what I learned at the ICTY – and what it means to me.

/ kw1385 / 1 Comment

I’ve been searching for a way to somehow encapsulate the meaning of my experience this summer at the ICTY. Tonight, my general post-Europe melancholy led me to rent, finally, “In the Land of Blood and Honey” – the film about the Bosnian war written and directed by Angelina Jolie.

I’ve heard mixed reviews of the film and am not here to claim that it’s a phenomenal piece of cinema. But here’s why everyone should see it: every single horrible thing that happens in the movie happened in real life.

  • Muslims were forced from their homes, by the thousands.
  • Those who could stay had little or no electricity, running water, food, or medicine.
  • Muslims were taken to detention facilities not unlike Nazi concentration camps except for smaller in size and without the gas chambers. Women in these camps were often beaten and raped. Men, the primary prisoners, wasted away in horrible conditions on starvation rations while receiving regular beatings. Prisoners were forced into various types of labor, sometimes including standing in front of Serbs as human shields during armed conflict with Muslim soldiers.
  • Random firing squad executions occurred all over the Muslim municipalities of Bosnia.
  • Sniping became a fact of daily life in Sarajevo and other towns. The Serbs occupied territory overlooking Sarajevo and shot people standing in line for water, on their way to school or work, coming home from the market, or running for cover just trying to get from one side of the street to another.

It’s easy, hearing about things like this, as I did all summer, to forget that each of the three groups – Croats, Muslims, and Serbs – did horrible things. And there’s plenty of remaining physical evidence of that today. Driving through the Balkan countryside is beautiful yet quietly tragic; I’ve seen the shells of hundreds of buildings and homes still waiting to be rebuilt by families who haven’t returned.

I read many accounts this summer of seemingly idyllic Bosnian life prior to 1992. Children of all three groups attended the same school, sat in the same classrooms, and even celebrated each other’s religious holidays. Aside from religion, the only differentiating factor among the three ethnicities seems to have been their names – some were clearly Muslim, Serbian, or Croatian. Like the Hutus and the Tutsis in Rwanda, you can’t tell these people apart just by looking at them. And today, if you travel across Croatia, Bosnia-Hercegovina, and Serbia, you’ll find common staple foods and drinks – aside from religious structures and the remaining amount of destruction (Croatia and Serbia look a lot better than Bosnia), you can’t tell the countries apart as you travel through them.

Which just goes to show how mindlessly, needlessly bloody the breakup of Yugoslavia was in the 1990’s. In Bosnia over a matter of months, neighbors turned on each other – local elementary school teachers became guards at detention facilities where they watched men they’d known all their lives suffer from crippling beatings and starvation. Entire villages, containing only defenseless civilians, fell in a day after shelling and shooting as part of a campaign to eliminate Muslim-majority municipalities along the Serbian border. Women, children, and the elderly became refugees; men became prisoners or the victims of cold-blooded murder.

It’s hard to tell where things stand now. I’ve seen promising evidence both in the region and in the Hague of progress, reconciliation, and a desire to keep moving forward without reference to the past. But I’ve also seen lingering resentment and delusions about ethnic superiority or inferiority, and I’ve heard that many Bosnian children go to school now only with others from their own ethnic group, each with its own history textbook and version of events. Here, once again, is evidence that education plays a crucial role in the future.

The Tribunal may be closing in 2014, and it may be years before I next travel to the Balkans, but this is not the end of my involvement. In addition to following the Mladić trial closely, I plan to dedicate a significant portion of my free time to learning BCS (finally), reading as many studies of the war and the history of the region as I can, and familiarizing myself with other ICTY cases so that I know more about what happened, and because of whom, in each country. For me, the people of the Balkans are real – whether they’re friends from the Tribunal or the endlessly special children with whom I worked through World at Play last summer. I owe it to them – as a Croatian, an American, a future lawyer, and a human being – to learn as much as I can about this conflict and its lingering repercussions so that I can do what I can not only to continue healing those visible and invisible wounds but also to ensure that epic tragedies like this remain in the past, not the future.

Durham, England

/ kw1385 / 2 Comments

My mom joined me for my last venture out of the Netherlands, and we flew on the day of the Opening Ceremonies to northeast England to visit my dear friend Martha from World at Play. (Going to England the weekend the Olympics began led to constant clarifications at work – “no, I wasn’t in London!”)

