Six down. Bucharest

I have to admit to being a bit apprehensive. My plans for Bucharest could be seen as either magnificently malleable or insanely non-existent depending on your point of view. My own view had hovered around before coming firmly to rest in the latter camp.

As we landed at what was clearly an afterthought of an airport, I barely suppressed the murmured thought "Fuck me, I'm in a field in Romania." Now would have been a really good time to wake up.

My neighbour, a middle-aged man in a check shirt and baggy jeans, simply stood up and walked off the plane. No carry-on luggage, not even a jacket or newspaper. With his walnut skin and lean looks he gave me the impression that he had been working in the field and had simply popped away for a moment. Now he was back.

In first class a priest adjusted his robes. Head to foot in black he placed a black doughnut of a hat on his cowled head and prodded it to perfection. As we walked off I could see past him to a group of black-clad priests who formed his welcome committee, smiling and taking photos. Later they would sweep past in a convoy of black cars, lights blazing despite the sunlight, precede and followed by wailing police cars. At the time I had no idea: when they look closely at thier photos, in the near background they should see some blond guy with a big idiot grin, waving.

I waited forty minutes for my luggage, still twenty fewer than at Heathrow, and repacked everything into my rucksack. Outside, the taxi drivers descended like wolves on the fold. I managed to lose all but one, who insisted on giving me unnervingly good advice. The bus?

"Downstairs to the right, about forty minutes to town. I give you good ride, about one hour. Eighty Lei good price for you, not me. One hundred Lei good price for me."

It was immaterial. I had pounds sterling, New Zealand dollars, Euros but no Lei.

"Where is the ATM?"

He pointed it out.

"You know how much to get out?" I nodded and he wandered away.

I pushed my card in and was relieved to see language options.

"PLEASE ENTER YOUR SECRET PIN NUMBER!" a voice screamed.

I felt a hundred eyes on me. I stabbed at 300 Lei.

"All right?" a voice on my left said. It was the helpful taxi driver. The ATM machine beeped loudly.

"Take your money" he nodded, and I saw three one hundred Lei notes peeking out at me.

It was hot and I was flustered. I also needed change for the bus. Beer time.


The ghastly Bucharest suburbs gave way to beautiful parks and Caucescu's little attempt at urban planning. I jumped from the bus at Victory Square - five Lei well spent - and made for the Metro. In the bowels and the semi-gloom an unbelievably bent old woman held out an unmoving hand. Equally unmoving passers-by did just that.

At the gates a lady took my five Lei note without even asking where I was going and handed back a ticket and a handful of one Leu notes.

I came up from the Kafkaesque Metro to what was apparently Beirut. Dark grey buildings overlooked a maelstrőm of traffic. A spaghetti of black cables sinewed overhead and great killer slabs of cladding had fallen away from walls. From potholed pavements drunks and toughs eagled everyone and down dark alleys dogs skittered here and there.