Water – potable

As common as vending machines.  Yeah, drinking water is as common as vending machines, at least everywhere I’ve been in Romania (i.e., none).  What you can’t get away from are the !@#$ plastic bottles that water and soft-drinks come in; all empty, of course.

So, if you sit down in a restaurant, you may certainly buy a bottle of water; half a liter is what you’re looking for, with a meal, or a mixed drink.  “Alb” is what it will say on the label.  Of course, then you also have to decide if you want gas or not – no silly, in the water.  You know: sparkling, carbonated, or just plain.  Flavors?  Dunno.

I have been drinking the hotel water right out of the tap.  Yes, this is perfectly safe; tho somewhat difficult: I have only a bathroom in my hotel room, and I have always preferred kitchen water (right Mom?).  So, brushing my teeth, taking a vitamin pill, just plain ol’ drinking water (like in the middle of the night), I take it right out of the lavatory (that would be “sink”) faucet.

Work is a different matter.  Nope, no drinking fountains; so, no danger of bending over to a dose of little beasties.  No vending machines to dispense water (or anything else, for that matter).  So, I bring my own, from “home” (so to speak).  I have quite a collection of quarter liter water bottles, courtesy of the hotel (complimentary, about twice a week).  I fill these up in the bathtub (see comment on kitchen water, above).  Then bring them with me to the office.  Yeah, remembering to fill up four or five little bottles and remembering to bring them is the real stretch, first thing in the morning – just another thing to forget.

No drinking fountains in town, in stores (like I’ve been in lots of those), anywhere.  I have seen signs in the toilets in gas stations, big red letters, right above the sink.  Don’t have a clue what they say, but my guess is “don’t” would be a practical translation.

However, there are lots of street vendors (both the fly-by-night, and the more permanent kiosks) that sell bottled whatever; coke mostly.  Altho there are countless labels (yes, all with very “poor” spelling) with other liquids.  And, in gas stations, unless 10W30 motor oil gets put into a clear plastic bottle and into a cooler, I think I’m safe.

Hey! just now 11:56 and the office telephone rang!  First time today.  Probably the last time today.  Yep, wrong number, too!

Back to water.   What else can I say?

Currency

Ok class, time to put on our thinking caps.  No, not math; put your calculators away (sorry all you left-brainers out there).  Imagination time (right-brainers to the front!).  As in “s-t-r-e-t-c-h.”

Your situation, anywhere you are when you read this is: you get paid (usually direct deposit, maybe by check).  No, this is not the stretch part; we’re talking about the basic fact that you get paid for what you do (e.g., answer the telephone), not how much you get paid – that comes later.  Every so often, you find your checkbook and write in it, put those cute little pieces of paper with the meaningless numbers on them (the ones you wrote, not the ones along the bottom of the check) in envelopes and mail them; hopefully before anybody gets really upset.  Pretty much describes our financial situation, doesn’t it?  Sorry, this is not supposed to be depressing.

Ok, deep breath:

Let’s say, just for fun, ’cause we are using our imaginations here, and nobody would ever believe this:  Let’s say that, every so often, you get paid in cash.  At the end of the month, your boss pulls out this distressingly small wad of bills, peels a couple off, smiles, and hands them to you (this would be a good time to say thank you).

Stretch time:

What do you do on your way home?  Yep, good guess: you go shopping!  Half of you out there are now in love with Romania because everybody goes shopping on payday, and half of you are hating this place for the same reason.

Shopping?  Yep, but shopping for what?  Getting better and better, huh?

Clothes, jewelry, furs (sorry for the anachronism), cars, yachts (talk about words with really obtuse spellings)???  So, what do Romanians go shopping for?

Are you ready?  Are you sitting down?

None of the above!

Ok, all you right-brainers, go to the back of the class, and you left-brainers that have been moping in the corner, up front.

On payday, Romanians go shopping for dollars.  Yeah.  Greenbacks.

And you thought all those currency exchanges on the streets (poorly dressed, back alley, fly-by-night (i.e., with little table on spindly little legs), kiosks, and store-fronts) were for the convenience of the tourists?  First time in Bucharest, huh?  Like lambs to the….

Oh c’mon!  Everybody loves America so much they take their hard earned (and meager) Romanian whatevers and the first thing they do is exchange ’em for dollars?  Give me a break; do I look like I fell of the potato wagon this morning (not such a big fall: the wagons here aren’t all that big, most are pulled by only one horse)?  Why would anybody take the currency they get paid in and change it to any other currency?  Not everybody in Romania is planning on a vacation to DisneyWorld any time soon.

No.  They’re not going anywhere.  They want dollars to pay their rent.

Yeah.  Imagine: getting paid in one currency and having to pay bills (rent would be a biggy – anywhere in the world) in another.  You know how much gasoline prices change; and there is nothing you can do about it.  But, at least gasoline prices do go down (or is that just a rumor?).  Unfortunately, the value of the Romanian lei only goes in one direction, relative to the dollar.  Still have your thinking cap on?  Ok, consider that the official average net monthly salary is 3,124,899 ROL ($95.83).  Now, on top of the currency exchange, add the rate of inflation within Romania; how’s 30% sound?  That was 2001, compared to 2000; which is something of an improvement over the 296% experienced in 1993 (yeah, I got the decimal point in the right place).

So, you get paid in lei in the morning, which were losing value before your boss put them in your hand, and you have to buy dollars to pay the rent (and a few other things), but the value of the lei is declining relative to the dollar.  And by the afternoon, the lei just doesn’t buy what it used to.