Martha met us at the Newcastle airport, and after a joyous reunion with lots of hugs, we headed to Durham, where Martha is a graduate student. It’s a quick trip from Newcastle by train, and although the town is small, it’s absolutely gorgeous, particularly because of the castle and grand cathedral perched on a hill overlooking the river and the rest of the town. We lucked out and had a perfectly clear afternoon when we arrived, so we strolled through the shopping streets, admired the interior of the cathedral (which is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful I’ve seen, with tremendously impressive stained glass windows among other things), and walked on a path along the river to visit the part of the university where Martha spends most of her time. Durham seems like the perfect place to get a little tranquility while still living in a vibrant town – the paths along the river through the forest provide the perfect way to get away from things for a little while, and I saw a few people kayaking down the river.

We opted to watch the Opening Ceremonies in Martha’s house, so she and I went out in search of some dinner to bring back. The original idea was to get Mexican food at a taco shop we’d seen earlier, but when that turned out to be closed, we popped into the local Tesco and picked up some hors d’oeuvres, wine, Pims, and canned gin and tonics. We planned to get frozen pizza to go with it (at a store selling only frozen food, how novel!), but when we learned that this too was closed, we switched back to the Mexican idea and ended up getting burritos at the English equivalent of Chipotle. It was in every a copy of Chipotle: they had exactly the same options. This was the second time I’d eaten Mexican food with Martha (the first being in Kosovo) and I think the second time Martha had ever eaten Mexican, so we spent a hilarious five minutes of me giving a tutorial about “what exactly is a burrito?” and why Mexican food is never the same outside North America. (These burritos were satisfying but nothing like Chipotle or any of my other favorite Mexican providers in the US.)

Martha, Mom, and I watched all four hours of the Opening Ceremonies. It was very cool to be in the host country (and not my own). One thing I observed throughout my viewing of the London Olympics was the difference between BBC and NBC coverage and commentary. When we watch NBC’s coverage of, say, gymnastics, we can count on the commentators to provide specific and consistent criticism. Americans are well-trained to look for gymnasts to stick the landing when they vault, for instance. British commentary is entirely different: it’s only positive! Whether I was watching swimming or gymnastics, I heard nothing but praise for the routines and races. Part of me appreciated this; after all, it IS impressive enough that these athletes even got themselves to the Games; on the other hand, I had nothing except the scores to guide my appraisal of what I saw!

Much of the remainder of our time in Durham was spent watching the Olympics, walking around, and shopping, but we checked two essential culinary experiences off the list. On Saturday, we had a late lunch of fish and chips at the best place for it in Durham. We also got some mushy peas (mushy may not be the official adjective) with them, which were quite good. I dutifully sprinkled copious amounts of vinegar on mine, and it was DELICIOUS.

We ended our time in Durham with Sunday dinner at a pub down the street from Martha’s house. The beef and various roast vegetables smothered in gravy were the perfect antidote to the chilly rain outside, and the little pub was filled with people enjoying the food – it was a great atmosphere.

Sunday in Paris

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

We woke up on Sunday morning about five hours after  going to bed but no less energetic or excited for the day. We were getting ready to leave the hotel when Kelsey got a text from our friend saying “we didn’t know this, but the Tour de France is ending today in Paris”. I had NO idea that the Tour was anywhere near over, so this was an awesome surprise! We immediately reworked our “plans” to include watching the racers come in on the Champs-Élysées.

In the meantime, we took the metro over to the Jewish area of the city, the Marais, home to cool shops and the world’s best falafel. We joined a queue outside and watched eagerly as men behind a window stuffed pitas with delicious falafel, veggies, and sauces. Once we had ours, we walked about ten minutes to the Place des Vosges where we ate on a bench under a tree while watching others sunbathing in the grass and listening to a true Parisian band of strings and accordion who had set up just across the street. We ultimately ended up joining the people on the grass and could easily have stayed there all day. It was the perfect way to spend a Sunday.

However, we had other pressing items on our agenda, like buying éclairs and macarons at a specific bakery several blocks away. On the way we stopped in a bookstore and ended up buying some poster of old French ads, which will go well with my Eiffel Tower paintings. The éclairs were nothing like the ones I’ve seen in the US. I sadly neglected to take a picture of them, but we got them with both dark and white chocolate, and each was delicious. I also bought a variety box of macarons, which despite being squashed in my purse tasted glorious and brought me back to Paris with each bite I took in the days following our return to the Hague. Here’s a poster with all the ones I got:

From the Marais we rode the metro to the Champs-Élysées to see what was going on with the Tour de France. Hundreds of people lined the street, and we walked past official souvenir and snack stands. We soon learned from a friendly British man and his young son that the riders probably wouldn’t arrive for another two hours or so but that the winner was a British guy, which explained why were seeing the Union Jack everywhere we turned. (It’s quite strange to be in Paris but surrounded by British flags.)

