The Last 80 Days in Review

Due to a hectic couple of months, I have severely neglected this blog, which serves to chronicle my time in the United Kingdom and abroad. So, I will attempt a summary of the past few months.

The month of February kicked-off with the Superbowl. Since I am a devout Brown's fan, the game mattered very little to me, but I wanted to share the experience with the other student's from around the world. I feel like making people watch the Super Bowl is similar to how soccer is pushed-upon American's who travel out side the U.S. I look at it as a cultural retribution of sorts rather than an exchange. In hosting the party, I tried to give people the full experience including tailgating delicacies such as meatball subs, nachos, and barbecue. True to form, we even had 3 inches of snowfall the night before the game. I found an online stream of the game complete with American commercials (the affiliate was out of Arkansas of all places). All in all, 30-40 people attended the night, but only 15 people made it to the end as the game finished around 3:30 am. Most left still confused about the intricate rules but with an appreciation for tailgate style foods.

Given the number of deadlines during the period, my available free time has dwindled. In early February, I began writing on my second paper, which examined the governance of the fishing sector in developing countries. This topic of course heralds back to my interest in maritime security, yet it had little if any reference to this all-important, yet often ignored dimension of development. While I did intend to take up Carnival in Venice, Italy, the paper proved to be more work than I expected, so I had to delay the trip. By the end of February, I was in need of an escape and a short respite.


The last weekend in February (24-26), my friend Stephen, another U.S. Naval Officer studying at Oxford, drove over to Cambridge and we departed on Friday morning for Bruges, Belgium. While I initially planned on taking the Eurostar (the passenger train which runs through the Chunnel connecting the UK to France), Stephen offered to drive, which proved to be a short, yet amazing adventure. We traveled south from Cambridge around the beltway of London and onto Folkestone. Here, we entered the line to pass through security. given the high volume, the border security was waving cars into parking spaces in order to validate passports and travel documents. However, we were confused by the signalling and drove straight through border security without presenting our passports or getting them stamped. While I was concerned, the border authority was not and we slipped through the porous borders of the EU without notice. Soon, we entered a double-decker train and were on our way to France. This ride was anti-climatic. The train car had only one window and the Chunnel is a dark and cavernous tunnel so one cannot enjoy this incredible work of engineering.

Upon entering France, we proceeded north to Dunkerque, or Dunkirk for us English-types. Being a lover of food, I decided to try my hand at some steak tartare, a meat dish made from finely minced raw beef. Given my carnivorous desires, I enjoyed the meal quite well without any ill-effects. After lunch, we wound through the convoluted streets of Dunkirk in search of the beaches, where over 7 days in May and June of 1940, 338,226 allied troops were evacuated from the continent. I first learned about Dunkirk as a young boy when my grandfather delivered the documentary/propaganda films entitled: Why We Fight. These films produced by the War Department in 1942 chronicled the early death-struggle with fascism and the lead-up to American intervention in World War II. I remember vividly the tree lined roads with abandoned equipment, weaponry, machinery, and mechanized vehicles and the sign by the road which read: "Dunkerque." Today, Dunkirk is quite different from in 1940. The city is relatively modern and the beach is severely eroded. Beyond some relics of the German's fortress Europe, the only remnant of the evacuation is a marble memorial which reads: "To the glorious memory of the pilots, mariners, and soldiers of the French and Allied armies who sacrificed themselves in the Battle of Dunkirk, May–June 1940." Of course, the inscription is in French and discounts the British contribution to the evacuation in both choice of language (French versus English) and in diction (allied versus British).

We then began the 90-minute drive to Bruges across the stunning, French countryside. Bruges is located in Flanders, the Flemish region of Belgium. It is linked to the North Sea via a series of Napoleonic-era canals. The city itself is surrounded and is crisscrossed with canals, which served as an ample substitute for my cancelled trip to Venice. Given that we packed light, our first stop was at a local pub to sample the fine selection of Belgian beers, which boast an alcohol content of between 8% and 15%. Afterwards, we found a convenient hotel which served breakfast and strolled around during the evening enjoying an intermixing of delicious, rich Belgian Chocolate and beer, simultaneously. The city is filled with narrow cobblestone roads and horse drawn carriages replace the typical taxi service. After a few stressful weeks, this proved a welcome relief. We rose early and helped ourselves to a wonderful breakfast spread at the hotel before departing for a cycle shop to rent bikes.

Given our propensity for adventure, we rented two bicycles for the day with the intention of riding along the canals to the Netherlands. While this may seem daunting, the distance is only about 15 km or 9 miles along the aforementioned tree-lined canals. Upon renting the bikes, we worked our way out of the city and into the countryside. The canals serve as both a form of irrigation and drainage for the extensive farm lands around Bruges. They extend mile upon mile. The old tow-path has been converted to a cycle path and it was well-occupied. The scenery is breath-taking, yet almost entirely man-made. On our way, we stopped in Damme, which was a neat town along the canal, boasting an amazing church, which had the feel of being both preserved, yet overcome by nature. Past Damme, we headed toward Sluis, Netherlands. We unknowingly passed into the Netherlands as the line of demarcation is not clearly defined. Upon arriving in Sluis, we locked our bikes and strolled around the market village, which appear seamlessly out of the countryside. Given that shopping did not really inspire either one of us, we departed, failing to procure a map. Evidently, the tourist center is closed for 1.5 hours each day for lunch. Since we recalled vaguely the map at the bike shop, we decided the most reasonable thing to do would be to bike to the North Sea and the city of Knokke-Heist, Belgium.

