Romania Part 1: hubba-hubba, Bucharest!

Let me tell you a few things about Romania.

To Americans, Romanians wear sparkly leotards and spread eagle on bars and balance beams. To other Europeans, however, Romanians often get a bad rep for living a gypsy lifestyle, traveling around begging and scamming to avoid any real work. While truth beholds that some of these people scam, that some beg, that a few do win Olympic medals, I've had the good fortune of seeing another side of this country and its people that instead involves arched eyebrows, enchanted castles and food deals that could send Subway out of business.

Romania is home to two important people: 1) Dracula, allowing me to shrill "I've come to suck your blood!" around every corner, and 2) my friend Alla, giving me someone to hiss it at. I met Alla last year in my French class, though from day one we've communicated in English because a) my French sucks and b) her English itself makes for conversation. Like many other Europeans I've met, she learned to perfect her Anglais via various languages sources such as rap videos on MTV, beauty tutorials on YouTube and streaming reruns of House and Prison Break. I am always so impressed when phrases like 'riding dirty' or 'it's not Lupus' flow naturally in her speech, as well as her unfathomable expertise on American pop culture (what exactly IS a hollaback girl, I dared to ask her during our trip).

Alla picks me up from the airport and we bus through Bucharest, during which I begin asking the millions of questions building up in my head such as 'what's with the high-heelin' hoochies with magna-arched eyebrows?' 'Where are the vampires?' 'When can we eat?' (She answers the first by explaining a particular fashion style that certain women portray called pitzipoanks, which translates to sluts. She rolls her eyes for the other two).

Romania introduces me to Eastern European territory, and en route to the city center I cannot help but notice the marks of communism (ha, get it?!) still affluent, or rather destitute, in the passing buildings. While the term 'Communist architecture' came up before during a tour of Berlin, here it still stands without telling. Tall, grey, rigid structures efficiently

The big bad Palace of the Romanian Parliament

built to hold a warehouse of people, minus any glamour or aesthetic appeal whatsoever. The lack of distinguishable variety or color set a dull, rather weary ambiance that would make a perfect shooting location for the Are you Afraid of the Dark? series. At this point I can't tell if vampire jokes are appropriate or not, but decide to bite Alla's shoulder anyways.
  
Downtown Bucharest itself strikes a stark contrast to the
outside boroughs, the influences of Roman culture highly prevalent in the large, elegant structures built with columns, domes and aristocratic statues. The majority of these fabulous edifices house the only institutions that can afford them, banks, though some host less fangy sites such as the excellent National Museum of Art and the Peasant Museum. And if you really want to see a hunk of a building, head over to the Palace of the Romanian Parliament. Stare deeply at the world's heaviest building (literally!), and I dare you NOT to make comparisons to the evil plottings a happenin' in the Ministry of Magic.  


As any European city, a visit through the major sites includes at least one church, though unlike the excessive glitz of the Catholic churches found elsewhere, the Orthodox sanctuaries here have a more modest appearance. "To be Romanian is to be Orthodox," explains Alla as she and every other passerby crosses themselves in front of the building whether or not they go inside. Every church has the same 3-part structure (a writer's

Romanian Monastery

dream!): a small, covered section up front for priests, a larger middle area where women stand behind the men and children, and finally a small boxed area in back for those women 'infected with the blood of sin,' aka those on 'that time of the month' (what better way to tell the fellers' they ain't gettin any tonight!). While this sexist division is unlikely still practiced anywhere except for maybe the Romanian boonies, the Rosa Parks in me proudly remains up front to enjoy the chants of the choir singers (The WHAT in me? Please ignore that last part). 


I forgot to mention the best part: Romania = CHEAP. Hold on to y'er hats n' glasses, cuz the prices here will blow yee away! At the patiseries above every subway station, hot flaky pastries and soft pretzels await your grumbling bellies for 1-2 lei a pop, equivalent to about 35cents (and believe me, you'll be stuffed after three!). The two nights

sărmăluţe

in a local boarding house cost us each 3€/night, though we had to pay an extra 5cents for toilet paper. We dined at the famous  Caru' cu Bere (Beer Carriage), gorging ourselves on the Romanian specialty sărmăluţe (minced meat rolled in wine leaves served with polenta and sour cream), and finishing off with a papanasi each (monster donuts of sweet cheese and cream) all for less than 20€. We danced the night away on $3 cocktails at bars where everyone resembled Victor Krum and his classmates at Durmstrang Academy (okay, enough with the Potter references!) and finished the night with an 11 lei taxi ride home, costing less than the fare to just get in a cab in Chicago. 