We decided to wait out the riders by visiting the last place on Kelsey’s “agenda” for the weekend: the Rodin museum. We bought tickets just for the garden, which is where you can see “the Thinker” and several other statues. The garden is appropriately picturesque; roses of all colors bloomed along the pathways leading to each of the statues. I’ve always loved “the Thinker” and was glad to see it in person:

We got back to the Champs-Élysées with about 25 minutes to go before the riders arrived. We joined the throng alongside the rode, and I got mildly harassed by a sketchy old man who pretend to be oblivious to the fact that he was deliberately pressing up against my back. Still, the energy of the crowd was infectious, and we started cheering loudly with the rest as we watched the riders approaching on the jumbotron.

I don’t think I had fully appreciated before just how fast these men can go on the bikes. We didn’t stay for all of the laps they had to do, but they went past us about eight times, and each time they were a total blur – I got closer to the front each time and was amazed that my camera could capture individual people. I suppose I saw the winner, but I certainly wasn’t aware of it at the time! Here is one of the better shots I got while standing in the crowd.

Alas, it was time for us to head back to our hotel and make our way to the airport. We had time for one final crêpe before getting on the train, and I savored every bite while watching the people stroll by.

My only complaint about Paris is the public transportation. The metro trains are narrow and hold maybe 1/3 of the people that the cars on the DC Metro can hold, plus most of that space is taken up by seats rather than standing room. Even worse is the train station, where Kelsey and I first had trouble getting tickets (the machine just wouldn’t accept our credit cards and wouldn’t take cash) and then followed the misleading signage on a wild goosechase in search of the train to Charles de Gaulle. We ended up on the one we wanted but had to stand most of the way in the vestibule with no air. As a result of all of this, we were significantly worried about missing our flight back. With luck, our gate was quite near the terminal where we arrived, and we were able to breeze through security (where, comfortingly, the men checked US out rather than our bags). We got to our gate just as boarding had begun.

Anyway, that aside: Paris deserves every accolade I’ve heard. It is truly a magical city. I’m so glad that I got a taste of it this summer. I know that I’ll go back and do more of the touristy things (like see the underwhelming Mona Lisa), but I think Paris is more a city of experiencing than doing or seeing. It is a city of tasting, of moving to the beats of the bands on the street, of strolling through the parks and playing with children. I loved everything about it except the transportation – and even then, in a city so beautiful, why spend so much time underground? When I go back, I’ll do more walking.

Saturday in Paris

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

Sent into an epic food coma after our incredible dinner on Friday night, Kelsey and I slept well and long. Kelsey woke up before me and woke me up in the best possible way: by calling my name and then pulling back the curtain so I could see the beautiful, perfectly Parisian building across the street… complete with the black iron balconies with flowers on them. I squealed with glee and got ready as quickly as possible.

We stepped out into the 75-degree, sunny morning and walked north towards Sacré Cœur. Along the way we passed several lovely little parks where parents relaxed on benches while their adorable kids played, which seems like the perfect way to pass a Saturday morning at either age. Thinking “I could do this all day” and/or “this is the perfect way to spend time” was a running theme of my time in Paris.

Also en route to Sacré Cœur, we stopped in a boulangerie-pâtisserie to pick up the first snack of the day. Thank God for Kelsey’s decision-making because I was completely overwhelmed by all of the enticing options. We settled for a pain au suisse, which is filled with a sort of cream and little pieces of chocolate. It was, obviously, delicious.

We also popped into a famous chocolate and sweets shop where I walked around open-mouthed gazing at the piles of macarons, cookies, chocolates, and other things, all surrounded by brightly colored boxes.

There were also numerous souvenir shops offering postcards of Paris old and new, scarves, bags, t-shirts, tourist guides, etc. I saw much that I wanted to buy but knew I had to wait!

Finally we arrived at the base of the hill on which Sacré Cœur sits in its splendor. From the top, you can see the whole city, including the Eiffel Tower (which made me scream). We joined the stream of tourists queuing to go inside, passed the scrutiny for appropriate dress, and entered the grand basilica. A good number of people were actually watching the Mass that was going on while we walked the loop around the interior. I paid 2 euros to light a candle for my Croatian grandfather (as I usually try to do when in churches abroad) and realized how much I miss just being in big churches like this.


After Sacré Cœur we walked to the nearby square where a bunch of artists had set up to sell their paintings (and in the case of many, paint while selling). Move over Eastern Market; you’ve got nothing on this place! I ended up buying two small paintings of the Eiffel Tower. Both purchases followed prolonged conversations, in French, with the artists, one of whom asked if I was an artist because apparently I asked arty questions. (Cool! And I was very pleased at how quickly my French returned here – I managed to make comments about background color and technique!)

