Romania, oh how I love and fear thee!
My trip to Bucharest, Romania was ominous from the moment we attempted to leave the United States. First, our flight was delayed by several hours, causing us to miss our layover and get redirected all over Europe before finally arrive nearly twelve hours late in Bucharest. Our crazy day was far from over when we left the airport for our bed and breakfast that evening. The only impression the airport left on me was that I thought it was strange that there were cacti in the landscaping.
I was traveling with a group of acquaintances I barely knew. If anything, I was just along for the ride. A ride that would take me from my home in a middle America suburb to hitchhiking in the rain in the middle of nowhere Romania just a few weeks later. We were on a volunteer trip to help set up a non-profit organization in Transylvania. And I’ll be honest, I had no idea what I was getting into. I had never really traveled to a lesser-industrialized, or second world, country before (my trip to Mexico barely counted), and was rather naive at best.
The first culture shock for me was the “caine,” which my poor American accent pronounced “kwee-nay.” One of the many travesties that occurred under communism was the proliferation of street dogs around the country. “Caine” is Romanian for dog. Every where I looked there were more stray or wild dogs just roaming around. During our first few days in country we found the dogs a funny novelty, and even took pictures of them. After the novelty wore off we realized what a nuisance it was to have so many dogs on the streets. And the animal lover in me was appalled to see the sick and unhealthy dogs eating from the trash.
My second overwhelming moment of culture shock happened as a result of the wild dogs. Our jet lag notwithstanding, my companions and I suffered some serious sleeping problems thanks to the loud and obnoxious barking all night long from the street dogs. Desperate for some sleep, one of my companions shoved a little foam earplug in his ear and tried his best. The next morning the ear plug was stuck in his ear. It was so far down inside his ear that we couldn’t see it. He was in pain and needed to find a doctor. Using our travel maps and guides, we went in search of a hospital or emergency room to help him.
I will never forget the scene at the first hospital. There was no ambulance bay where emergency vehicles pulled up. Instead, small hatchback cars just drove up to the entrance, popped open the back of the car, the driver ran around, and rolled the patient out on what appeared to be a plank. If a nurse or orderly was nearby the patient was put into a wheelchair and taken inside. If not, the driver would leave the patient standing there, and drove off. I was appalled, and learned a lot about healthcare and standards in a few short minutes.
My friend and I walked into the hospital, passing gurneys with sick and wounded patients on them. Most of them were smoking in their beds. The hallway smelled horrible and was filled with disgusting smoke. I looked at the floor to discover dried blood puddles and trails leading in different directions. I wanted nothing more than to leave!
We found a man we presumed to be a doctor in the hallway. He spoke some English, and we attempted to explain that there was something stuck in my friend’s ear. The “doctor” wore a dingy and dirty lab coat and smoked three cigarettes at once. I tried not to gag as he blew smoke in my face. He listened as we explained and pantomimed the problem. And then he waved us off carelessly and said this was not an “ear” hospital. He pointed out the doors and told us to go find the ear hospital. To this day I still have no idea what an ear hospital means.
We met up with our friends outside and walked in the direction of the “ear hospital.” We did find another “hospital” but it was closed for the weekend. That was another thing I never came to understand. How could a hospital just close on a weekend? And yet, it did.
By then my friend was in pain, and our traveling group had not yet toured any of this city we were so excited to be in. So we took matters into our own hands, right there in a city park, and did what we had to do, no matter how gross and dangerous it was, to liberate the ear plug from our friend’s head. All I could figure was it couldn’t be any worse than what Dr. Three Cigarettes would have tried.
His ear free and the pain gone, we began to tour Bucharest. Our first stop was the most famous of all sites in Bucharest- the People’s Palace (also known as the Palace of the Parliament). The People’s Palace is the world’s largest civilian administrative building (The Pentagon is the largest overall), most expensive administrative building, and heaviest building. It was built by Nicolae Ceausescu. It is hard to visit Romania and not say the name Ceausescu without great disdain. This communist leader did so much damage to the people and the country that his ill-effects are still felt twenty years after his assassination. The People’s Palace is no different. Ceausescu robbed the country of some of its’ finest materials to build this “palace” as a lasting legacy of himself. All of the materials are uniquely Romanian from the marble to the chandeliers to the brocade curtains. A starving and desperate nation was forced to turn over their finest materials, rather than be allowed to sell them to the outside.
My experience in the Palace was that of a typical tourist. I found the stray dogs, wandering around the corridors, amusing at first. We marveled at the chandeliers, the beautiful furnishings and tapestries, and snuck into a few rooms to take pictures of ourselves behind official looking seals. But the part we enjoyed most was going out onto the famous balcony that Ceausescu had built so he could address his minions down below. But since his minions rose up and killed him before he ever got that chance, international pop star Michael Jackson brought fame to the balcony instead when we stood out and waved at the thousands of Romanians below and said, “I love Budapest!” (My friends and I recreated the scene appropriately.)
We visited the Romanian Athenaeum, a small museum, and a lovely city park. What I recall the most was seeing Revolution Square, and the bullet holes still in the walls left from the 1989 Romanian Revolution that would result in the overthrow and execution of communist dictator Ceausescu.
One of my favorite parts of Bucharest was visiting the Village Museum. It is an outdoor, or open air, museum. It is a one of a kind “museum” showcasing the many different ethnic groups and religious backgrounds of Romania. There are permanent examples of houses (maybe it would be best to describe some of these underground dirt structures as dwellings and not houses) from throughout history. There were examples of religious structures and icons as well and kitchens, barns, etc. Getting to see this quick lesson in history before setting off to go live in rural Romania helped soften the blow of what I would see over the next few months.
Stay tuned for next week when I share how I broke two toilets, and cracked open a bathroom sink with my head. And discovered why you should never eat an apple in public.
