Sorry

We are having some serious issues with computers and Romania. We will be scarce on the internet. I'll get to the explanation eventually but for now - we hate Burcharest and all that it stands for.

The following was written on Word and uploaded in a park on a busy street with three people waiting for me. Read it. Enjoy it.


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Some of this diatribe will be review for some of you, for others it will be your first look into the wonderful world that is Romania.

Much of the action takes place in Pantelimon, a ghetto not-so-fabulous suburb of Bucharest.

Bucharest itself is an Eastern European cesspool festering under the legacy of communism, the dim-witted policies of a genetically inferior dictator whose death was far too kind, and a crumbling infrastructure.

Communism bred a population who trust no one, a population that cares only about what happens to number one. This is in stark contrast to our experiences in Palestine where – at least from a distance – people seemed to care about their neighbours.

Back to Pantelimon. To give you an idea of what kind of area this is I’ll relay this little gem of a story. On our first cab ride into Pantelimon this year the cab driver upon realizing where we were heading was aghast.

“Only the shmekre live here”, he exclaimed. Shmekre are to the best of my understanding conmen. People up to “funny business”.

We would soon learn that this funny business is not only something others do.

Pantelimon comes complete with dirt roads, pot holes the size of Buicks, partially finished homes that house multiple families, and of course Romanian dogs.

Under communism people were no longer able to feed and take care of their dogs. Soon domesticated dogs were released to fend for themselves. There are now thousands of their offspring roaming the streets of Romania. They are loud, dirty, and mean. They often travel in packs. They killed a Japanese tourist last year.

We are currently visiting the Copoiu family. This is Swell’s Mother’s parents. The cast of characters in this leg of our journey is small.

They include:
The enabling relative – Mamia, the Grandma.
The alcoholic relative – Tatia, The Grandpa
The sick relative – Getta, the schizophrenia-doesn’t-explain-it-all aunt
The thieving relative – Nica, I have no idea who this really is but he’s related somehow.
Swell
Me
Swell’s mum

It is a small cast of characters but the past 6 days have been fraught with drama, anger, disgust, fights and of course a growing disgust with Bucharest – truly a hell on earth. When God looks down on Romania from his giant bean bag chair in the sky he sees Bucharest as a giant ink blot staining an otherwise beautiful canvas.

We left Nablus via a very expensive cab ride – paid for by the school – with some minor issues. We were to be picked up at 9:30 am to be taken to the checkpoint to meet our driver. Of course our first driver arrived at our home before 9. We were unable to communicate to him that he was very early and we were not ready. By 9:30 we were ready to go but our second driver was held up due to an over abundance of check points on the route to Nablus. By 11 we were on our way to Tel Aviv.

Our flight to London was without incident.
Our time in London was nothing but incident.

Swell diligently arranged a hotel at an alarmingly-so-good-this-can’t-be-true rate as we had an overnight layover. We were to take a bus from the airport to the hotel. To say London is expensive is understatement. Our bus cost 4 pounds each (~$8) each way. Our wallets chose for us not to eat dinner.

We landed in Terminal 4. The bus was to stop at all terminals. We looked and looked for the bus stop. Upon asking a worker we were told to go to terminals 1-3 as the bus didn’t come to Terminal 4.

Terminals 1-3 are a long train ride from Terminal 4. We took said long train ride grateful that our luggage was checked all the way through to Romania. Even without our checked baggage we each had two heavy carry-ons.

We got to the station that led to Terminals 1-3 and followed the bus signs only to learn that this was, in fact, not the right spot to catch bus H6. Someone said to go to Terminal 2 (we were at Terminal 1). We walked outside to get to Terminal 2 and saw some bus stops. They were labeled 1-12. Nowhere did we see the stop for H6. We asked yet another person and they said to go to stop 12. I finally realized that stop 12 was the stop for all the H buses – H meaning hotel?

Swell, I am sure, knew all of this long before I figured it out but she likes me to discover things on my own. She thinks that allowing me to learn at my own pace will help me “mature” and become “a better, less disgusting, more sophisticated person.” It hasn’t happened in 30 years, I’m convinced it won’t happen at all. Swell insists that we should never give up and that things can happen in our oldenhood even though it seems unlikely.