In my short time in Bucharest, I managed to learn about the country's gold mining politics and check off Protest for a Cause in Romania off my Things to Do Before I DIE list. Still, two days felt excruciatingly short. Yet I am ever the more antsy pantsy for the second half on my Romanian adventure to the dungeons and dragons of the man who, wait for it.. wait for it... will "come to suck your BLOOD!"

Where Do Milano Cookies Come From?*

The next few posts will venture away from French fry land and instead chronicle my exciting trip east, my first time in Eastern Europe. Three snaps for me for exploring 5 cities in 4 countries, taking a total of 5 planes, 3 regional trains, 2 coach buses and 10 nights in hostels all for 300 euros (this, of course, not including spending money and FOOD costs, which with me sadly doubles it).

First stop, mainly for the convenient airport layover... Milan. Though less than 20 hours weakens my chances of meeting my lover boy KaKa (you hear me, AC Milan fans!), I still can steal a glimpse at the European fashion mecca.

Alright. Milan.

It's pouring. Damn. While waiting for the rain to cut it out, I make my way through the central train station to get the first thing on the agenda... Gelato. Shivering yet high on creamy swirls of pistachio and chocolate, I parooze through the many clothing stores, imagining how I'd look in this leather jacket or that fur hat. Able to afford none of it, I decide to go to my hostel. My worries about the pitter patter quickly vanish the moment I step out when hundreds of umbrellas dangle in my face. Of any country I've visited, Italy wins the prize for most street peddlers selling cheap crap. Clutching umbrellas, trinkets, puddy, you name it, they await their prey at touristy spots and shout at you in what they believe to be your mother tongue. Very Nice Price! Buen Precio! Günstigen Preis! I settle on a 5€ one (the next guy was selling them for 4€... drats!)

The woman at the hostel resembling Janice from Friends tells me the room "no finish." I am quite familiar with this Italian tardiness; while other Europeans may apologize for the delay, she simply shrugs her shoulders as to say 'well what did you expect?' Another fun fact: Italians love surprises, the kind that make you pay more. The hostel I booked online said 15€, but with adding in the 'tourist tax' plus the extra 3€ for linen, the price no longer feels so right. Add to this the pleasant surprise of finding two French lesbians spooning in the bed that should be mine (why can't I ever escape the French?!) and I understand the establishment's mere 54% rating on hostelbookers.com.           

Doumo, the Magnificent!

With no city maps available (Janice did kindly offer one of her cigarettes as consolation), I creepily followed other tourists to get to the famous Doumo. A master piece of a church, with an incredible view of the city from the roof (sadly it had already closed for the night). More street sellers do their thang in the church's piazza, though this time more creatively than umbrellas... They place corn kernels in the hands of ignorant tourists so pigeons flock AT them, resting on their shoulders and stabbing at their hands and feet. In return for this bird rape, they expect a 5€ bill. Uh... No thank you.

By this point the rain is pouring so hard that I must settle for a cafe panini rather than continue on to an aperitivo that offers complimentary buffets with a cocktail purchase. But don't get me wrong, when I say 'settled' on a panini, I mean a mouth-watering concoction of grilled zucchini, ricotta cheese and prosciutto in a crispy flatbread followed by a second helping of gelato (what, it was only 2€... very nice price!). I take the underground back to the hostel and chit chat about the Big Bang Theory with Janice before heading to my room (thankfully the French amoureux have gone out for the night).

I leave around 8 the next morning to head to the Bergamo airport (the French girls have yet to return). I assumed going to the gate would be easy breezy (aside from layering on all my packed clothes to meet the WizzAir cabin baggage restrictions). Turns out to be the most gruesome passport questioning to date. True, my little blue book does resemble a first year teacher's lesson plans, with visas and stamps and security check stickers haphazardly scattered throughout. Yet i naively assumed that the perched eagle and lines "We The People" on the first page automatically allowed me entry wherever I so pleased, no questions asked (isn't that like the 5th amendment or something?). Yet for 3 whole minutes the border control officer grilled me in an aggressive Italian accent "Where you come from? Why you go to Romania? Where you stay? How long? Why you here? You work? What you do? Why these days? I don't see entry stamp. Why you here?" What a relief to finally get the stamp. I cannot even imagine the stress of those coming from other countries who must face a thousand times the scrutiny every time they try to visit Europe or the U.S., let alone leave their own country.

My pits fuming from both the interrogation and the 4 layers of shirts, I now await my plane, fanning myself with my ticket and imagining what questioning I'll face at my next destination: Romania.




*Milano Cookies are an American invention by Pepperidge Farms in an attempt to sound posh. It's the taste that counts, right?