“Shop til you drop” has some very real, practical, consequences here.

Taxis

Bucharest Overview

So how did I figure the heat in the building was fixed?  Easy: the noise stopped.  The noise stopped?  Yeah, I could hear things like the wind whistling thru the window panes (or is that around the window panes?  nope, thru).

“My” office is located on the top floor of a three story building, on “Etaj 2.”  How’s that?  The top floor of the building is Etaj 2, with the second from the top being Etaj 1.  And the ground floor would be Etaj 0?  No, silly: nobody, not even Communist dictators would name any floor of any building zero.  Why, is 0 unlucky like the number 13?  No, the ground floor is called, um, had it here a minute ago…anyway, like I said the noise stopped.

Okay, fine: located high above the tarmac at modern, bustling Otopeni International Airport, 17 kilometers north of Bucharest.  Well, not “high” exactly – only Etaj 2, remember?  The airport control tower would be “high”: gotta be four, maybe five etajs in that thing.  Not so high, but all them aeroplanes, going yon and hither, forth and back….  What, isn’t that “hither” first and then “yon”?  And isn’t the saying, or whatever linguists call it, “back and forth”?  Think about it: how in the world are you going to come “back” if you haven’t already gone “forth”?  (Presumably, to multiply; which aeroplanes in this part of the world apparently don’t do.)  I suppose, too, that “yon” here would be spelled “ioan,” since the Romanian language is awfully fond of vowels.

Try “iaurt”; extra points if you can pronounce this correctly without hurting your tongue.  (Hint: it rhymes with “dirt.”)

As I was saying, the noise stopped.

The office in which I spend my days is in a rather squat building (shorter than the control tower) behind the only hangar in town.  I could hear the 707s just fine; but, they’re gone now.  The noise is gone, too.  But, the windows in my office look out – well kinda: somebody put a plastic film on the glass and I feel like the occupant of a fishbowl that junior hasn’t cleaned since Vlad was a corporal.  With cataracts.  (The fish, not Vlad.)  But, even if the windows in the office did look out with any clarity, it wouldn’t be over a sea of gleaming, aluminum aeroplanes.  For starters, the closest sea is the Black Sea and that’s several hours away; with a tailwind.  But, the plastic covered glass does bring some light into the office to augment, supplement, enhance and…what was that?  is the noise back?  Where was I?  Oh yeah: I do have four florescent tubes in the ceiling; and, on a good day, when the temperature is not too low, they really do seem to put out more light than the space heater I have behind me.  But, sometimes I have to listen to the hum from the ballasts to be sure they are “on.”

Of course, it is a carpeted office.  Not at all sure of materials, or date of manufacture.  Must be fairly new, though: not a stain on it that I can see.  Or is that supposed to be the pattern?  Can I get back to you on that?

The Queen Mum

Since the only programming worth watching on the hotel tv system is the BBC (with the obvious exception of the bicycle racing on EuroSport), when their beloved “Queen Mum” passed away, it seemed that all the WW2 footage ever shot in England was put on one reel and “endless loop” was selected.  I learned more about how she suffered with the common people (oh really?), and how the British soldiery had not practiced the arcane rifle maneuvers since Winston Churchill (and how many of the very young men and women in uniform were even born when Winston passed away?).  In any event, what I took from that endless paean to “the way it was” is directly applicable to Bucharest’s Gradina Cismigiu.

Dunno how that translates, but “city park” is good enough.  It is a short five minute walk from the Athénée Palace hotel, thru Piata Capt W. Maracineanu (nope, not a clue who he was, but the statue to him is as fine as any – unfortunately, what appears to be a soldier protected by the Angel of Liberty, is cast in very dark bronze that takes a very strong sun to see the features – far beyond my photographic skills).

Cismigiu Park, like the Queen Mum, must have been something, long ago.  Time has certainly passed the park by.  Not quite a horticultural park, only a few specimens are identified; but a lush, relaxing setting.  Well, it is certainly overgrown in places and sparse in others.  It might take an hour, at a brisk pace to circumnavigate all the paths.  Paths of undulating and broken pavement, lined with bits of broken chain hanging lost and forgotten on short posts that are listing and leaning in a thousand directions.  In the center is a pond of some size; altho there are a dozen or so rowboats for hire, a good arm could get a baseball across.

Wisteria, with trunks as large and muscular as Arnold Schwartzenegger’s thighs as much support the wrought iron posts and wooden pergola as they droop from beams that have long ago disappeared.  Delightful alcoves with benches and tables are occupied with old men silently playing chess; clusters of old women chatter and cackle on benches that line the paths.

There are benches enough for all the pigeons, and other two-legged beggars.  The four-legged beggars roam at large.  Some may say the Romanians love dogs; I could not disagree more.  These four-legged pests are everywhere, altho less aggressive than their two-legged counterparts, they are not healthy, happy, or well-fed.  If Bucharest is past its prime, it is also overrun with those who spend their days begging, begging, begging.  Nowhere else have I seen more beggars. Bucharest in three words: dogs, beggars, and cops (the worst of all three).

At 1030 this Sunday morning, this delightful, fabulous Sunday morning, the park is coming to life.  The sound of the water from the fountain in the center of the pond is getting lost in the conversation and the “music” from various electronic and revoltingly artificial sources.  This was, earlier, a fabulous place for a cappuccino and a pastry, or two (why stop at two of either?).  It is shrugging off the silent slumber of night.  It is coming to life as a refuge from the city beyond.  As with most cities, the best part is the parks.