Our bus was to come every 20 minutes. 45 minutes after our arrival bus H6 finally arrives and we were on our way to our hotel. Swell insists that the whole bus/hotel thing is a scam. She is certain that someone is making money hand over fist by having all flights through London have ridiculous overnight layovers thereby requiring a hotel stay AND a bus trip to get to the hotel. She is adamant about it. And will bite you if you disagree.
Trust me.

Just agree.

It was a gigantic hotel. We slept. We got up and immediately headed for the airport for our morning flight to Romania.

Here is my first piece of advice for you, my dear readers, in this post. NEVER EVER FLY THROUGH LONDON AIRPORTS. Never. Never. Never.

Swell said that the night before while she ranted and raved about the bus and the hotel scam.

I didn’t realize it until the next day. Again learning at my own pace.

Heathrow was a madhouse. Swell was very concerned about not having had the opportunity to fully get ready in the morning (Remember we checked our luggage all the way through? We got a free “toothbrush” and “toothpaste” from our earlier flight so we were really only saying “deodorant be damned”. Well Swell not so much.) We stopped off at the Body Shop – we had a long time before our flight after all. She shopped and was able to smell like a rose even after a long flight.

Me?

Meh.

We also stopped to get some postcards (which we never mailed) for our nephews back home.

After that purchase we decided that we were hungry and should go through security to get some eats.

We got to security and were confronted by the queue to end all queues. People lined the length of the airport. We got in said line which snaked ever so slowly to two men telling people where to go and how to get there.

Man 1 Hell.

Man 2 Fast.

Swell had dutifully put her liquids in a small plastic bag. We got to the head of the line and were told that we were, in fact, breaking very important anti-terrorism rules and would not under any circumstance be permitted to pass through security with…

… Two carry-ons each.

“You must combine those bags into one.”

“Including the purse.”

Now I’ve not taken exception to the asinine new rules that have been instigated in this time of terrorism but I’m confused by this particular rule. I flew the day before on this same airline, to this same airport with two carry-ons. Not a word was said. Now I am forbidden from taking them on this plane. If I could squish them into one bag I could take the same amount of stuff but as two separate bags – impossible?

There was no way on God’s green earth that I would be able to combine all my crap into one bag.

Upwards and onwards.

We joined the British Airways queue. It was longer than a 1980s-era Romanian bread line. We waited, and waited, and waited. Finally we were at the head of the queue. Now here I will give credit where credit is due. British Airways checked our carry-on luggage through to Romania at no charge. We appreciated it, although we were pissed at the inconvenience and stupidity of the London Airport rule forbidding more than one carry-on – purses inclusive.

We joined the security line, which was, thankfully, now shorter. We got past the two one-bag-only-or-we’ll-box-your-ears security guards and wound our way cattle-style to the passport checkers/x-ray machines. Two computers, two pairs of shoes, two belts, one overly-friendly pat down and we were finally past security. Looking at the monitors to determine where our gate would be we realized that they don’t put the gate number up until 30-40 minutes before the scheduled departure of your flight.

Swell thinks, OUCH realizes, and rightfully so (please don’t bite me again), that this is a giant scam. You have no choice but to hang out in the midst of shop after shop. The shops are in the middle of the terminal and without knowing where your gate is the middle of the terminal is the most logical place to be.

Two yummy, but very expensive sandwiches later our flight info is still not on the monitor. Off to the duty free shop we go. We look around. We buy nothing.

Check the monitor. Gate 24. Off we go. We have 30 minutes.

Walk. Walk. Walk.

Gate 21 to the right.

Walk.

Gate 22 to the right.
Walk.

Gate 23 to the right. Gate 24-26 straight ahead.

Why, oh why is there a big group of people ahead?

Walk.

Why are they lining up?

Walk.

Is that our gate?

Walk.

It can’t be. I see the sign for gate 24 past the people.

Walk.

Oh.

My.

Goodness.

They can’t be serious?

This can’t be true?

They are.

It is.

We have to go through freaking security AGAIN! There was no other way to get to this gate than through the previous security. Redundant much?

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Through security and immediately on the half empty plane. Exit row. Thank-you Tel-Aviv checker-inner lady.

Shoot. We have a row-mate.

And so begins our re-introduction to Romanian women.
Word of advice. Never, ever buy a skirt that buttons up in the front. Especially denim. Unless the buttons are closely spaced. Lest your skirt pooch open between the buttons.

We arrive at the airport in Romania.

As soon as we step off the plane we wonder what we’ve done. The smell. Oh, the smell. Bucharest stinks.