We descended the hill and stopped along the way to pick up another snack, this time in the form of a rosemary and honey milkshake. (it’s a very interesting flavor combination!) we popped into a few cute shops on our way back to the main street and then walked several blocks to find the Moulin Rouge, which is indeed a red mill amidst a sea of sex shops. Otherwise, it’s pretty underwhelming without Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman singing about love. I also ate my first crêpe in this area; we split one with ham and cheese that immediately put sandwiches made with bread to shame.


We hopped onto the metro to meet up with two other ICTY interns in the Tuileries, a big park near the Louvre and the Champs-Élysées. People of all nationalities were strolling through the park, sitting around some of its grand fountains (which I recognized from a video in some long-ago French class), or lounging in reclining chairs in the shade of the trees.

 

 

After meeting up with the girls, we walked to see the Louvre and its pyramid before turning to walk past shops of fashion, low and high, on our way to Angelina, a place famous for its hot chocolate. It did not disappoint – the four of us ordered enough for only two, but the richness of the drink – which was practically just melted chocolate to which we added whipped cream – more than satisfied each of us. We also ate some lovely pastries. (just to review what I’d eaten up to this point in the afternoon: pain au Suisse, rosemary and honey milkshake, ham and cheese crêpe, hot chocolate, brioche, and apple turnover. Win.)


From Angelina’s, three of us walked back towards the Tuileries to view Monet’s amazing water lily murals at the Musée de l’Orangerie.  The eight huge paintings are split across two ovular rooms and mostly cover the walls of both. We spent some time sitting on the benches in the center just gazing at the scenes and Monet’s incredibly innovative and imaginative use of color.

Kelsey’s friend Vincent met us at the museum and led us down the Champs-Élysées (past the newly opened Abercrombie and Fitch where some two hundred people had queued to shop inside) to the Arc de Triomphe and then to an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower. We sat on a hill overlooking it and could have sat there just looking at it forever! Instead, we opted for a quick return to our hotel to freshen up and drop off our purchases before meeting up with Vincent and some of his friends for wine and cheese just off the Pont Neuf on the banks of the Seine.


This was pretty much the ultimate French activity – we sat on the wall of this island with a bunch of other Parisians our age, and all of us had similar arrays of wine, bread, cheese, and sausage. I quickly came to love Vincent and his friends, who spoke perfect English but were very willing to listen to me in French. I explained (in French) that I am a bit self-conscious about speaking French now because I think I have a Spanish accent. They said “yes you do, but it’s cute!” and at the end of the day, I’d much rather have a Spanish accent than an American one while speaking another language!


After pushing back our dinner reservations three times, we finally bid adieu to the rest of the group and set off a a brisk pace with Vincent to a restaurant about half an hour’s walk away. They served us the drink version of an amuse-bouche, which was white wine with some strawberry liqueur. Vincent and the waitress consulted about the wine and menu (both of which were again presented to us on large chalk boards), and we ended up with another delicious meal: red wine, mozzarella and tomato, salad with foie gras, pork with figs, and monkfish.

 

 

Kelsey and I passed the remainder of the evening and a good part of the very early morning with Vincent and his friend Pierre, who took us to multiple bars and showed us a very, very good time. 🙂

Friday night in Paris: the best meal of my life

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

After navigating our way from Charles de Gaulle into the city, Kelsey and I stepped off the metro onto a street saturated with delicious smells coming from every restaurant. I’ve truly never smelled so many different and wonderful things at the same time. I knew before taking a bite that the stories about French food were true and suddenly understood the significance of Julia Child’s efforts to bring French cooking back to America.

Our hotel, located about a 15-minute walk south of Montmartre, sat on a quiet little private street (without cars). Our room, which was literally just off the main entrance, boasted throw pillows with sequins on them, which I took to be yet another sign of an awesome 48 hours ahead. Fancy.

After quickly freshening off, we decided to turn left coming out of the hotel and walk down the first street on the right. We passed a number of restaurants, but none of them felt quite right. About two blocks down we found a winner: Autour d’un Verre, 21 rue de Trévise, 75009 Paris. Its warm lighting, small dining room, and chic neighborhood feel pulled us both in immediately.

We sat down next to a couple around our age who were clearly on an intimate date, and soon a waiter brought over the menu. I do literally mean THE menu – it was just a chalkboard!