Driving thru the countryside, or walking thru a park, one cannot go five minutes without seeing someone sitting.  Sitting.  Just sitting.  As much as Japan is hectic and frenetic, and could never relax, Bucharest sits on its laurels.  Conquered, oppressed, and ruled by Romans, Turks, Saxons, Hapsburgs and Hungarians, the deathblow seems to have been the communists.  A quiescent, enduring, resolute culture, or one that has simply given up?

The older generation, the one that remembers the days of trading jobs and full stomachs for freedom of speech can be forgiven for having run out of any lust for life.  But, what of the younger generation?  This is the one that grabs anything it can, just because it can.  “What can I get away with?” might the motto of Romania’s Generation X; certainly Romania’s baby-boomers have found greener pastures (just about anywhere).

Bran (cue the thunder) Castle

Yep, this is it, sports fans: the Real McCoy.  Kinda.  Well, it is in the heart of Transylvania, is it not?  No, not really; more like the southeast corner.  But, it is high in the Carpathian Mountains, right?  Not exactly nose bleed territory.  Fine, but this is where Vlad “The Impaler” Tepes earned his reputation (and developed his fondness for skewers)?  Uh, no.

For starters, it is highly questionable if Vlad ever did set foot in this place; and, if he did, then it was for a few days while hiding from the Ottomans (aka Turks; altho, like most things from history, that is also a misnomer).  Ok, but he caused it to be built; he just never got around to enjoying a mint julep from the crenellated towers.  Actually, it was built long before Our Friend Vlad was even a gleam in anybody’s eye.

But, surely, it is a REAL castle.  Surely.  Yeah, verily, this thing, perched high above a not so imposing rock, near the town of Bran, about 28 kilometers south of Brasov (just in case you want to find it on a map), on the north side of the Carpathians, is a real, no kidding, fer shur castle.  A-Number-One.

And, a real small one, at that.

For starters, there is no way you could garrison thousands of armed troops within its keep (or is that keep thousands of armed troops garrisoned?).  In fact, an entourage of much more than a butler, baker, and candlestick maker would find it cozy, indeed.

And, those people must have been s-h-o-r-t.  No, I did not bump myself silly on low, rustic, rough-hewn beams (I’ve had a head start in that department for years); altho I did put a pretty good dent in the one I did miss.

Cannon?  Nope.  Horses?  Ha.  Archers? Must have had archers?  Only those who could shoot straight up, and then run for cover; there are no windows suitable for the bow and arrow guys.

Altho certainly large enuf for a dozen or so folks to rattle around in, it really is not much more than a watch tower.  It does command an unrestricted view of the major road between Brasov and the Hungarians (Austrians, or whoever’s flag was being bandied about at the time).  No moats, no drawbridges, no portcullises (or is that portcullisae?).  No Wizard of Oz, ok?

It was well worth the trip, however.  In no way a disappointment.  As long as you can keep Vincent Price, Bella Lagousie, and a whole host of others out of your mind.

Yes, there is a secret passage from one floor up to the next.  Or, more precisely, a very, very narrow staircase; hard to imagine that the opening would have been secret to anyone (after all: I found it!  Nothing covering the doorway – apparently no tapestries at all).

Certainly lots and lots of stone (absolute must for a castle – no one ever heard of a wooden, or mud, castle).

Sorry, no caskets, no bats, no mistletoe (or is that garlic?).  But, worst of all: no rumors, no tales of terror, no hauntings (whatever).  No unexplained noises.  No spectres. No, um, no – am I missing anything?

Gotta be careful of “ethnic” food; this is why I haven’t been to a “Romanian” restaurant yet.  What?  How long you been there, and you haven’t been to a Romanian restaurant?  Why in the world not?  You have any idea how many people around the world think “McDonald’s” serves food?

Drum Bun

Well, I finally did make it to a Romanian restaurant; three times actually.  And, since I am sending this – the final – chapter from my deck in Mukilteo (yes, life is tough), I made it home.

“Drum Bun” means something like “good journey” – also seen translated as “bon voyage” (those French again, don’t cha know?).

This will conclude “An Innocent Abroad.”  Some of you know that we are getting ready for Mongolia.  Yep, and we thot I was a sheep in the slaughter in Bucharest – wait til Ulaan Baatar (“Red Hero”).

Look for Nokhoi Khorio, coming to an inbox near you (we leave for UB on the 23rd)

Your Faithful Correspondent

You have not wings upon your back, you know not of which I speak.  Yet, it is to you that I speak.

Fallon, Nevada.  There is a flying range.

EA-6B.  Has there ever been a plane in which the front seats and the back seats were further apart?  The Pilot is a frustrated fighter-jock; the Guys-in-Back want to be on terra firma.  The Prowler is an electronic warfare platform, designed to fly in with the air-to-mud boys, protecting them from radar’s insidious probing fingers on the way into, and the way out of, the target.  Those attack airplanes are single-seaters, the pilot and the airplane as one – one heart, one mind, one objective, one being.  The Prowler has a pilot who, if he is any good, becomes one with his craft.  It also has three passengers who are along for the ride, and two of these cannot see the pilot, his instruments, or what lies ahead.  they have their ears welded to the headphones listening for High PRF and death; eyes welded to computer monitors searching for information that spells success or failure; and, hands glued to a keyboard hopefully sending electrons just that one split second earlier than that missile that is seeking with its electronic brain to find and destroy.

And so it was, that day on the range.  Merely practice, but you would never know if from the way I was breathing, my heart beating, or my mind concentrating.