Crossing the border with Belgium, we found a travel agent's shop and hoped to procure a localmap. Unfortunately, no local maps were to be had. So, we procured hand written directions. On our way along a country highway, a car whipped into the shoulder of the road in front of us. The man started yelling and pointing down the road. Stephen and I were unsure of his intent. He spoke only Flemish. We shrugged our shoulders and calculated how to escape this maniac. We wondered what we did that was wrong. His wife soon joined the conversation and she pointed and in broken English said: "Passport...wallet." I checked my pocket. My passport was gone. I realized that these kind strangers had watched it fall from my pocket and decided to stop and let me know. We thanked them graciously and turned back to begin the search. Fortunately, the passport was recovered.

We continued our journey to Knokke-Heist where we cycled along the central boulevard to the seaside. Here, we discovered the wonderful sand dunes and sand bars which line the coast of the North Sea. To the south, a tremendous wind farm lined the coast. A lone chair sat on the beach, so I dramatically posed for a humorous shot in a chair which was obviously too small. After our exploration of the beach (it excluded the water as the temperature was only in the 50's), we decided to enjoy some refreshment at a seaside cafe. Keeping with tradition, we re-hydrated with some more Belgian beer. After, we began our cycle ride back to Bruges, which took us partially through the countryside and partially along more canals. In total, we biked about 35 miles on our touring bicycles. Evidently, one can ride along the edge of the North Sea throughout the Netherlands, which may be a future trip.

Back in Bruges, we warmed by a fire in a cafe. Here, we discovered not only delectable Belgian waffles, but also 1-Liter Belgian beers. Tired and worn from our journey, we retired early. In the morning, we rose and enjoyed another massive breakfast, which was included with the room. After purchasing chocolates en masse and strolling a large swathe of the city on a quiet Sunday morning, we departed Bruges for Calais. I imagined the place, which served as the gateway to France in novels such as The Scarlet Pimpernel, A Tale of Two Cities, The Three Musketeers, and Around the World in 80 Days, to be filled with historically preserved areas. The city is vastly different from these depictions and my expectations.

 On our way, we met the French customs authority which regularly pulls over individuals as they transit along the coast. Once again, we were confused by their signalling. When they pulled in front of us, no less than four hands appeared out the window, waving in multiple directions. This time, we followed the customs car and the van that they were simultaneously pulling over. Once stopped, we were told to get out of the car. We smartly presented our military ids, which made the stop quick and efficient. The van was overstocked with a family moving and the customs agents were intent on searching it for contraband. I felt bad for the family as the van was literally packed wall to wall and everything had to be unpacked. The stop was yet another fun and entertaining experience for us, yet not for the van.

Upon arriving in Calais, we parked an began our exploration. While Calais has some redeeming history, the city was violated by both Allied and German bombings during World War II, leaving it a visage of its old self. We climbed the central clock tower and discovered a unique city from a design perspective, which blended historical fortifications and modern constructs. The history of Calais is well-worth a quick read as it is quite unique. It includes periods of not only French rule, but also English and German rule. It serves as a traditional fishing port. The inner harbor is filled with small fishing vessels. Along the docks, worn and torn nets are piled for removal. The simplicity and the artisanal nature of fishing is juxtaposed against the huge ferries which connect Calais to Dover. For dinner, we enjoyed the local delicacy of mussels and fritas (real French Fries) before departing for the Chunnel.

Upon reaching border security, we were stopped. The border agent became confused. My friend Stephen did not have the official student visa while my passport did. The UK border agent inadvertently swapped our passports and became quite angry as "my" passport did not have a student visa and would not scan into the registry. Stephen tried to explain that it was his passport, which is quite old, and that he had military orders which exempted him from the visa. However, the border security official was confused. He was convinced that I had been skirting visa regulations. Once he examined the photos at our request, he finally realized his error. As a principal lesson from this trip, I discovered the importance of having your documents in order and keeping your documents in your pocket! We returned without further occurrence to Cambridge. I felt both refreshed and reloaded for the weeks to come.

On February 27, I attended the King's Lynne Rotary Club for another speaking event. The gathering was an evening meeting, which proved to be quite a journey. Firstly, I had difficulties procuring a train ticket, which forced me to miss my train. Thus, I was late arriving at the meeting. Fortunately, my host Rotarian, Ian Mason, was flexible. We arrived at the golf course venue after a short drive. I ate quickly and was soon presenting. The Club is relatively younger than previous clubs. Like so many towns, King's Lynn has multiple Rotary Clubs, which I think is relatively uncommon in Rotary District 6650. The town in itself is interesting as it has a blend of fishing, agriculture, and chemical industries. It sits almost due north of London and Cambridge with easy access to the North Sea. To some degree, the town has de-industrialized, but regeneration is a top-priority. Per usual, my time discussing issues with the club seemed limited as I had to catch the last train back to Cambridge. I find that each visit is usually too short. I would enjoy returning to King's Lynn to explore the city as I only experienced the periphery.