Waiting Tables, Restaurants, and Cigarettes: A Sonata in 3 Parts

A. Waiting Tables

If you or a friend has ever worked in the restaurant/hospitality business, you know how much it sucks when people don`t leave a deserving tip (or so I`ve heard, speaking as that stingy asian who never gives a cent above 15%). Serving tables is tough work in the US! But consider this: rather than succumbing to displaying your yonkers or smiling `til your jaw snaps, I've found a simpler solution to earn your fair pay... work as a waitress/waiter in France!

The advantages of waiting tables in a bistro abroad far outweigh whatever plane costs and visa issues you may encounter if seriously pursuing this plan. See for yourself:

The Perks of Waitressing in France

Can I have some cheese with that wine?

1) Get paid an hourly wage. And often not a bad one, either. Europe does not share the same tipping culture as America, so your paycheck will surmount to the same whether or not you bend & snap. And often times customers, mainly men who don't like jingly change in their pockets, still leave tips anyway (and believe me, each 2euro coin left on the table  really adds up!) Not to mention that waiters get the same health benefits as anyone else, which I'll explain in a future post.

2) Work stress-free. Knowing that the paycheck stays the same whether you serve 25 tables a night or only 3, waiters can work at their own, leisurely pace. Would you like a refill, sir? Let me bring it to you in 10 minutes. À toute suite!

3) Work outside. Pretty much all cafés and many restaurants have an outside terrace, so work that tan while you work that platter!

4) No doggy bags. Taking home unfinished food is a big non non in France, which means no fuss over finding the right sized-boxes and scooping up half-eaten lasagna. Just dump those plates straight in the bin!

As you can see, the lifestyle of waiters in France quite closely resembles that of the rich & famous (or at least according to Good Charlotte). But as all good things must come to an end, the pleasures of working in restaurants do not quite cross over to the people who eat at them.

B. Eating at Restaurants

What a Happy Waiting Staff Means for Everyone Else

(aka not good news)

1) Food is Ex-Pen-Sive! Good luck finding somewhere to eat under 25 euros (and don't forget the extra charges they force you to pay for bread and, don't scream, H20.) Plus, one still feels obligated to tip anyway after watching the waitress bring and clear away plates for two hours, so a night out ends up costing half a month's paycheck.

2) Service is a zero. On the plus side, no one gets annoyed at the interrupting waiter offering more water every 5 minutes. On the negative, if you actually need that refill, you're screwed. In France, waitresses take their sweet-ass time. They could care less if you can't read the menu or if your vegetarian sister accidentally received the salade de gesiers (duck gizzards) rather than de Roquefort (blue cheese). If they're on one of a dozen smoke breaks, she's gonna have to wait.

3) Eat Outside. A good thing all around, as long as you don't mind the smell of smoke or dog poo.

4) No doggy bags. Those who've had the pleasure of dining at Maggiano's can empathize. Imagine my utter heartbreak of discovering the cruel, sadistic custom in France of not bringing home leftovers. Down right Anarchy!! Why, my family only eats out for the soul joy of finding Styrofoam box presents in the fridge the next evening. Yet according to the French, leftovers connote weakness (or more likely a lack of sophistication). You either suck it up and finish your plate, or let those crispy 8 euro-each frog legs go to waste. Quite a sad dilemma, considering how delicious the food tastes yet how badly you've resisted overeating in order to fit in those Parisian skinny jeans.

As you can see, eating out in France quite closely resembles paying for the mortgage of a house that you can't afford. Suddenly a whopper doesn't sound all that bad.

C. Cigarettes

I will conclude this debate between feeder and eater with a seemingly unrelated yet completely intertwined topic.... cigarettes. Perhaps I'm paranoid of second-hand smoke, or maybe the fumes of the dude puffing à côté de moi have gotten to my brain and keyboard, but something must be said (and in my opinion, done) about the smoking habits here. The average Francophone youth cannot even sit for one meal without getting up twice for a drag. Each time I arrive to soccer practice, I squint my eyes (more than naturally) to find the entrance gate behind the clouds of smoke dispersed by fellow teammates. And don't even bother wearing perfume when you sortir... every bar forces on you a free trial of their latest line, tabacco spice. I'm not saying all Americans learned their lessons back in Junior High school D.A.R.E. class, but it's as if people are not even aware of any possible health risks of the reef.

 CODA
Anyone who understand music knows that the coda ties back together  the seemingly incongruent parts A, B, and C* (*this is not true). But this time, I'll leave it up to you to draw the connections, as I literally cannot sit at this café for a minute longer. My advice? Those coming to frenchy-land can choose one of three possible paths:

1) Work as a waitress in France, have a good life, smoke cigarettes;
2) Eat at a French restaurant, go broke with no leftovers to show for it, smoke cigarettes instead; or
3) Live off baguettes and cheese from the supermarché…. and just don't smoke cigarettes.

(answer in bold)