The nameless pilot, flying as fast as he could, as close to Mother Earth as he could, as directed from the crew behind his back, flung himself and his crew in apparent defiance (without regard) of all the laws of physics on a rollercoaster ride that no man could ever build.  The right-seater, co-pilot in all but title, monitored engine and flight instruments, while his pilot focused outside the cockpit on the brown, hard earth – sometimes below, often not.  In the back, two others absorbed as much information as they could, which was far less than the black boxes further behind them.  But, unlike the black boxes, these two human computers added intuition to the equation and were thus the inseperable difference between another statistic and another round back at the club.

At the end of the training run, for it was only a training run, when the wrung out craft and the wrung out crew could at last entertain something other than merely staying alive, and wings were once again level, and the distance between them and Mother Earth could be measured in yards instead of feet, only then did they realize they were freezing cold, bitterly cold, soaked thru and thru with sweat, even as the Prowler’s air conditioning system had been sending conditioned air into the tiny cockpit as cold and as fast as its designers had planned.  Frost had caked on the steel-toed flight boots.  Oxygen masks off, the breathing slower, deeper, the crew finds themselves IFR inside the cockpit.

Now, a round of smiles; later a round of beers.  Life is good when you’re the best there is.

Since so many of you have virtually clamored for more, here follows the long-awaited Chapter III.  Well, ok, some of you have bestowed faint praise on my prose.  Would you believe, I bet one or two or have wondered about me?  How about, if a perfect stranger were to ask?  Ok, here it is:

Peles Castle

Yes, this is part of the aforementioned “Driving – How not to get run over,” promised in the last installment; altho, unintentionally.  But first, another language lesson:

That “s” (would that be “es”?) on the end of Peles is not the good ol’ red-white-and-blue ‘Merican “s” – oh no!  It’s one of those letters with something extra (alternatively, given the very long history of Romania, perhaps it is the English that has deleted the little squiggle hanging from the bottom; but, since I am an engineer, and not a linguist, I can comfortably ignore that inconvenient point of view – being parochial does have its advantages – ah, but I digress).  I believe you can approximate the sound of this special “s” by first eating about 20 Saltine crackers and then saying “pe-les.”  I believe the Romanian judge will award extra points for coverage and distance of cracker crumbs.  But, you are definitely seeking a “Pelish” kind of thing.  In other words, no one knew what I was asking for when I went in search of said castle (well, how many castles can there be?).

So, about 9:30, I set out.  First order of business, after making sure I had all the brochures and maps, is to gas up the car (oh boy).  Having been confronted countless times with both Detroit’s inability to standardize the location of refueling stations on their vehicles, I actually (no kidding) checked out where the gas tank was before getting to the gas station.  Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but I wouldn’t ask you, Gentle Reader, to believe anything that wasn’t easily checked.  Furthermore, altho stretching the limits of credibility, I asked what kind of gas I needed to put into the car, also, before getting to the gas station.  I won’t impose upon your faith or good humor any more, I promise.

So, I drives into the Agip gas station (obviously modeled after every gas station in America, complete with mini-mart selling beer, wine, and much heavier-duty anti-freeze), and stops at a pump.  How did I know to even look for the fara plum hose?  Simple, my car takes only lead-free gas (according to the key fob), and as surely every seasoned traveler knows, “fara” means “without,” and “plum” is a fruit that comes from a medium size tree (or, I suppose has something to do with “lead” as in Pb is the symbol on the periodic table with Atomic Number 82 – which obviously comes from the Latin plumbum; you might know the Italian piombo, or the Spanish plomo?  I thot as much).  Ok, fine: so it wasn’t intuitive; I asked somebody at work.  Pump, pump, pump.  Wash windshield.  And that was how much again?  Much too many zeros, but then again, not nearly enough.

My 59.66023 liters came to 1,050,020 lei.  Yep, over a million fun-tokens to fill up my little car – I don’t want to hear anyone over there complaining about the cost of gas, ok?  Just a sec, though: 60 liters for a million lei means what in furlongs per fortnight?  Doing the conversion in my head, as any seasoned traveler can do, I found it necessary to multiply by 47.3, divide by the square root of cabbage, carry the one (of course), and I got: $2.12/gallon (15.7605 gallons (guess I was running on fumes?) and $38.39).  Ouch.  Actually, I could have sworn the pump said it was only 105,002 lei; but, the nice man behind the counter insisted on that extra, rather silly if you ask me, zero – and who was I to argue?  And in what language?

Back in little car, swing on down the road, swing on down, swing on down the ro-ode (oops, sorry).

Big road (four lanes total) becomes smaller (two lanes total); eventually to become Norwegian (it is the Bucharest city roads that are modeled after Tokyo).  Speed limit?  Observed only by yours truly.  Neither BMW, nor Mercedes, nor Dacia, nor Daewoo (yeah), nor horse drawn cart pays any attention to speed limits (“Radar” signs included – or ignored entirely, depending on your point of view).  It soon became clear that your faithful correspondent was the only car on the road whose driver took all dem dere cops in their bright yellow/green coats seriously.  Honestly, what do all those guys do?

I saw only one accident the entire day.  One might have thought the traffic ground to a halt to gawk at the little pick-up truck (Dacia) in the ditch with no glass in it at all; but, as I got closer, I discovered the rubber-neckers weren’t the ones slowing down.  It was everyone in the oncoming lane working their way around the police car that was ever so conveniently parked right in the middle of the oncoming lane – no attempt was made by Romania’s finest to pull off the road.  Speed limit?  Fact or fantasy?  Well, the sign sure looked like 80 (that would be kph, or 50 mph); whereas I was pedaling as fast as I could to prevent becoming a hood ornament at about 120 (75 mph).  Exciting?  Bosh!  We haven’t come to the mountains, yet!