In the weeks that followed, I prepared for the arrival of my fiance, Taylor, who was coming to visit for her Spring Break. Whenever she visits, I inevitably make capital improvements to my abode. This trip included the hanging of a clock in the living room and a mirror in the bathroom. This trip afforded the opportunity to show her the Cambridge tradition of formal hall, which is a scholarly dinner held on Friday evenings at Clare College. While I still had lectures, Taylor and I did manage to sneak away for the day to the town of Ely, which lies to the northeast of Cambridge. The town is a day trip paradise for Cambridge students who can go to such places as the Ely Cathedral and the boyhood home of Oliver Cromwell. As you stroll through the common pasture-land, you can look back across the meadow at the massive cathedral which appears disproportionately sized in relation to the size of the city. While I would classify it as a town, Ely is classified as a city because of the old English custom of designating cities based on the existence of cathedrals. The town's name is derived from the popularity of eel fishing. The city is actually an island and is part of the fertile flood plane known as the Fens, which was drained for agricultural purposes. In all, the town is quintessentially English. As we sat at lunch, we wondered if the students at the King's School, a preparatory school, appreciated the magnificence of it all. Given my schedule, Taylor also got to explore the city of Cambridge herself and experience the wide-range of scenes as I worked and attended lectures. With her departure, I began preparation for my upcoming exams for my course entitled: Rural Environment: Planning, Policy, and Approaches, which I hope will give me a comparative perspective by which to engage rural issues in the U.S.

     My preparation was inter-spaced with a trip to the Newmarket Rotary Club on March 20. The town is almost due east of Cambridge in Suffolk County. The town has a rich history of thoroughbred racing and claims to be the global center of horse racing. The approach to the town appears like something out of National Velvet, the 1944 classic with Elizabeth Taylor and Mickey Rooney. The road near the common heath, a shrubland habitat found on mainly low quality acidic soils, characterised by open, low growing woody vegetation, is lined with massive and fertile hedges. Each day the heath is filled with horses, permitted to run from the stables which surround the perimeter. The town is home to 50 plus stables and 3,000 race horses, which account for an estimated 1/3 of jobs in the town. It sports two large race courses: The Rowley Mile and July Course. The town also includes a massive horse arena for trading and showing. The Club was filled with a wide-variety of professions and welcomed me back to take in some horse racing in July. It would be silly to pass on this opportunity.

    The final weekend in March permitted a unique opportunity to take a trip out to Norwich (pronounced Nor-itch) to meet with local Rotary Club and the other Rotary Ambassadorial Scholars in District 1080 as well as Rotary Peace Fellows. The event was put-on by Hilary King who organized the entire weekend of activities and who tirelessly attends to the administrative work associated with hosting Rotary Ambassadors. While we only had a short presentation, the highlight of the evening included a wonderful train ride to Norwich with my fellow Ambassadorial Scholars, Jacob and Russ. While we are all at Cambridge, our schedules are such that we often do not get together, which is a shame. The evening was capped with a second dessert with Russ and I's host Rotarians Mr. and Mrs. Jarrold. We enjoyed a wonderful trifle made by Mrs. Jarrold and wine from her home near the Mosel River in Germany. The Jarrold's were the most gracious and humble hosts. Mr. Jarrold informed us that he worked in the printing business and we assumed that he had a small shop. The next morning before our pre-arranged tour, we discovered that he is the owner of Jarrolds, the largest independent department store in the UK. The company has been around since the 1770's and moved to Norwich in 1823. The store takes up an entire city block and includes three restaurants! We were pleasantly surprised. His humility was unending. During our tour, we traveled around the many sites in the downtown area rich with history and filled with no less than 40 different churches, many of which are now used commercially (e.g. puppet theaters and karate studios). While many departed after lunch, Jacob, Russ, and I spent the remainder of the day with Mr. Jarrold, a man of the city who knew the story of each building and each street. Norwich is Mr. Jarrold's city. By the end of the day, we were all quite fatigued. Mr. Jarrold, in his late seventies, remarked: "I hope that I have not tired you out." He did. The City is definitely on the list of places that I will take my parents when they visit.

    The following day I departed for the United States and Ohio. While I did not get to the Kinsman Rotary meeting, I did get to spend a tremendous amount of time with my fiance, my little niece, and the rest of my family. I also was fortunate to spend Easter at home with my family. I feel truly blessed to be able to do so as I know that my trips home for holidays may be limited in the years to come as I transition back to the Navy. I have since returned to Cambridge, completed an exam, and am now revising (i.e. studying in the English vernacular) for the upcoming terminal exams.

 

Back to the Cam

For Christmas, I bought Taylor a plane ticket to England. While we have been dating for nearly 6 years, we have never spent more than a few days together. For New Years, we were in London. We watched fireworks and the light show from directly behind the London Millennium Eye. After New Years, the city was all but abandoned. So, we spent a few days wandering the city in the rain and fog. We saw Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, The British Museum (See: Rosetta Stone), and various abandoned markets. In fact, the city was so dead that we struggled to find places to eat. I also introduced Taylor to the delicacy of an English breakfast. With London thoroughly vetted, we took the bus back to Cambridge. Upon arriving, we settled back-in and went to sleep.