We could read most of it but weren’t entirely sure what everything was, plus we needed some help with wine recommendations. (I mean, when you look at this, you’ll see why we had no idea:)

Fortunately, the waiter/cook came back and was more than happy to give us a recommendation. “We’ll just open a bottle, and if you don’t like it, we’ll try another one.” We assumed this meant he’d probably choose one of the 60 euro bottles, but instead the one he chose – which was a delicious, spicy Spanish red – was at the lower end of the scale!

 

We also took the waiter’s food recommendations (which he gave in perfect English because he knew it was easier for us, and with no attitude whatsoever). The menu was prix-fixe and included an entrée (aka appetizer) and main plate. We got a total of four dishes.

Entrée 1: Bone Marrow

Neither of us had eaten this before, but we figured we couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Served in the bone and soaked in butter and garlic, the marrow was cooked to melt-in-your-mouth perfection, and every bite was a joy.

 

Entrée 2: Burrata

Burrata was not something with which I was previously familiar despite the fact that mozzarella is one of my all-time favorite foods. Burrata is essentially fresh mozzarella except that the inside also contains cream, so it’s got a much softer texture on the inside. Ours came with stunningly delicious tomatoes, olive oil, and basil.

 

Main Plate 1: Rare Duck Breast

You pretty much can’t ever go wrong with duck, and this was no exception. Tender, moist, and very pink, this duck, served with mashed potatoes and spinach, gives Peking Duck a run for its money.

 

Main Plate 2: Rare Steak

Sometimes in life, you just need a good steak, and I’m not nearly as squeamish about bloody steak as I am about any other type of rare meat. I’m not sure that this was better than what I once had at Ruth’s Chris, but it was out-of-this-world tender and, like everything else, oozing butter, garlic, and other simple pleasures. It is also worth showing the plate after we ate.

Dessert: Banana Chocolate Cheesecake

Now, after these previous four dishes, we knew it was both essential and dangerous to order dessert. Essential because when food is THIS good, you take advantage of every opportunity, but dangerous because when food is THIS good, you’re afraid the last course will let you down (as so often seems to happen on Top Chef finales when they make the contestants do a dessert). We once again took the recommendation of our waiter and ended up with an absolutely amazing piece of cake. “Cheesecake” seems to be the wrong translation. It was almost more like a mousse that tasted like banana bread topped with melted and hardened chocolate. It did not let us down, but this picture doesn’t do it justice.

 

At times throughout this meal, Kelsey and I said things like “this is a religious experience” and “my heart is actually beating faster because I am in love with this food”. We felt so full of happiness after dinner that we just couldn’t stop smiling… until of course we got back to the room, suddenly felt the full effect of all the wine and food, and fell asleep almost instantly. 🙂

 

 

 

Paris: An Introduction

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

Paris. How does anyone find sufficient words to describe it? Never has a place made me feel so adjective deficient.

If anything, I’d been set up to be disappointed rather than impressed by Paris. I spent six years in French classes reading and learning about Paris, which, now that it’s been 14 years since I first started learning French, was a perfect recipe for inflated expectations. Having been to other wonderful cities (see the sidebar listing my favorites), I know what great cities look and feel like. How could I have known that Paris stands in an entirely new class of perfection?

Let’s also not forget how much Americans like to hate the French, which I always thought was due at least in part to the sense that they don’t like us much either. Aren’t the French, and especially the Parisians, famous for being snobby and superior? I’ve heard countless times that Paris is the only place where the locals will judge rather than thank you for speaking their language if you speak it poorly.

I also think that as far as my own perspective is concerned, when I chose to major in Hispanic Studies rather than French, I made a conscious decision to shift my allegiance from francophone to Spanish-speaking countries. That’s influenced everything from travel priorities to which football team I support during international tournaments. For some reason I’ve been thinking that French and Spanish are almost mutually exclusive… I could only truly love one or the other.

No longer! After 48 hours in Paris, I’m now on a mission to reacquaint myself with French and the people who speak it. Paris lived up to all of the positive hype and absolutely refuted all of the negative stereotypes. It may be cliché, but Paris is now my favorite city. I will struggle in the posts that follow to do it justice.

last day in Bucharest

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

I’m currently on my KLM flight back to Amsterdam. I can’t say I’m that sorry to leave Bucharest, but I don’t regret going (just staying at the hostel whose bed bugs left me looking like I have chicken pox again!).

Today for the first time I was a solo traveler in a very different country. As I started to suspect in Brussels, and to my surprise given my independent and introverted tendencies, I do not much care for solo travel. It’s just that more stressful, and I get bored with myself! I think I managed pretty well today though.