I guess Romania has some oil, they certainly have a lot of those teeter-totter pumps that so decoratively dot the landscapes of Texas, Oklahoma, and Wyoming.  In any event, think really ugly and you have a good idea of what the land north of Bucharest looks like (or, speak knowingly of the Wallachian Plain).  More helpful, perhaps, would be: flat, flat, flat.  Little, little towns clotted around the road like so much cholesterol at intervals probably determined by the motive force on the horse drawn farm wagons (yes, that would literally be one horsepower).  Some buildings/houses started and not completed (we’re talking about workers and money either dead or dried up); no house neat-as-a-pin cottage-in-the-woods (well, no trees).  Plenty of stools set up by the roadside with a dozen or so eggs perched on top, or twenty or thirty jars of honey pyramided (I’m sure that’s a verb, too) – mailbox baseball, anyone?  How the stools and eggs/jars stayed intact with the mini-cyclones of the sedans whooshing by is an art form that must be thousands of years old.

Up into the foothills of the immortal Carpathians.  Up into twisty, tiny little roads (altho, unlike the Norwegian mountain roads, there is white paint down the middle of these), ever higher we climb.  Well, not all that high, actually (nope my little car does not have an altimeter – and my watch doesn’t either), but certainly the straight roads on the flatlands are behind me.  Settling down to a comfortable pace, I follow a sedan rather larger than car; not too slow, but neither all that sporting (strange car, strange road, strange, well, everything: strange, strange, strange).  Coming around my left on a blind corner is a small white something or other, followed by (mated with?) a large blue something or other.  Sure enough: coming around the corner, some pilgrim is coming the other way!  The nerve!  The audacity!  The unmitigated gaul! (or is that “gall”?  Well, it might have been a hard Frenchman.)

What are we – there are five of us involved in this high altitude, if not high stakes, drama – to do?  Elementary, my dear: if we are the two passing vehicles, we just simply nip into this whisper of a space between these other two cars also going the same direction!  And we don’t have a head-on collision, and the poor idiot (he does look awfully pale) in the little silver Mondeo is never going to get our license plate numbers while his heart infarcts, anyway.  And, even if he did (do people here do that?), who’s he going to tell?  One of those guys in the yellow/green coats?  Ha!  Good brakes in that little car; not much rubber left on the tires, though….

After about two hours of fun and games, we get into Sinaia (sorry, no pronunciation guide here: you’re on your own), the home of Peles Castle (did you remember the Saltines?)  Which brings us to:

TODAY’S TRAVEL TIP (Vlad’s family was threatening to sue over the implied alliteration, said it would give their illustrious ancestor a bad name):

How many times can you drive thru a sleepy little mountain hamlet and NOT see a castle?  Tick, tock, time’s running out!  If you guessed once, or twice, you obviously don’t know who you’re talking to!  It was on my third trip thru town that I saw the miniscule sign (might have been six inches high by eighteen inches long) that had been blocked by a van.  Must be the place!

40,000 lei to park inside.  Well, since most visitors obviously came on foot, there simply wasn’t any parking outside the grounds (what there was, was occupied by those rather substantial – the whole road belongs to me – tour buses).  Quick: how much in the coin of your realm is it going to cost to park inside.  We’re losing daylight here; think, think, think!!!  Oh hell, just pay the man and drive on; I’m a rich tourist (on the company’s nickel) I can afford the, what was it again, $1.27?, to park the car.  “Second left” I was told – wait a minute: “second left”? – nobody here talks like that!  Yeah, no kidding, he said “second left.”  And you want to know what blew my socks off?  He was right – I mean correct: it was the second left.

I park and begin my assault, or should I say defense?  No, not a particularly long walk, measured in feet, meters, or cubits, and, not all that steep (measure steep any way you want to).  But, counting the number of people, of all ages, who are trying to sell you irresistible toys, trinkets, do-dads (huh?), shawls, table cloths, soft-drinks, and some things that haven’t been classified yet, and it gave me an appreciation for running the gauntlet that I never had before.  The little wave, nod of the head, slight smile, and polite ‘no thank you’ quickly became, well, let’s just say I’m glad my mommy wasn’t there.

Get to the “castle.”  Well, if you’re picturing crenellated walls and turrets and drawbridges and moats, you’ve obviously seen Wizard of Oz too many times.  Think more in terms of a small, summer, cabin, high in the wooded mountains – Bavaria, or Leavenworth, that kind of thing.  Edelweiss?  Yeah, toss some of that in there, Julie Andrews won’t mind.  Not working, huh?  How about something that took 400 workmen 39 years to build (no conversion necessary, take it the way you see it).  Lavish?  Naw.  The veritable epitome of tasteful understatement.  But, I get ahead of myself (doesn’t happen often, I know).

Front door.  How do we know it’s the “Front Door” if there’s no moat, portcullis, drawbridge, or Swiss guard (oops, that’s the Vatican, sorry)?  Perhaps, it is our traveler’s instinct, finely honed over the years?  That sixth sense that puts us immediately at home in every clime and culture (except for Jeddah).  How about the sign that says “Foreign Visitor’s Entrance”?  Presto!  I can do this.  Of course, if I wasn’t a “foreign visitor,” I don’t have a clue in the world where I would go, because there is no sign for those people.

