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.
.
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!
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