I decided to hop on the subway to go back to Piața Victoriei to see the Museum of the Romanian Peasant, which turned out to be closed on Monday. Undaunted and uninterested in seeing either of the other museums there, I waited for the Bucharest City Tour bus to come by and sat down on its open air roof deck for a more comprehensive tour of the city. This is run by the transportation company rather than a tour company, so there wasn’t particularly spectacular commentary, but I still got some nice shots of different buildings, particularly the Palace of Parliament. I rode it for the whole loop and then took the subway back from Piața Victoriei to the old center to eat a gyro from a place I’d noticed on Saturday. On the way I got to witness a trash truck attempting to navigate the ultra-narrow, curved streets (I got stuck behind it for five minutes) and a woman who almost got killed by a careless construction worker who dropped some heavy steel cable from above (this resulted in a colorful shouting match). Ah, Romania.

Despite my until-then flawless sense of direction I managed to get a bit lost while taking a slightly different route back to the hotel, but with the help of the gps on my iPhone (which works even without a connection), I righted myself and got back, got into a cab, and got to the airport with no trouble.

Final observations about Bucharest:

  • Communism may have lost Bucharest its status as “Little Paris”, but its jumble of beautiful/old vs. communist/newer buildings is actually really interesting and unique if nothing else.
  • Bucharest isn’t known as being a particularly safe city, but I never felt uncomfortable despite the often shabby areas in which I found myself. I also only saw a few packs of feral dogs.
  • You wouldn’t know Romania was in the EU from being there. I think Bucharest reminded me more of Pristina (Kosovo) than any other city, which is not an impressive thing for Romania given that Kosovo’s recent history is significantly more turbulent. (and I liked Pristina a lot more.) Croatia feels much more modern and western even though it’s still not in the EU.
  • Romanian is harder to understand than the other romance languages – it makes more sense when I read it, but I had a very hard time understanding it when spoken. I think, however, that if you were to go through the other four languages when trying to say something (as in, say the word in all four), in 80% of the cases you’d be at least somewhat understood.

And finally, some of the best and worst of Bucharest. Look at the contrast.

Bucharest: Sunday (102 degrees!)

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

I woke Sunday morning to the sound of Orthodox church bells ringing and the sight of some 30 bug bites in my legs and 10 on my arms. I think there are two truths at play here: first, and most obviously, I have finally stayed at a hostel with bed bugs; second, Mother Nature is making sure that my body doesn’t completely forget how to respond to bug bites now that I’ve been lucky enough to spend a summer in a place where my biggest fans, mosquitos, do not exist.

I obviously wasn’t motivated to stay in bed any longer, so I showered and woke up Greg. We ate a quick breakfast of bread and cheese before bracing ourselves for the day’s high of 100 and heading out into the city.

We hailed a cab in the Piața Unirii and asked it to take us to the Village Museum, the Bucharest equivalent of Colonial Williamsburg. We learned on the way that despite having a reputation for being more than usually dishonest, there are some honest cabbies in Bucharest; I misunderstood the total and gave him twice what we owed, but he corrected me!

The “museum” is more like a gated park where the Romanian government has transplanted several hundred houses, huts, churches, windmills, and other structures from others times and places in Romania. Sadly, there are only pictures of people in traditional costume, but the rest of the “museum” is pretty cool. It also happens to be along the shore of Lake Herăstrău, so when we reached the end of the exhibits, we rented a rowboat, and Greg chivalrously paddled me around the lake. The water was just clean enough that you didn’t mind if a few drops of water hit you but also dirty enough that despite the heat we felt no desire to jump in. Instead, we spent about 30 minutes total sitting in the boat underneath the weeping willows along the lake. This was an excellent way to beat the heat – it really wasn’t that awful in the shade.

After returning our boat, we bought electric-blue slurpees which tasted nothing like the flavor advertised but were nonetheless refreshing, and I was able to use my cup to rinse off my feet and legs, which were at this point covered in a layer of dirt with the occasional piece of weeping willow slime (yum!). Thus cleaned up a bit, we walked about a mile down the long tree-lined boulevard (staying in the shade as much as possible) on our way to the Piața Victoriei. On the way, we walked alongside Herăstrău Park, which is apparently the largest city park in Europe. We also passed the Arcul du Triumf (Arche de Triomphe, like the one in Paris) and the Piața Charles de Gaulle. We had to stop and rest numerous times because we were so hungry and tired from the heat, but finally we made it to Piața Victoriei.