Wait, wait, wait.  Why?  ‘Cause the sign on the door is written in Romanian, and there are about fifteen other camera and mobile phone toting folks milling smartly about (surely this isn’t the queue for the lieu, lue, lui, bathroom?).  Door opens.  No, Frau Blücher (Cloris Leachman, alá Young Frahnk-en-steen) does not open the door and there are no…wait, I did hear horses.  Anyway.

Quite a grand foyer; not The Grand Foyer, more of a “Oh, it’s you,” kind of foyer.

Someone reaches into a large wooden box and pulls out “booties.”  Well, more like “half-booties”; the one-size-fits-all shoe covering made of wool with a fashionable ankle strap to keep our infidel shoes from soiling the marble floor.  But, wait!  The booties are not identical!  Oh, this just won’t do.  We must have on matching booties (they “match”?)  Dig, dig, dig.  Wait, wait, wait.

“May I have your camera?”  “Huh?”  “Your camera.  Sorry, no pictures.”  So, Frau Blücher exchanges my $1,000 company digital camera (well, I need to learn how to use it, right?) for a slip of paper with the number “5” on it.  Seems like a fair trade; I can probably redeem my number 5 for a Brownie Instamatic or a Batman decoder ring when I finish the tour, ‘cause I’m never going to see my, oops, the company, camera again.  Grit teeth, suck air, mutter incantations to the gods.

“English tour,” barks the man in uniform (at least he doesn’t appear to have a bazooka hung from his shoulder like the nice man outside).  It soon became apparent that he was referring to the tourists who might have a passable understanding of English, not to himself.

Other than the some 4,000 pieces of museum grade armaments (I mean, who knows if those broad swords, pikes, hooks, clubs, spears, really work, anyway?), this was NOT a castle, not even a Sear’s castle (or was that a Sear’s poncho?  Somebody give Frank Zappa a call, huh?).  On the other hand, that Vanderbilt thing in North Carolina has nothing on this place (honestly, the Vanderbilt summer home is just a tad larger).  Allegedly, there are over 40 kinds of wood used thru-out; lost on me, I could identify only about 20.  Marble, silks, gold, silver, brocade, tapestries, leather (ceiling), paintings, sculptures, am I boring you?  And that’s just the foyer!

The tour lasted less than an hour, covered only the first floor (or, ground floor; 1 Etaj here, would be the second floor back home in The Colonies), was utterly fascinating, well worth the 60,000 lei to get in, and I can’t wait to go back.  It cost me 100,000 lei to walk around King Carol I’s home for an afternoon and was intoxicating.

Now to gird myself for the drive home….  But, first, just exactly where was the water closet, anyway (there are no trees between Sinaia and Bucharest: go now)?  What’s that?  Do they really say “water closet” here?  No, of course not!  “Water closet” is hardly a Romanian word (puh! some people).  The Romanian word is, as you might expect, far beyond the simple capabilities of your humble correspondent.  But, I have a sneaking suspicion that The Gentle Reader could handle, are you ready?: “toalett.”  Want to try that again?  Well, do so on your own time; Mother Nature is not going to wait.

Accustomed as I am to traveling abroad (how hoity-toity can you get, anyway?), I fully expected to have to pay a toilet tax.  Nope, no idea what they call it here.  But, I figured the little ol’ lady sitting in the booth inside the, um, trying to be delicate here, toilet “area” was not doing so to stay out of the sun.  Simple scrap of paper prominently posted (hey! finally, some decent alliteration – and who said I couldn’t read?) with “1,000 lei” on it.  Well, here’s 2,000 lei, I’m in a hurry.  Next time you think you have the worst job in the world….

Like a salmon swimming upstream, I make my way thru the “vendors” (Hey Joes! to those who have been to Napoli), back to my car (and yes, it is still there).  Oh yeah: mit camera.

An uneventful, if not hair-raising, drive back to the center of town, to the legendary Athénée Palace Hotel (well the brochure says “legendary”), and a glass of pinot noir.  The locals never knew how close they came to an untimely end.  What is all this stuff on my car?  Remember the horse drawn wagons?

La revedere!

No, to those of you who might have wondered if I had “taken a left at Albuquerque,” I have not fallen off the edge; I have been quite busy, and your patience will not go unpunished.

May I offer the following:

The gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become until he goes abroad. I speak now, of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad, and therefore is not already a consummate ass. If the case be otherwise, I beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and call him brother.

                                                            The Innocents Abroad

Mark Twain

Some of you know, very well, I might add, that, when it comes to world travel, I am hardly an innocent (could I possibly squeeze another comma in there?).  And, for those of you who think of me in rather less flattering terms (with apologies to Balaam’s mount, of course), I beg your indulgence.  That said, if you wish to be relieved of my future literary burdens, just reply to this post appropriately (or not).

So much for the preamble.

Yes, I am now firmly, if not safely, ensconced in Bucharest, Romania; housed extremely comfortably in the Athenée Palace hotel; and driving with careless – and, so far, wreckless – abandon on this fine country’s highways and byways.  But how did all this tomfoolery begin?

The Phone Call

As you may recall (or not), I joined Field Service in September of last year (can we say “9/11”?), keeping well in character for my almost flawless lack of timing.  Having pretty well exhausted my supply of nails to bite, fearful of being thrust onto the street of greater opportunities, I said the only sensible thing when offered this three month “backfill” assignment in support of Romania’s state-run airline: “When do I leave?”