Over the next week, we wandered throughout Cambridge, exploring various areas that I had not found. To properly welcome Taylor, my friends hosted a mini-dinner party, which was quite delicious and complete with bottles of champagne. In return, Taylor and I made homemade tomato basil pasta, a cherry tomato/mozzarella/olive oil sauce, and marinated chicken for fifteen of my friends. The real purpose of my return was an examination which I completed on the 10th of January. Meanwhile, Taylor set to work making my house more home-like. She completed the puzzle map of Kinsman that she got me for Christmas and framed it. In addition, she helped me revitalize the garden, which is currently a work in progress. While I did work her pretty hard, I also walked her to death. For example, we covered around 10-12 miles one day as we walked around the whole of Cambridge and then to Granchester Orchard, where we took lunch and tea at the same spot as Virginia Wolf and John Maynard Keynes. While I had avoided scones to some degree, I finally had the courage to try-one. It was quite a moment as I don't believe that I had had a scone since my grandmother passed away during my freshman year of high school. Fortunately, I now have her recipe, which was part of a "family" cookbook that my aunt made for me. It included all my grand-mother's favorites.

Before Taylor departed, we returned to London . Here, we discovered Leiceister Square and the Tower of London. The former contrasted greatly with our previous "market" experience as it was bustling with people and stands. We also ventured out to Portobello Road. Yes, "the street where the ages are stowed.," which was a childhood dream since seeing Bedknobs and Broomsticks. While we arrived too late in the day, we planned to return on a weekend when the street shuts-down and carts and barrows are rolled out into the road. In a bit of a hurry, Taylor and I returned to the hotel and dressed-up to go the theater. Earlier in the day, we purchased tickets for Backbeat, which chronicles a back-story of the Beatles, complete with live musical performances. It was a tremendous show.

In the morning, we enjoyed a quick breakfast before heading to London Heathrow with the good intention of taking the Tube (London Underground). However, our train was behind schedule and taken off the line. We then switched trains with a long delay. I then took us to the wrong terminal for US Airways, which meant another delay and another train ride. In all, we arrived with enough time for Taylor to check-in and to part. It was once again time for us to say an all too frequent word: "goodbye".

With much work ahead, I set to it. I currently await the grading of a problem set, an essay, and an examination, which adequately consumed me for the last few weeks. In the interim, I have also attended the District Council Meeting, which was a lovely affair. Of particular interest, Rotary International British Isles (RIBI) reform was debated. RIBI is a unique structure in Rotary as it is a governing body between Rotary International and the District-Level. RIBI is contentious because many people feel that it is unnecessary while others think it an important coordination tool. The debate was contentious. In addition, I also attended a Rotary of Cambridge Guest Evening, which covered drug use in England. While some proposed decriminalization of drug users vice legalization, others argued for legalization with control. Still others argued for strict enforcement (a minority). It was a weird mix of emotion and rationality of statistics and anecdotes. Overall, it has made me think about the problem in a whole new light. Does the media provide enough coverage of drug fatalities with informed information? Does respect for the family and privacy limit knowledge of such fatalities and prevent social lessons from being learnt? Can drugs really be "controlled"? Aren't prescription drugs abused everyday? Is the death or suffering of an individual enough to create/change a policy? How do you derive "statistical significance" when you are talking about human life? These questions have led to a lot of thinking, but not many answers.

Home for the Holiday

Once back in the United Kingdom, I completed my Christmas shopping and prepared for my journey home. With an overnight layover in Chicago, I took my father’s advice and booked into a hotel room, even though I slept only 6 hours in total. When I arrived at the airport, I was met by my mother, father, my girlfriend (Taylor), and her friend. Per usual, we stopped at Bob Evan’s for breakfast and then completed the hour and a half drive home It was so nice being home with those that I love the most. They have sacrificed a lot in the support of my various pursuits. The 14-days home seemed to fly-by. The speed was exacerbated by my engagement to Taylor. I will spare you the detail of the moment, but I think it appropriate to say that I could not be more fortunate. We plan to marry on December 22, 2012. At which time, she will join me in Cambridge. If you are interested in the wedding planning and execution, you can follow Taylor's blog (please note: she is a REAL woman and not the avatar depicted): http://itsabrideslife.com/author/taylor/?showbio=y




Whilst home, I also joined the Kinsman Area Rotary Club for the packing and distribution of food boxes to members of the local community. The event takes place at the local IGA, which converts its stock room into a distribution center. I have to admit that I found the people arriving to collect their boxes quite courageous. I think it takes true humility to seek a helping hand. The event was also supported by the Badger High School National Honors Society, who turned out in numbers despite school being closed for the holiday. All in all, I believe 60 boxes with 60 different items each were packed and handed-out. The event also gave me an opportunity to catch-up the club on various happenings and to update them on my experiences in the UK.




In all, coming home provided perspective. Many of my closest friends did not get home this Christmas as they were serving abroad or on deployment. I am grateful for the fact that I can squeak out a couple of more Christmas holidays with my family before I am expected to do the same. To those folks, I extend my heartfelt thanks.

Bucha-Bucha-Bucharesti

In the morning, Gruia and I set out together and I received the architectural history of Bucharest (condensed version). I also soon learned the story of the Revolution as we visited the square where the open revolt erupted. We examined the bullet-holes which remain. As Gruia told the story, I could not help but feel like an insignificant being in this space. On December 21, 1989, Chauchesku gave a speech from the Central Committee Building in Revolution Square (named for the uprising which would occur this day). His speech was to condemn the uprising in Timisoara (mentioned earlier). The square was forcibly packed, yet people had had enough. They resisted and jeered. Chauchesku felt threatened and departed by helicopter. The tanks rolled into the streets. The square was decimated. Today, a memorial stands for all the people lost in the pursuit of freedom. Each one is listed on a wall of remembrance and a series of small wooden stumps, form a walkway. Each one representing a Romanian patriot. In one corner of the square, the old secret police building, partially destroyed in the riots, pays tribute to a new era. This place of secrecy forms the foundation of a glass, small-scale, office building erupting from the foundation.