At this point we were so hungry that when we saw a sign for a McDonald’s, we immediately decided to go there. I think previously I had only been to one other McDonald’s abroad (in Italy) because it seems like a total waste of culinary opportunity, but going there yesterday was an awesome decision. It had air conditioning and wifi, and our cashier turned out to be a big fan of Boston sports (which made Greg very happy since he’s from Boston). For about $6 each, we ended up with a burger, fries, drink, ice cream sundae (free this weekend for some reason), and even a Euro 2012 souvenir glass. We were there for at least an hour and a half, during which I made the executive decision to book myself a hotel room for the night so as to avoid doubling my number of bug bites (plus to have air conditioning, as by that time it was 101 degrees).

Thus sated and cooled, we exited into the heat (which, for those of you on the East Coast who’ve dealt with these temperatures PLUS humidity recently, I have to acknowledge was dry and therefore not as bad) and decided to check out the subway as a means of heading back. The subway turned out to be a great example of how communism was both a blessing and a curse (an observation we made frequently): while the stations themselves weren’t very sightly (mostly drab concrete other than some marble flooring), the trains themselves were really nice and clearly made for transporting large sums of people. They were roomy and clean and continuously connected (no doors between cars), and they ran every seven minutes.

One stop later, we disembarked at the Piața Romana to see the copy of the well-known statue of Romulus and Remus with the mother wolf. Well, despite circling the plaza and looking very carefully, we found nothing. This has me convinced that one of two things is true. Either the statue has been moved since the Lonely Planet printed its last edition in 2010, or the LP was wrong about its location. We did see the same statue the previous night in the much smaller Piața Roma just off the main street of the old center…

Anyway, back onto the subway we went and again got off one stop later at Piața Universitate. There are a number of nice buildings here, but we were in search of the Piața Revoluționarii, the site of a Tienenman Square-like massacre in 1989 that precipitated the death of Ceaușescu and communism. Again, we struck out. We did find some protest signs in front of the National Theater and the small Piața 21 Diciembre 1989, but we saw none of the things described in Lonely Planet. Greg and I seem to be cursed with an inability to find interesting political sites when we travel; this brought back memories of looking for the Museum of the Power of the People in Caracas.

At this point the temperature was 102, so we headed back to the hostel, collected our stuff, and took a cab to my hotel. This cab driver asked where we were from and made a sound of annoyance when we said we were American. It turned out he was just mad at himself for not recognizing our accent. 🙂 by the way, cabs, like everything else in Romania are really cheap; even my 20-minute ride to the airport today cost less than $7.

I made a great choice with the Hotel El Greco, where we were warmly welcomed by the male receptionist and led to a room with a lush bathroom, free wifi, and plentiful air conditioning. I took an epic shower (including two rounds of scrubbing dirt off my feet) and emerged a new person, though I was still exhausted from the heat. After some lounging around, we set off in search of dinner, and since we were once again really hungry and lazy, settled for kebab from a stand several blocks away. It hit the spot, and after picking up some cold drinks, we went back to the hotel to check out Romanian tv before Greg left to catch his train.

My one word to describe Romanian tv would be “eclectic”. We found channels in Spanish, French, and English showing tv shows from the 70’s (including one featuring a barely recognizable William Shatner as a cop), Japanese extreme obstacle courses, Chinese ninja movies, and Mexican westerns. One could stay entertained for quite awhile, but with Greg’s departure, I succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep in my bug-free bed.

Thanks Greg for another great trip! 🙂 (There’s only one person with whom he’s been to more countries than with me. Travel buddies forever!)

Bucharest: Saturday continued

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

Picking up from my last post… I was dozing in the hammock outside my hostel when Greg arrived. He immediately had two comments: “let’s get going!” and “I think this hostel is the base of some sort of criminal enterprise”. It is true that the inside hallway was decorated with various paintings of guns and that about five distinctly unfriendly Romanians were just hanging around, but beyond that I didn’t really share Greg’s suspicions.

We gamely headed out into the 98-degree heat and sun to start our tour of Bucharest. Our hostel is about 10 minutes’ walk south of the Piața Unirii, a huge square (although here they’re all circles) ringed with brightly lit billboards and with a beautiful mess of fountains in the center. (Sadly the streets go through the fountains, leaving no space for anyone to use them for heat relief.) Turning west from the Piața Unirii, you immediately see the massive Palace of Parliament, the second largest building in the world (by surface area). It is indeed huge, with ten floors and over 3,000 rooms. It took us about 40 minutes to walk the loop around the building!

The Palace of Parliament is a good metaphor for Bucharest as a whole. The building itself is beautiful and grand, but the wall surrounding it on the sidewalk is crumbling in places and generally unattractive. At various points as you walk around there appear to be abandoned outbuildings (one looked like an underground garage) that look so forsaken it’s hard to imagine that they were ever used.