Figuratively and literally.

We realize that we have just started our last leg of our unplanned see-the-worst-the-world-has-to-offer tour.

Egyptian poverty, filth, despair – Check.
Palestinian poverty, occupation, despair – Check.
South African post-apartheid, poverty, despair – Cbeck
Romanian, poverty, filth, despair, distrust, breasts – Check and check

We are here. Let the games begin.

Let’s eat meat. Lots and lots of meat.

Lets drink plum brandy. Lots and lots of brandy.

Let’s take off all our clothes. Who needs clothes?

Bag 1. At least we have some of our stuff.
Bag 2. This is looking promising.
Bag 3. Half way there.
Bag 4. All our important stuff.

Wait. I checked my carry-on. MY CARRY ON HAS BOTH OF MY CAMERAS IN IT. WHERE THE HECK IS THAT BAG?

Bag 5. YOU ARE NOT MY CHECKED-CARRY-ON BAG.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Bag 6. Finally, phew, etc. etc.

Eight bags on two carts (aside: why are luggage carts free for the taking everywhere but in North America?) and off through customs we go.

Through the sliding doors. The Enabler is there. Mama is there. Oh good they brought the sick one.

It took two cabs to get our 8 bags and five people home in one piece. During our cab ride we were lucky enough to see Romania’s brand new IKEA. Swell swooned.

Being a part of the EU will do wonders for Romania. It must be nice to be a Romanian and see the future of big box stores that you can’t afford to shop at coming to fruition.

Those that can’t afford to shop at IKEA should just join the Romanian bandwagon and leave Romania to work elsewhere – but not until they’ve had a few kids.

They should make sure to leave said kids in the care of a relative.

They should also ensure that they never visit.

If they wait long enough Surprize Surprize will pay for the visit. Kids only need to see their parents every 5 years.

Driving through Bucharest is always neat.

The first time.

After the first time it becomes sad. Not sad in that I-feel-so-bad-for-you kind of way but just sad in that I’m-shaking-my-head-at-the-stupidity/sluttiness/filth/traffic/God awful blocs/stain-on-an-otherwise-beautiful-canvas kind of way.

With the fact that Romania is indeed part of the Northern Hemisphere it is summer in these here parts. Summer in Romania means the clothes come off.

Swell wants to start a non-governmental organization. The mission of this NGO is to provide all Romanian women with three things. 1) A bra, ii) Five basic shirts that fit, and C) The sense to use the preceding items.

If she is unable to start this NGO she’s going to start an advertising campaign to increase tourism in Romania. She’ll simply point out that there are a lot of young, fairly attractive women here who have spent so much money on designer looking clothes that they can’t afford underwear. She’ll also point out that the rules of women’s clothing here are simple. 1) If you can breathe it isn’t tight enough and 2) If the sun can’t reach skin, it isn’t low/high enough – depending on which side of the equator the clothing is on.

Driving to the house in Pantelimon, that first time, we saw girl after girl the next trying her hardest to out-slut the previous.

Good times, good times.

This has become a recurring theme in our travels here. Every time we go out we are astounded by the clothing, or more precisely the lack there-of. Our escape from Nablus was best summed up by Swell,
“Romania. Breasts not guns.”

We arrived in Pantelimon and unloaded. And unloaded. And unloaded some more.

The sick one quickly asked for her gifts. She clapped and squealed. “What did you bring me? What did you bring me?”

Not much. We were, after all, in occupied Palestine.

Swell convinced the sick one to wait on “the gifts” as we wanted to throw her a birthday party. Cake included. Not the five tier cake that the sick one wanted but a cake of some sorts.

Turns out Romanians like disgusting cake.

Who knew?

So after hanging out for a few hours we took the first of many walks down the disgusting streets of Pantelimon.

The house we are staying in is the convenience house.

Swell’s grandparents and aunt live in a very rural part of Romania. I mean so rural that the kitchen is outside. The water is in the well. And the bathroom is in that little wood house over there.

Take a mask. Have fun.

Oh. By the way, your bed is made out of hay.

Now that’s rural.

They also owned, up to a couple of years ago, a bloc apartment. You know those crazy, ugly, Soviet style apartment buildings? Yeah, one of those. I thought it was pretty sweet. Especially the half-a-person elevator.