After, I headed to the Palace of Parliament, Chauchesku’s grand, national project. The building is the second largest in the world behind the Pentagon. Imposing and spacious, its construction and the apartment buildings nearby led to the destruction of ¼ of the city. Today, it serves as the Palace of Parliament (The communist term was “Palace of the People”). It is filled with ton-seize chandeliers, handmade rugs, marble, and gold plating. The cost of the project is unknown as its components were merely expropriated. It is a tribute to excess and suffering, yet it is the seat of democracy in Romania. I found the contrast quite ironic. Security was tight, and I did not expect a “full” tour. However, I found it strange that we could not enter the parliamentary chamber. Transparency remains an issue. For dinner, Gruia’s mother made us a fine meal of chicken gizzards and white cream sauce with polenta. After a day of fresh air and a filled stomach, I fell asleep quickly.

Per usual, I awoke to find an entire breakfast spread prepared by Gruia’s mother. This morning, she had prepared liver and onions. She was overly concerned that I would not eat it. Since Gruia had work to complete, I set out on my own to explore Bucharest. With a hand-drawn map, I found my way to the tram and packed myself aboard with the morning traffic. After what seemed like an eternity in the cramped, intimate car, I arrived at the Arc de Triumph. From here, I walked to the Bucharest Village Museum, comprised of houses that were disassembled all over Romania and moved to one, central location. Usually, the houses are open, but given the weather and low volume of tourists, they remained close. Here, I fell in love with the intricate thatching. In fact, I took a significant volume of pictures of said thatching. When I have a vegetable garden, it will surely be fenced in such a way. While waiting for Gruia, I explored the nearby Herestrau Park. Here, I discovered a tribute to Michael Jackson of all people.

When Gruia arrived, we set-out for the Peasants Museum. Before entering, we enjoyed a delicious lunch in the attached café. Here, I enjoyed a pureed bean dish with caramelized onions and more bean soup. The Peasant Museum chronicles traditional society within Romania. The gallery is open and tells a story of peasant life through its design. Few relics are behind glass. In contrast, you can descend from the life of the peasant to the communist era. In the basement, one can find communist busts and the stories of those who suffered under the Soviets and Nikolai Chauchesku. We also explored an attached gallery that chronicles the dark-side of European integration and more widely globalization. In the north of Romania, many individuals abandon their rural roots and cross-borders in order to find higher wages. They return to their home areas, having suffered severe employment conditions in construction, home healthcare, or worse. In order to save money, they live in intolerable conditions. They return home and assume a position of relative affluence. As a status symbol, they erect massive houses or “pride houses,” which are barren, concrete and brick houses. Many are never completed. Those houses that are finished are poorly furnished. This practice is destroying communities and traditional architecture throughout Romania.

With day closing upon us, we headed to Gruia’s old urban planning/architectural firm, which was a fully renovated factory building from the turn of the century. The building was part of an urban regeneration program intended to re-develop one of the dilapidated portions of the city. The area was one of contrasts. As we walked to catch the bus, we passed along a street that seemed to divide two worlds. In the darkness, dogs ranged an open overgrown knoll. Their shadows hid all but their outlines. Stretching along the far-side of the knoll was the academy of science constructed for Elena Chauchesku, the wife of the last communist leader. While she could not read, she somehow managed to “discover” a valuable polymer and receive a doctorate in chemistry. Her building remained unfinished when the regime fell, but the local University is redeveloping the area. On the other side, a well-kept row of shops ran along the street. It was a chilling scene.

By this time, we were due at an art gala. In an old communist book depository, a group of artists (friends of Gruia) were opening their new exhibit. My favorite piece ( I found very few) was a decapitated bust in the open elevator shaft. Evidently, the basement of the museum is filled with busts of communist officials, carefully logged and identified. While I convinced the organizer to show me the area, she was not available until the end of the week. Unfortunately, I had to depart. With a full night ahead of us, Gruia and I met several of his friends at a local bar before heading to a small gathering at another friend’s flat.

The next morning started slowly. Gruia sent me on my way with the intention of meeting me after I explored the National Art Museum. While I am usually not a huge art fan, this blog theme seems to say otherwise. Here, I discovered the works of Aurel Popp(Impetus), Theodor Aman (The Seaport of Constanta), Nicolae Grigorescu (French Peasant by the Fireplace), and Jean Alexandru Steriadi (Landscape from Fagaras). With three hours of culture under my belt, I headed through the Cismigiu Gardens, where I managed to get lost on several occasions. Like all the parks in Bucharest, I can only imagine the life that consumes them in the spring and summer. Once I found my bearings, I continued on to the Holocaust Memorial. Between 280,000 and 380,000 Jews and Roma were killed during World War II and many more were sent into forced labor. The memorial, like the Romanian Holocaust until recently, lies hidden behind the city hall in the midst of a parking lot. One could simply walk by it and not know or understand its meaning. It was sterile. A smoke stack reaches into the air and train tracks are etched into the ground. The memorial itself is a recreation of a crematorium. Behind glass, the remnants of Jewish headstones lie. They are all that remain of several cemeteries. The fascists intended on wiping all signs of the Jewish faith from the earth. Many headstones were made into concrete. It was moving and powerful, yet concealed.French Peasant by the Fireplace), and Jean Alexandru Steriadi (Landscape from Fagaras). With three hours of culture under my belt, I headed through the Cismigiu Gardens, where I managed to get lost on several occasions. Like all the parks in Bucharest, I can only imagine the life that consumes them in the spring and summer. Once I found my bearings, I continued on to the Holocaust Memorial. Between 280,000 and 380,000 Jews and Roma were killed during World War II and many more were sent into forced labor. The memorial, like the Romanian Holocaust until recently, lies hidden behind the city hall in the midst of a parking lot. One could simply walk by it and not know or understand its meaning. It was sterile. A smoke stack reaches into the air and train tracks are etched into the ground. The memorial itself is a recreation of a crematorium. Behind glass, the remnants of Jewish headstones lie. They are all that remain of several cemeteries. The fascists intended on wiping all signs of the Jewish faith from the earth. Many headstones were made into concrete. It was moving and powerful, yet concealed.

