreds of lost images from Kiev, from Moldova, from Lithuania, from Cracow and Warsaw and Bucharest!