Former splendor! Dangerous photography!

Events of 22.06.2006

“Ahh, that was a pleasant night,” I stretch and stretch and watch Tanja open her eyes with a smile. “Hm, I slept really well too and had a great dream,” she whispers. “What did you dream?” I want to know. “I’ve forgotten again,” she giggles softly. “I still can’t quite believe that we’re finally on the road again,” I say thoughtfully. “It’s about time. I’m happy to be able to move my body every day.” “And me too. Once again, it was an incredible effort to get everything ready. Sometimes I thought I was at the end of my tether. But that’s behind us now. Freedom is calling and our saddles are looking forward to being ridden properly again,” I laugh and swing myself out of bed full of energy.

In a good mood, we head up to the fifth floor of the hotel for breakfast. The friendly and pretty waitress named Carmen and the coffee owner Mundar serve us white bread, yoghurt, a few packaged spreads, a cake, which is also packaged, and latte. As we like to enjoy fresh fruit, muesli and yoghurt in the morning, this is not exactly our choice, but we still enjoy what is served. The morning sun casts its young rays into the spacious room, which still smells new. The air conditioning ensures pleasant temperatures and the unobstructed view over the summery city of Bucharest is downright fantastic. “You found us a great hotel,” praises Tanja. “To be honest, I can’t help it. We were led here by an unspecified hand.” “Well, you could have opted for the cheap accommodation near the station.” “God forbid,” I blurt, slurping down the thought of the hole with a hot sip of cappuccino.

“What do you think about using today to pay a visit to Ceausescu Palace?” I ask, full of energy. “Good idea.” We say goodbye to Carmen and Mundar and make our way to the subway. Although we have been on this great journey since 1991 and have already gained a lot of experience with public transport in foreign countries, it is always exciting for us to travel by subway. It was only on the last leg of the Trans-East expedition that we were accused of fare evasion, even though we had valid tickets. The unfriendly and merciless ticket inspectors in Budapest fined us heavily because we didn’t have our tickets validated. Due to communication difficulties and ignorance, we overlooked the stamping machines. This time we won’t have that mishap again. We pay attention to how the locals do it and follow their example. “There it is. We have to get out of here!” shouts Tanja. We quickly leave the busy subway and walk somewhat disoriented through the many underground corridors until we find the right staircase to the light. We are greeted by hustle and bustle. Many people are swarming around like ants. We ask for the palace of former President Nicolae Ceausescu. Nobody understands us until we meet a friendly, English-speaking student who explains the way. We stop at a café to enjoy an early lunch. Again, we are surprised by the high prices. The level here in the city center is not much lower than in Germany. We are told that the average income is less than 100 euros a month. “When you consider that petrol prices are almost as high as at home and the average hourly wage is less than 1 euro, I wonder how people can afford to eat out at all,” I say thoughtfully and sit down at a table in front of the fast food restaurant. I put my precious rucksack, which contains our Leica camera, on the floor next to me and notice a young man leaning against the wall of the restaurant behind my chair. He pretends to be relaxed in the queue of people waiting to order a sandwich. Before I can react, a hand moves forward and takes hold of his rucksack. Tanja looks the teenager straight in the eye and pulls the rucksack towards her. It only takes a few moments and the boy apparently loses his appetite. Without giving us a glance, he trolls off. “Do you think he was planning to steal it?” I ask, puzzled. “I think so.” “Hard to believe, I wouldn’t have thought,” I reply, relieved at Tanja’s reaction. But we don’t let it spoil our hunger and enjoy sitting in the center of Bucharest and watching the people pass by. Five men have made themselves comfortable at the table opposite. They are talking loudly. One is playing with his cell phone. Another is wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. Two of them are wearing gym shorts. Their feet are in worn-out branded jogging shoes. The oldest of the group is dressed in a worn suit. When he raises his deep voice, his table mates fall silent. A boy, whose shabby clothes immediately identify him as a beggar, shuffles over in his broken shoes. At a distance of 2 meters, he points to some plastic cups on the men’s table. There are still a few sips of cola in some of them. The man with the cell phone beckons the boy over. “Clear the table, then you can drink the Coke,” he seems to say, because the boy laughs, clears the table, pours the leftovers together and shoves the warm stuff down his throat. Then he throws the empty cups into the nearby garbage can and walks away smiling.