I then began my walk to meet Gruia for a tour of the old neighborhoods. As we wandered the streets, I snapped a picture of Dacia car from the 1990’s. It was blocking a sidewalk with its rims on the pavement. It seemed symbolic. The wheels fell off the Romanian auto-industry only days before when Renault, the French owner of Dacia, announced that it would move production to Morocco. As we wpassed through the streets, the magnitude of blight paired with well-maintained property confused me. In Romania, property rights are uncertain even after privatization. People simply won’t invest in disputed property. Claims come from both home and abroad. After the tour, we set-out for the Modern Art Museum. After a cramped bus-ride, we arrived at the Palace of Parliament (multipurpose building). Travelling during rush-hour was near impossible, given the volume of people demanding public transport and a new commuter class. The infrastructure of the city (roads and parking) is not well-suited for such volume. Traffic creeps and parking occurs on sidewalks and in pedestrian areas. While the museum was closing, we slipped in under the guise of attending a lecture. Gruia was determined to show me the view from the top of the palace where the Art Gallery’s café is located. Unfortunately, the fog was quite dense and the view limited.

Before dinner, we headed to the Patriarchal Cathedral and adjacent former parliamentary building, abandoned in favor of the Palace of the People. Set upon a hill, I could imagine as Gruia described the fanfare of Easter, where the hill, the square, and walkways are filled with people. This night, it was almost entirely abandoned. For dinner, we went to Caru cu Bere, which was a neat old beerhouse opened in 1879, complete with vaulted ceilings and live performances of Romanian folk-dances. Post-dinner, we went to a little café and reflected about my time in Romania.

My flight departed at 7:30. So, I rose early (5 am) and said my goodbyes to Gruia. It will be a trip that I do not soon forget. I owe a great debt to Gruia and his friends for being such gracious and welcoming hosts.

My Baby Came Down From Romania; She was the Queen of Transylvania

   With night upon me, I headed to Bucharest. Gruia met me at the train station and took me on the subway. While I really needed a shower, Gruia was hosting a birthday celebration at a local restaurant and no shower was to come. In Romania, it is traditional for the person celebrating the birthday to purchase drinks for their friends. Gruia would not accept anything. In all, I met an eclectic group of Romanians. Many of whom worked in urban planning and design and a few who did not. After drinks, we headed onto an underground bar, which is in an a flat where Gruia once worked. With a well-stocked bar, music, and a tremendous window view of the lane below, I felt I had entered a different time. With an early morning ahead, we returned via car to Gruia's block. Even at night, I was suprised by the imposing nature of the communist apartment buildings, which stretched symmetrically for blocks.

In the morning, we rose early to find an entire breakfast spread awaiting us. Gruia's mother is an engineer who works at one of the airports in Romania. She greeted me kindly and her hospitality abounded during my stay. I hope that Gruia can someday come and visit and allow my mother to spoil me as his mother did.  She does not speak English, but I promised to learn some Romanian in order to thank her properly. After breakfast, we met two of Gruia's students and began our trek to the fortified churches of Transylvania, retracing my route from the previous day. Our first stop was Peles Castle, which was constructed in 1873 and occupied by King Carol I. The place was both imposing and extravagant, but the stop was short as our intention was not modern castles,but rather fortified churches. These Saxon churches were constructed in vast numbers all over Transylvania to protect the Germanic population from invading and marauding Turks. They are the only fortified churches in the world!

In Cincu, we discovered the true reality of these wonderful and historically unique structures. Cincu used to have a large Saxon population; however, following World War II, the Russian occupation led to massive deportation to work camps in the Crimea. While many returned sometime later, nothing would be the same. In the 1980's, the remainder migrated to Germany in a cash for Germans program, executed between West Germany and Romania. After, the Roma population grew, yet some Romanians remain. The church utilized tiered defenses with outer walls and the sanctuary as the citadel. The walls, complete with arrow slots, were tall and imposing. The limited numbers of windows were above reach. As we walked the streets, it was if we had entered a ghost town, abandoned by time and people alike. We found a number on the door and Gruia called to have the church unlocked. Little did we know that the little old man who arrived by bicycle was an amature historian. With his insights, we examined the whole of the church from the burnt door frame, a consequence of a Turkish siege, to the removable floor panels, which exposed an internal well, the burial ground of cremated Turkish enemies, and an escape tunnel system which runs to an old cemetary. We were even permitted to climb the belfrey. The cost was minimal while the experience was priceless. Given the absence of a protestant community, the church is in disrepair without an ally.