Who woulda thunk that those buildings are not withstanding the test of time? Some of the ones here in Bucharest are being outfitted with red-signs indicating that they are, indeed, on their last legs.

What is being done about this?

I just told you they are putting up red signs!

Basically saying, “Hey you. Watch out. This building might fall on your head. Oh. And the next one. And the next one. And quite possibly the one after that.”
Seeing as an apartment on an upper level of a building that is falling apart was not the best retirement home Swell’s Mum along with Swell’s Mum’s Mum – the Enabler – sold the apartment and bought a house in Pantelimon.

Oops.

More on that later. But remember the oops.

This house is not as convenient as one would think. In order to get anywhere one must walk to a busier street to catch a maxi-taxi.

What? You don’t know what a maxi-taxi is?

You know what a taxi is right? Well a maxi-taxi is the same thing but as part of your fare you have to let someone sit on your left leg while, while someone sits on their left leg. Oh, and stretch the taxi into van size, charge a flat fee and drive a structured route. Now you’ve got a maxi-taxi. A more accurate name would probably be a mini-bus but who am I to question the name?

So the house is about half a mile from a busy street so you walk through the potholes, and dust. You walk past the half-finished houses that are home to multiple families and you side-step the loud, dirty, mean dogs and then you wait.

You wait because the maxi-taxi follows its own schedule. It comes when it wants, although it does come with great frequency.

The maxi-taxi approaches you make some sort of magical hand signal and it stops, even though it had just stopped 100m previously to let someone else on and will stop in another 50m to let yet another person on. They should create evenly spaced and marked stops – nah that would make too much sense and Romanians would never be able to figure it out.

You see there is something wrong with Romanian brains. To say they are slow to catch on to things is a generous statement.

We were here last year.

Last year was the start of great currency conversion in Romania.

Follow along.

Not surprisingly the Romanian Lei was not a strong currency on the world market. In addition years of inflation had devalued the currency so much that things cost thousands of lei.

“How much is that bread?”
“5000 lei.”

“The fridge?”

“One million lei.”

You get the idea.

When we were here last year Romania was gearing up to be accepted to the EU. The EU uses the euro. Romania would not switch to the Euro but wanted its money to be more on par with the Euro. That is they didn’t want one Euro to be worth 30,000 lei. So they dropped four zeroes.

10,000 lei became 1 Ron.

Following along still?

Last year the prices were still in Lei and Ron as both notes were in circulation. Confusing? A little.

This year the lei is gone. The Romanians cannot, cannot understand this.

You watch the store clerk scan your items and follow along as the total adds up.

The total is 27 Ron. The store clerk will say it costs 270,000.

NO IT DOESN’T, IT COSTS 27.

You ask a cab driver how much it will cost to get to X location. He says 150, 000 when he means 15.

They always refer to the one Ron note as 10,000 lei. It is annoying and idiotic. How much simpler can a system of currency be then 1=1? Instead in Romania they need 1 to = 10,000.

You’ve had a year people. It’s time to exit the dark ages and catch on to the whole new currency thing.

“How much pension do you get?”

“20 million.” *sigh

We pile on to the maxi-taxi, find a knee to sit on and off to Cora we go. Remember this is the convenient house. A half-mile walk, a long car ride over loud, dirty, mean dogs and you get to Cora. The maxi-taxi drops you off on one side of the street. Cora is on the other.
There are no traffic lights.

Good luck. Mind your step.

IF you make it across the street in one piece you are then faced with a long, long walk through the parking lot to get to Cora. If you survive the tundra that is the Cora parking lot you have arrived to an overly expensive shopping mall complete with food store.

Mamia doesn’t shop at Cora – too expensive. Her shopping area is another 30 minutes on the maxi-taxi. Convenient? No, not really.

We shop at Cora sometimes because we’re rich.

This trip we had a simple plan. Balloons, cake, and other birthday fixings. We shopped. We dropped.

And soon we were on our way home for a 50th birthday party.

Swell somehow was able to come up with a good amount of presents and they were given and received and will soon be lost/forgotten/broken. They were appreciated.

Cake was cut. I had none. It was chocolate covering a mound of sugar. Disgusting.

Swell didn’t really like it either. The older folks dug into that bad boy like it was manna from heaven. Must be an age thing.

That was the end of our first day. We fell asleep listening to the Pantelimon orchestra.

Ruff, ruff, bow-wow, howl, ruff, bow, howl, wow. And so on and so forth.