Much of what happens here is new to us, as we have just come from a completely different world. We remain seated for another half hour until we slowly stroll on. We pass cafés, the subway station, a flower seller and other stores. The city lost much of its former splendor during the communist era and today it is hard to imagine that it was once beautiful and elegant before the Second World War. Paris of the Balkans was its nickname, but unfortunately there is hardly any trace of its former flair left today.

We turn a few corners and reach Revolution Square, the actual center of the city. “Wow, it looks impressive!” I exclaim. Two magnificent avenues line the busy main street. At the end is one of the most colossal buildings we have ever seen. Fountains separate the left and right lanes. We remain spellbound and gaze at the palace. The sun refracts in the water of the many fountains. Small rainbows shimmer in the air and seem to paint the mighty gray building with color. A light breeze, enriched with the moisture of the glistening water, carries a refreshing mist of water and cools the hot summer air. We take a leisurely stroll along the boulevard in the shade of the trees. The closer we get to the government palace, the more gigantic it looms in front of us. The House of the Republic, as the government building is also known, comprises around 1500 rooms, has eleven floors, its own underground subway connection and an air-raid shelter. It was the ambitious building project of Romania’s communist president Nicolae Ceau?escu and has still not been completed. After the Pentagon in the USA it is the second largest administrative building in the world. During his last ten years in office, Ceau?escu had historic churches, temples, parks and 19th century homes demolished to build the palace. Up to the day of his death (he was convicted and executed by a court together with his wife in 1989), 27,000 workers, including many soldiers, were employed on the construction site.

Impressed, we walk around the palace, find the entrance and want to join a sightseeing tour. Because there are only a few rooms to look at and because the prices are quite high, we don’t go there and make our way back. An old woman, marked by a hard life, limps through the stationary traffic in front of a red light. She asks the drivers sweating in the hot summer sun for a gift. As we kept coming across beggars yesterday, Tanja saved the remains of our breakfast and lunch for such occasions. She hands the astonished, hunchbacked woman a few packaged pies and other delicacies that we haven’t eaten. Surprised, she stretches out her hand.

Just a few minutes later, Tanja is approached by a Sinti woman. It doesn’t take long for the two of them to start talking in a cheerful gibberish of different languages. I carefully raise my Leica to photograph the scene. The woman’s son notices me and tugs on my arm. “We have to keep going,” I say to Tanja. I’m afraid that word of my possession of such a camera will spread quickly and I want to leave the place as soon as possible. It only takes seconds before a second Sinti boy tugs on my other arm and asks for money. “Leave me alone,” I say in a firm voice. I am aware that the situation can quickly escalate and we would not be the first tourists to be robbed in broad daylight. Countless pedestrians take the opportunity of the green pedestrian lights to cross the main road. We quickly follow the flow of people. “Money, money!”, the boys shout in a supposedly friendly manner, pawing at me and increasingly harassing me. “Leave me alone!” I shout in a rising panic, letting my Leica disappear into my camera bag. On the other side of the street, the boy on my left fingers my shirt pocket. His hands seem to be everywhere. I shout at him, slap him on the wrist and am ready for his resistance. Apparently the two of them are startled by my outburst and let go of me. Relieved, we hurry on. Over the next hundred meters, we keep turning around. “Are they following us?” asks Tanja. “Don’t think so,” I reply, a little out of breath due to our haste. “It’s not safe to take photos here,” I realize. “It’s hard to believe that the children aren’t even bothered by all the passers-by”, Tanja replies. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re using the humans as their cover,” I say, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the Sinti boys are no longer on my tail.

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