After a longer car ride and a short stop at another fortified church, we reached Biertan. Here, we checked into a central guesthouse, which Gruia had arranged for the night. The fortified church of this town is well preserved from its outer walls to its central church with external towers and layered defenses. Its preservation results from its designationas a UNESCO World Heritage site. Unfortunately, regular hours terminated in early December and the Saxon manager (one of the few Saxons around) was an obtuse little old lady. We decided to try the next day. As dinner came, we dined on sarmale, Romanian stuffed cabbage. We enjoyed an excellent soup and tasted the locally made wine. We were also given local moonshine or tsuica, which made me warm from my head to my toes. With the evening still young, we went for a walk around the lighted church. upon returning, we snacked on sarmale and drank tsuica to excess while discussing the world. It was very personable as these strangers in the morning became friends by evening. As our inhibitions declined, the conversation ranged from Romanian politics to the perception of America within the group.

In the morning, we woke to a full breakfast complete with homemade cheese which I struggled to eat. After, we walked onto to Copsa Mare, a nearby town several miles away. The walk was through the country side along an unpaved road. While some complained, I found the walk exhilirating. Reaching a fork, some traveled down the main road, while the majority traversed a shepard's trail which cut the ridge overlooking the village. The scenic path provided a beautiful overview of the layout of the town and another fortified church on the other side of the village. As we descended into the village, we soon had a follower: A young Roma around the age of 8 who was quite happy to meet his first American. Our little guide took us to the church, describing the village. After we toured the church, we gave him a small sum only to realize that his family had a home. His father angered by his son begging asked us if he had asked for money. One of the members of the group informed him that it was money for the service that he provided. These words placated the father. The walk back to Biertan was marked by singing and laughter. Soon, we were back on the road.

At this point, the tsuica took control and I soon fell asleep. Our journey for the day took us to the Secular/Hungarian area of Transylvania, where the population does not actually speak Romanian. This area served as the birthplace of the Unitarian church. In Darjiu, we saw a Seclar version of a fortified church, complete with a long-running mural of conflict within the sanctuary. These murals depict the legend of King Ladislas, Paul's Conversion, and the Martyrdom of the 10,000. Here, the walls which surrounded the church were remarkably higher and more imposing. This site is on the UNESCO World Heritage List as well. After, we began our trek back to Bucharest. On the way, we stopped and enjoyed some real goulash and various other Hungarian dishes. Given my experience to this point, I looked forward to what Bucharest had to offer.

Why Don't You Come to Romania?

In an attempt to capture the last month, I will endeavor to summarize its three segments: Romania, Christmas, and Cambridge. This post covers my early experience in Romania from December 6 to December 10.

With intention of meeting my friend, Gruia, in Bucharest on December 9, I left for Romania on the 6th of December with the intention of landing in Timisoara, a major city in western Romania, and working my way by train to Bucharest. Once in Bucharest, we were to take cars back through the Carpathian Mountains and into rural Transylvania. The journey was filled with several surprises beginning with Gruia being on the same flight as I. This coincidence was quite fortunate as Gruia provided valuable background on Romania and the sites to see. As I learned, Romania is defined by three characteristics: The U-Shaped Carpathians, the Black Sea, and the Danube River.

With this background and some historical notes, I was on my way, but not before, Gruia and I enjoyed a hearty meal on the main square in Timisoara. From the beginning, I fell in love with the cuisine: Polenta, Sausages, and Bean Soup abound. After Gruia departed by train, I checked myself into the old communist party hotel, which was quite cheap and furnished with this dull blue paint. Of remark, it was quite similar to the old communist hotels in Vietnam. After finishing a project for school, I journeyed out into the bustle of holiday life. In the main square, I discovered my love of vin fiert, warm wine, which is sold quite cheaply. As I wandered the city, I realized for the first time that I was in Europe: the open squares, the market culture, and the cuisine. Known as "Little Vienna," Timisoara claims to be the cultural hub of Romania and assumes a certain elitist attitude, but I found it most welcoming. Piata Victoriei (Victory Square), the starting place of the 1989 Revolution, contained a Christmas bazaar. Nearby, the Habsburg-era, Union Square is complete with cobblestone and movable wrought-iron benches to suit your taste. Outside of the city center, I found a much different experience. In the Fabric neighborhood, I discovered the contrast of the city: the grand squares and cultured high-life paired with decay of neighborhoods. Fabric was the old German neighborhood, abandoned over time and repossessed by the large Roma population. Squatting is quite commonplace. As I wandered the streets, I saw many dilapidated houses and store fronts which had been broken into and subsequently occupied. Throughout Romania, property rights are a major issue, given the privatization of public property's some 20 years ago.

After a full day of exploration, I caught the evening train for Sibiu in Western Transylvania. Arriving around 11 pm, I had arranged online for a cheap hotel rather than the hostel recommended by my friend. I took a cab from the train to the hotel to find it dark, gates closed. I knocked and tried calling without luck. On a dark street without any sort of understanding of the cities layout, a man exited a nearby house. He walked across the street and put the light on a cab. I walked over and said "Casa?" He nodded and motioned for me to get into the car. Nervous, I worried as we passed by many-a western hotel and found myself on a back street. He stopped the cab and turned off the engine. He then smiled, which may sound unnerving, but there was a welcome-ness and kindness to it. He got out first and I followed suit. Pointing down the street to a hotel, he motioned for me to follow. We entered and I examined the rates: 60 lei. He spoke with the women and I assumed that they were romantically inclined. I booked into the hotel, charging me a special rate of 30 lei. I looked puzzled and she pointed to the cab driver and said "prieten" or friend. At this point, all pre-existing fears disappeared.

