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New Year's Eve in BucharestPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 31, 2006 - 12:05 PM Tonight we are going to the Butterfly Villa hostel, where we lived for six weeks when we first arrived in town. We still have friends there--Steve from the UK and Lucan from Canada. Not to mention the four girls who not only work there but obviously considered the Butterfly Villa their second home. An Interesting EncounterPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 31, 2006 - 5:47 AM He said he is 25. I thought he was probably telling the truth, unless he had lost track of his age at some point. He looked weathered. He didn't look desperate. He looked cunning. The Edge of the WorldPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 29, 2006 - 5:23 AM There's the sense here that, if you step just the right way, you will fall off the edge of the world. There's a certain excitement in that, although I don't think the Romanians would agree. Wine: Not Just for Breakfast AnymorePosted by Rhonda Jones on December 28, 2006 - 1:58 PM I don't drink a lot of white wines because they tend to be sweet or crisp and I prefer heavy, garnet-colored affairs that grab you by the ears and let you know who's boss. So to speak. Food. Wine.Posted by Rhonda Jones on December 27, 2006 - 2:42 PM You have to be careful when ordering wine at these places, though, because they will ask you if you want water, which is a good idea to have when you're drinking. But if you don't stop them, they'll mix the two and make you a spritzer. Vampires in Bucharest?Posted by Rhonda Jones on December 23, 2006 - 7:22 PM The eyes were black, deep and otherworldly. He seemed comfortable there, in that place. And I imagined all sorts of lives for him in that second. Mihai Eminescu, national poet of RomaniaPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 22, 2006 - 3:31 AM EST  Here he is, folks. The man himself. Doesn't he have that forlorn lover look about him? It's a writer's disease, I'm afraid, and I think dead poets are particularly susceptible. And yes, those are very Romanian features. It's nothing at all for a couple of parents to just dash off a beautiful child or two. Rantings on SizePosted by Rhonda Jones on December 22, 2006 - 3:22 AM And while I am certain he probably knew what to do with a pen and paper (and a few other things by the looks of him), the thought of reading epic poetry in a language I only know how to buy vegetables in, makes me break out into a bit of a cold sweat. The Black CarriagePosted by Rhonda Jones on December 21, 2006 - 4:40 AM People here seem to think it is their God-given right to play instruments. I had already seen a parade of sorts on one nearby street, and wasn't sure the same group hadn't hopped a train and followed me. Romanian MusicPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 19, 2006 - 6:46 AM They have an annoyingly catchy song called "French Kiss," which is playing happily in my head right now. Not Exactly RuinedPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 18, 2006 - 3:57 AM There were two doorways into the courtyard--one that was obviously for carriages, as I assume no one in Medieval Europe had automobiles, Gather the Animals Two by TwoPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 16, 2006 - 12:23 PM Water also began to run down the wall behind the refrigerator, down the bedroom light, leaving bubbled-up paint in its wake, out of the bathroom light, out of the bedroom light, out of most of the electrical sockets and in a long line on the ceiling over the bed. The Shrinking BubblePosted by Rhonda Jones on December 14, 2006 - 4:50 AM Going to the grocery store can be quite an exciting game, as you try to maneuver over slippery floors (why are all the floors in Bucharest Slippery When Dry??) while there is someone behind you trying to make you go faster by keeping their buggy an inch from your butt. The Water Guy ComethPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 13, 2006 - 2:31 PM Yes, an honest-to-goodness person comes and knocks on your door. You give them money, they go away, and your lights, water, gas and what have you stays on. What I Found in My Strawberry JamPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 12, 2006 - 3:17 PM Thing is, tourists and expats will tell you in a heartbeat what is wrong with Romania (roads that are just one big series of potholes, sidewalks that are one big series of potholes, corruption, inefficiency, lack of service, lack of redundancies). Romanians won't wait that long to tell you. Foggy, Foggy BucharestPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 11, 2006 - 3:19 AM The other night I found myself on a fog-laden street lined with wintery trees, across from lot where, I am told, a factory once sat. Children of the NightPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 09, 2006 - 5:23 PM Today, probably because of the fog and the smog, twilight fell at 3:30. I know, I know, that means it wasn't actual twilight. But still. It was going dark. Be Careful What You Wish ForPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 07, 2006 - 11:27 AM I realize that I am going to be cursing frozen breath and snowflakes before it's over. I realize that there is probably going to be a blizzard this year for my benefit, and my benefit alone. Monsters in the ParkPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 06, 2006 - 6:15 PM We didn't know they were there, but we should have. We've seen them quite a bit. But tonight, it was late. It was dark. And they were silent. Life Outside of Bucharest?Posted by Rhonda Jones on December 05, 2006 - 1:13 PM It's like some sci-fi experiment involving some serious space-time continuum compression. Titan ParkPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 01, 2006 - 1:24 PM You walk on a path through a scruffy little field filled with little trees, making your way down to the lake, which is bordered by a cobbled path. The water reaches up to the lip of the curb. Golden and red leaves float on the still surface and in the distance, fifty or so mallard ducks drift. My NeighborhoodPosted by Rhonda Jones on December 01, 2006 - 1:13 PM It has a certain texture, a flavor reminiscent of a Dickens novel mixed with 1950s New York. |
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