 Packing

Yeah, pack for three months; what EXACTLY might that look like?  How about two large valises crammed to the gills with every stitch of clothing I had at my disposal?  Well, not quite, but certainly every sock and hanky I could lay my hands on.  And then, of course, the obligatory laptop, that device of flexibility that bears an increasingly strong resemblance to a boat anchor (or millstone for the nautically challenged).  Yes, I put a change of socks in my carry-on luggage.

Airport Security, immediately after September 11

You’ll be happy to know that I did not need quite all of the three hours that ShuttleExpress suggested to check into my flight; I believe I used about two minutes – and that included picking up the tickets at Ken’s Baggage.  When going thru the metal detector/x-ray machine just before boarding the little underground Sea-Tac train for the South Terminal, I had to remove my laptop from my carry-on so that it could be x-rayed separately.  Other than that, and the two National Guard personnel who couldn’t have cared less if I was there, I saw nothing that could have discouraged a passenger from taking tweezers or nailclippers on his person.  At Heathrow, one gent condescended to actually look at my passport – in passing, as it were.  In Bucharest, well, who wants to come here to make trouble?

Reclinging Seats, ala British Airways

For those of you who have mastered the art of sleeping on seats with 21-inch pitch, and seatbacks that recline four or five degrees (altho the seatback in front always reclines 50, or 60 degrees, right into your peach melba), you would, no doubt find the 9 and a half hour flight from Sea-Tac to Heathrow in a seat that reclines a full 180 degrees (that would be FLAT) an absolute torture.  I, however, never could sleep on an airplane, and it apparently has nothing to do with the seats.  I did choose to sit in a rear-facing seat, something I haven’t done since coming aboard an aircraft carrier in a Greyhound.  Food? Ok (altho the claret – the British do pronounce the “t,” I found – was rather above what I am accustomed to).  Movies?  Oh, excuse me: Inflight Entertainment (IFE to the cognoscenti)?  I am seldom without a good book, and that trip was an excellent time to have one; I should have asked for a refund, or suggested BA request one from their entertainment director.  Abysmal.

London-town

No, no one calls it that nowadays (is that really just one word?); but, it sounds so, what, seasoned?  Or simply aged?  In any event, I found the airport Hilton after asking several workers with badges, including one at the “Information Desk”; obviously the Hilton people need to work on their publicity – surely it wasn’t my pronunciation: how many ways can a “Hilton” be said?  Maybe they thot I was saying “stilton”?  Yes, I was wondering around the airport asking, “Where is the stilton?”  That must be the problem.  A marvelous cheese (with a good clareT), but not quite what I needed at that moment.  Anyway, check-in was what I have come to expect of the British: cold restraint.  After checking in, and then returning to The Front to ask for a second key, then tromping back to the Front to be told that a member of the hotel staff would assist me (no doubt my funny accent led them to believe I was challenged) and having had to wait for a hotel staff person to show me how to use it (must be the wrist), I was in my room, and checking my email.  Marvelous invention, that.  Finishing the joy of figuring out which digit to dial to get an outside line, and what number to dial, and punching in my secret code to access the company net, the phone rang!  Zounds! (apologies to Mercutio)

I have corresponded for ages with a gentleman I had never met, and now was my chance!  Yabbut: how to get from Heathrow to Victoria Station?  Elementary!  Go find the Picadilly Line in the basement of Heathrow, Terminal 4, get off at Hammersmith (don’t you just love these names?), transfer to the District Line, and jump off at Victoria.  There are only three stairways off the platform at Victoria, and yours truly of course shunned the correct one; at the top, WHSmith was nowhere to be found.  Yes, quite the fine pickle.  Wander, wander, wander.  Eventually, I did find the bookstore, and my dear wife will be happy to know I did not venture in; then I set off for Buckingham Palace.

Is there anything more pointless than two soldiers in long-gray coats with empty rifles and bearskin hats marching back and forth and back and forth and back and forth (well, you get the idea)?  I suppose you might point out that we in America have the same situation in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  Hardly the same at all, dear chap: the Tomb is much smaller and could spirited away in the dead of night; but Buckingham Palace would require a much larger endeavor.  It would have been nice if the soldiers had bothered to synchronize their marches, then they would have had symmetry in their favor.

Had a wonderful first meeting, a good dinner, great conversation, tour of the West End (think: “the-a-tah”) then back aboard The Tube.

But, how am I to get to Gatwick airport in the morning?  Hmmm…

Well, at the BA desk at Victoria Station, I could take the train from Heathrow into Victoria Station, and then the train out to Gatwick.  Or, I could take the bus and save about an hour, and mucho denero.  And how would I get to the bus?  Ask at Heathrow.  Thank you ever so much.

Back at Heathrow, I found there is a DEDICATED bus from that airport to the one I wanted to leave from in the morning, they left every fifteen minutes, and cost but 12 and a half pounds (company accounting refers to other currencies as “local dollars” – world travelers that they are).  And, if I caught the 0630, or 0645 bus, I should make Gatwick in plenty of time.  Marvelous.  Could I show my tickets?  Well, no: they were in my room.  I’m flying BA?  Yes.  Then the ticket is paid for by BA.  Stupendous!  A potentially slight hiccup that could have been avoided by the travel department who booked the trip; but, this is so much more fun to discover “on the fly,” as it were.

Back to the room, lights out, eyes open.  Were the two alarm clocks I set necessary?  Would it have given me an extra hour of sleep to have spent the night at Gatwick, instead of saving the bus ride till morning?  Hah!  Wide awake in the plane coming over; wide awake in the hotel.  I just love travel.

