Bucharest at Night

Bucharest at night is tricky to negotiate because of the uneven pavements, but your feet learn to feel for the bumps. Amber street lights glow through the fog and dark figures emerge from the shadows, huddling together. They stare for a moment as they pass. Sometimes they laugh together, sharing some secret. A lone police car moves slowly along the street, red and blue lights flashing. We will see it again in a few minutes.

A tram may or may not go sparking by every now and again, depending on what time we're out. Some nights, it's quiet. Ghostly, even. On some well-lit corners, there are clusters of taxis.

On one darkened street there is movement and the sound of something large hitting a piece of inclined plywood. It is a large dog that has pounced. It runs at us, barking. Others join it. They are not locked in, and are careful to stay on their side of the fence.

A cold wind blows. The street corners look so similar, I wonder if it would be possible to figure out where I am without a map if I were dropped on a familiar corner. They all look familiar, because all of the buildings look so much alike. They are all large, grey cubes of about 10 stories.

Soft, male footsteps pad up behind us and, momentarily, a young guy hunched into his jacket under a knit cap, hurries past in sneakers.

My street is dark. Cars crowd onto the sidewalks. Pedestrians walk in the middle of the street, stepping aside when the cars come. Even in the narrow corridor, the cars weave, barely missing the pedestrians. It speeds past, inches away from my sleeve. I have been used to this for a while, and don't even flinch.

After I punch in the building code, something heavy and metallic turns in the door. The building isn't exactly warm, but at least no wind blows. I don' t even look at the Elevator of Death, with its lone red eye shining in the dark. I choose the stairs. I always choose the stairs, and my legs are showing the results.

The smell of fried onions hangs thick in the stairwell. Ah, home sweet building.