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.