Without a map, I began wandering towards what I assumed to be the center of town. I walked by the old Roman bastions and into the central square. As it was early, no one was stirring and I thouroghly enjoyed the solitude. The town is divided by the old walls of the fortified city, which divide the high town from the more residential low town. After a morning of wandering and getting lost in the labyrinth of streets, passages, and alley ways, I made my way into the City Clock Tower where I climbed for what seemed like an eternity with my heavy pack. However, the view made the trip worthwhile: The Carpathians and the Transylvanian plane stretched for miles, blending into each other. For lunch, I followed Gruia's direction to Crama Sibiul Vechi, where I exited the street and entered into a less than inspiring building only to find an underground gem. The restaurant is in the old brick-lined cellar and serves traditional shepard's fare. While the meat grill and bean soup were excellent, it was the atmosphere, complete with waiters wearing traditional dress and locals who knew the staff as old friends, that defined the experience. Late in the afternoon, when the sky turned gray, the first snow came to Transylvania. I departed soon after.

In the early evening, I arrived in Brasov, which lies farther to the east, yet still quite central in Transylvania. I stayed in the city center (Piata Sfatului), where the night came alive with a traditional Christmas bazaar. These bazaars, I found, are a staple within the squares of the many city's and towns. In the morning, I rose early and walked the footpaths along the old city wall, which was in great repair. I climbed into the hill side where I examined the town from the defensive heights around the town. As I climbed to the Black and White Towers, I was filled with the nostalgia of childhood. In Brasov, I found the towers, which my minature knights once defended/attacked.

After, I made arrangement with a cab driver to take me to Bran Castle, the inspiration for Bram Stokers Dracula. In exchange for the roundtrip, I paid him 50 lei or around 12 dollars. After about an hour drive, we arrived in the town of Bran where I walked the rest of the way to the castle. As I approached, I thought to myself: If Dracula lived here, he certainly had good taste. The snowy landscape and snow under my foot made the trip quite romantic. The castle sits in a mighty gorge dividing Transylvanaia from the outside. As a central passage through the Carpathians, it was a route for both trade and invasion. Given its position, it also served as a tax house, generating revenue for the likes of Vlad the Impaler, who never actually stayed at the castle. While imposing from the outside, the inside proved to be well-maintained, but rather poorly decorated. Periodic pieces from the 19th and early 20th Century do not belong in castles. As I walked down, I was over-joyed: my first castle.

On the way back to Brasnov, we passed through Rasnov,a town between Bran and my destination. Admiring the great citadel on the hill-side (decorated with a tacky metal-framed RASNOV Hollywood style sign), the cab driver offered to take me to the base of the mountainside where I could walk to the top. I asked the fee and he smiled: No extra chargd. While he spoke very limited English, I found our trip quite engaging as I pointed and motioned my way to understanding of the local context. As a sign of trust, I left my bag in the car (I learned my lesson at the City Council Tower in Sibiu). As I walked up the winding road to the entrance of the trails, the coniferous forest surrounded me. I watched as dogs scurried about the hillside, following my path. As I reached the zenith, I discovered a large fortress, used by the Saxons in times of invasion. While much has been restored, the ruins were the best portion of the independent tour. Each family was assigned a cubicle of space to store food in preparation of conflict and as a place to stay. The buidlings are mostly gone, yet the foundations remain. Per usual, some buildings are restored and commercialized. The well, a source of livelihood to the Saxon inhabitants, was alledgedly dug over a 20-year period by several Turkish prisoners, who were given their freedom. Taking liberty with the lack of supervision, I climbed along the less than reliable dirt footpath behind the Rasnov sign. Here, I had a commanding view of the Carpathians and the pancake below, as I walked back down, I was quite satisfied with my morning adventure.

Returning to Brasov, I had lunch outside at a local cafe, where I enjoyed the liveliness of the square by day. Afterwards, I visited the 13th Century Black Church, which gets its name from its destructive past. Both the Turks and Hapsburgs burnt the church, permanently darkening its walls. While the outside is Gothic, the interior is Baroque in style. After I walked to the old main gate, where I discovered a page torn from a fairy tale. I looked for Sleeping Beauty to no avail. With two-hours left, I decided to take the tram up the side of Mount Tampa, which overlooks the city. After a long delay, I finally reached the top where I found an overpriced restaurant and a series of antennas. In about 15 minutes of hiking along snow covered trails, I reached the summit, somehow isolated from the commercialism. Looking down upon Brasnov, I noted the distinction between the various sections of the town, the old division between Saxons and Romanians. With only 45 minutes to spare before my train to Bucharest, I trecked down the hillside to the valley below (Trecking is the technical term for running like mad). Arriving at the train station, I actually discovered that I had the wrong train time, so I sat in a smoky, train station cafe enjoying coffee. While seated, a young boy slighly entered the cafe, begging for food. While this behavior was suspect, the fear in his eyes when the policeman entered gave away his sincerity. While I was reluctant to give him money, I did anyway. With a smile, the boy said: "Americano." I hope that it was with fondness rather than cleverness. As I boarded the train, I realized that Bucharest and the Saxon villages to follow would have a difficult time living up to my 24-hour experience in Brasnov, Rasnov, and Bran.