Being predisposed to spending my entire life not wanting to be late at any cost (having entered the world somewhat later than planned), I found myself at the bus-stop shortly after 6 a.m., and there was already a line (sorry, “que”).  Yes, I did get the promised travel voucher, and so did not have to part with any of my newly acquired British pounds (nope, not part of the Euro-thing) – surely I would find a pocket full of that currency of inestimable value at my new home?  On the bus, and off we go.  Well, some of us, anyway; we left quite a bunch on the curb, having maxed out the bus’ cargo hold.  Being early has paid off, once again!

Checking into BA at Gatwick was predictably uncomplicated by silly little security issues; into the lounge with just oodles of time to kill – so much nicer than being the last one on the airplane, at any rate.  The 737-800 took off late (something about traffic over Europe on a Monday morning – can there be a “rush hour” with airplanes?).  I avoided the food, and settled down to read in a leather business class seat that must have had some sort of teflon spray added.  Great exercise to spend 3 hours scooching back into a seat.

Bucharest

Passport Control.  Obviously the officers that occupy Otopeni Airport’s first line of defense graduated first in their class, having mastered the fine art of appearing to be totally bored, and disinterested.  No doubt, they excelled in classes such as how to yawn and look disgusted at the same time.  Not to take anything away from the Saudis, who look like they’d like to spit on you but don’t think you’re worthy of their spittle (small comfort).  Thru the “Nothing to Declare” line (not sure if that should be said sotto voce, or not), and out into the hustle and bustle of terminal lobby to meet…well…I knew the airplane was early…but….

Eventually, the parties that were to meet me showed; but not before I heard my name paged over the PA system.  Visions of Clint Eastwood in the movie Firefox (“Your paapehs arrre not in ohda”) were about to be made manifest.  They shoot horses don’t they?  Not to worry, Timm and Bob were merely on time, and my wait was short one.

Do you want to buy a phone?  Question, or command?  Well, my new boss – the one who will approve all my efforts at addition and subtraction and currency conversion on expense reports – was right there, so, why not?  Why not, indeed?  Now, you must take note of the rather awkward fact that I have never even had a conversation on a mobile – not cell – phone previous to this.  Bob had scouted it out, told me which one was the one I wanted, told me where to perform the transaction, and what could be simpler?  Fine, I’ve had the delightful little status symbol for a week now, and I have learned how to program two numbers: the hotel and the little man behind the green curtain (Glenda’s number is unlisted).  I know it works because Timm has called me twice to see if I know how to push the big button right in the center and say something into the palm of my hand.  It also has internet capability (according to the Romanian owner’s manual), but I am sure I won’t live long enough to figure that out).

Athenée Palace Hotel.  That would be “Ah,” “the” (short “e”), “knee” – emphasis on the second syllable.  It wouldn’t surprise me to learn the etymology hails from the land of Homer; but, in fact, this country was well known to the Romans.  These people had to put up with Caesar and the Ottomans, and the Hungarians never had enough food on the table, I guess.  With time, all will be revealed.

We agonized over the rental car; me voting for the local, quaint, and picturesque; the others pulling rank and voting for the Ford Mondeo.  Yeah, a Ford (sorry, Sis).  Okay, it’s Avis, cause Hertz doesn’t have anything that big.  Fine.  Another decision taken out of my hands.  What am I, chopped chicken-liver?  Hardly: I get to negotiate rates….

Being the consummate haggler, I was able to drive the woman at the Avis desk to call her boss (good sign).  Her boss said she would get back to me (another good sign).  We agreed on the price (well within guidelines), and the car would be available tomorrow.  My last peaceful night.

Be afraid, be very afraid

 Now, driving in Bucharest is not all that different from driving in any big city.  For starters, their cars are built with the steering wheel on the same side as any other car you are likely to find in Mark Twain Country.  However, just because the steering wheel is on the left doesn’t mean they drive on the right.  Neither do those cute little numbers conveniently posted on the light poles have any bearing on the number your speedometer needle is pointing at.  And should you have any questions, there is a traffic cop standing on practically every corner to help you relax.  To say nothing of the “piatas” (think of piazza – or place), which may, or may not, resemble the wonderfully British “round-about.”  So, without any more clue about the strange buttons and switches inside the car, or the driving rules outside, I am turned loose on the populace.

 Tepes’ Travel Tips

When is it a “Laundry Emergency,” and when is it not?  This question has plagued world travelers since time immemorial, or since breakfast for others.  Avoid the entire subject completely by bothering to read the attractive booklet found in your nightstand; or baring that, by asking one of those cute young things at The Front.  However, if you are among those too callused to pay attention to the security briefing at the beginning of every flight, or never look for fire exits in hotels (or airplanes, for that matter), then be prepared for the dreaded “Laundry Emergency.”

 It IS a “Laundry Emergency” when you count all your socks and hankies after staying in a hotel for nearly a week, tally them up on the score sheet (don’t look at the prices: at these rates you are in the wrong business), and then stuff the whole kit and kabudle (I understand the “kit” part, but what in the world is a “kabudle”? – yes, extra points for originality) into a plastic bag that is fiendishly much too small – AND THEN discover that laundry is not processed on the weekends.

So, solving for x (one equation, the only known is the ass filling out the score sheet), we discover that we do, indeed, have enough socks to tide us over until TUESDAY (the laundry not being returned until Monday evening…he said hopefully).  We will find out exactly how close to the unspeakable “Laundry Emergency” we came upon entering our room this evening.

 Ah, and who is this “Tepes” fellow, you might ask?  Well, dad called me Vlad, and my friends called me the “Impaler.”

 La revedere,