 

This is the tale with all of Bucharest that I’ve seen: there are many beautiful buildings, but many seem to teeter on the edge of neglect, an effect enhanced by the general state of disrepair of many of the roads and sidewalks. (We walked around an incredible number of holes and construction sites – which have been there for who knows how long – as we walked through about half the city yesterday.) it’s obviously sad, but it’s also interesting: I haven’t been in that many cities that wear their recent past so visibly.

This, for instance, is taken from another side of the Palace of the Parliament:

From the Palace of Parliament, Greg and I ambled through a park filled with bikers and rollerbladers and home to the coolest playground ever: it was a miniature castle! (pictures forthcoming when I get home.) this led us to the river (quite narrow and walled in by concrete), which smelled fine but boasted a heavy coating of oil and chemicals moving along the surface. (This made me question the wisdom of the couple of men fishing there.)

After crossing the river, we were in the oldest part of the city center, known as Lipscani (the name of one of the streets). It’s still very run-down but has apparently cleaned up significantly in recent years as it used to be a Roma slum. Now, its hole-filled streets are home to shops, clubs, and restaurants of varying levels of class.

Greg and I sat down to eat at a restaurant recommended as serving excellent Romanian food, and we found no shortage of intriguing options on the menu: beef brains in parchment, cock soup, pig killing feast, rooster on the sword, bear steak, and mutton cooked in lard. After learning they were out of bear, we ordered the pig-killing feast and the cabbage leaves stuffed with “forcemeat”, which I think was a combination of beef and liver. All of it was very tasty, though the pig-killing feast was not nearly as exciting as we’d hoped.

By the time we’d finished, it was about 10:00, and the long day and the heat had us both exhausted. Rather than join the Romanians for what I’m certain could have been a very interesting night out, Greg and I opted for heading back to the hostel, where I fell asleep almost immediately despite the heat.

Bucharest, two hours in

/ kw1385 / Leave a comment

It’s 2:50 pm, and I’m writing this on my iPhone while sitting in a hammock outside my hostel in Bucharest. There’s a little pavilion about 10 yards from me in the garden, and a group of people are listening to relaxing meditation music and watching a woman who occasionally leads them in yoga-like poses. It’s 90 degrees and climbing, but here in the shade with this peaceful music, my body feels fine despite two months in 65-degree weather.

I’m relaxing here until my traveling partner Greg arrives. Longtime followers of my travels will remember Greg as my companion through Venezuela, Colombia, and Panama two years ago. His attitude of “die by 30 or live trying” makes for a great balance to my naturally more cautious travel tendencies. I don’t think we can get into too much trouble given that Greg  will be here for a total of 30 hours before he heads to Japan (via Moscow and a universally infamous Russian airline). Greg got to the Hague on Thursday night, but we were on different flights out of Schipol. (He very kindly accompanied me to the airport at 7:00 despite the fact that his flight didn’t leave until 12:15.)

As per usual when Greg is involved, we don’t have any set agenda for Bucharest. There is certainly more to see than we can do (even though I’m staying until Monday afternoon). Our hostel, which has pleasantly confirmed my hunch that it is the Romanian equivalent of Luna’s Castle in Panama City (the best hostel I’ve stayed in to date), is located just south of the old city center, so I think we’ll probably stick around here tonight. The parliament building, built by Communist dictator Ceaušescu, is the second-largest administrative building in the world (after the Pentagon) and is quite close by.

Let me take a moment to celebrate that this is the first time I’ve flow to a completely new, non-English speaking country and found my way from the airport to my lodging all by myself. I’m as independent as can be, but I always find that process stressful even with others. I was slightly disconcerted but mostly amused when, upon inserting my Dutch bank card into an ATM, the screen showed a message cautioning me to check that no one had rigged the machine to steal my information. A careful, close examination followed (meaning I ignored the message for lack of other options), and I succeeded in withdrawing money. I had a few tense moments trying to buy a bus ticket as the woman helpfully refused to break my 50 lei (less than $50) bill and then had to do the transaction twice as she didn’t tell me to use my chip card. (I thought we’d escape the damn chip and PIN stuff here!) anyway, no harm done and onto the non-air conditioned city bus I went. I’ll save descriptions of the city for when I’ve been able to observe more of it.

The last thing I’ll say for now is that Romania is the ultimate destination for me as a Romance language dork. I’ve studied varying amounts of Spanish, French, Portuguese, and Italian, so Romanian is the last one left. I spent some time on the plane figuring out the pronunciation (which has elements both familiar and new) and enjoyed the bus ride for the practice it afforded for reading and silently pronouncing all the signs. I’m excited to learn a bit more in the next 48 hours!