With Romania about to join the European Union, there was bound to be a special moment of history happening in the capital city of Bucureşti and your humble servant would need to be on hand.

I’ve been fairly outspoken in the past about my general dislike for this particular government seat. Each time I have visited Bucureşti, I walked away shaking my head in disgust. Its’ complete lack of charm is so very much different from the rest of Romania.

In Bucureşti, there were always armies of glue-snuffing street urchins. Shady criminals follow you down streets angling for a chance to pick your pocket, until they realize you’ve caught on to their approaches. Dirt and garbage swirl around with abandon.

Rickety public transportation on the very verge of collapsing just as you step aboard. Unending streams of anonymous block apartments dominate the view. Rude people bustle about in a hurry. Road traffic is a mess. Restaurants are overpriced.

Yeah, I’ll make no bones about it, kids. I’ve never much cared for Bucureşti. In fact, I regularly advise tourists to simply skip the city altogether and visit the rest of Romania which, in direct contrast, is far more pleasant and beautiful.

Nonetheless, my stoic nature pushes me ever onward to suffer for your amusement, dear reader.

The 2007 Revelion wasn’t going to be just another celebration of a new year. No, no, it was going to be hand-in-hand with official admission of Romania into the EU. In other words, a momentous occasion which happens once in a lifetime. And there are some things you just can’t miss.

I took the intercity train from Braşov to the capital’s Gara de Nord (that’s the northern train station, yankee). Inside, the terminal is currently undergoing a little renovation. Nothing overwhelming, but nice to see anyway. Outside, I noticed a distinct curtailment in the amount of panhandlers and pickpockets.

Immediately, I began to wonder if this is a nationwide trend. I’ve noticed that the train station in Braşov has become increasingly cleaner for many months now, as though perhaps the government and its police force were finally doing something to curb the past reputation. It’s a welcome improvement.

Fortunately, an unnamed party arrived to greet me at the front of the station and guide me to Neli’s apartment in Circul Foamei where I would be staying a few nights. He helped me navigate the variety of public transportation offerings to his regia. From there, we scored a ride in his cousin’s Dacia wagon to the apartment so I could put my things away.

The cousin dropped off four poor souls near the Palace of Parliament. My knowledgeable guide began leading me around the parts of Bucureşti which I had not seen before, in an effort to tour me around some of the more interesting sections of town.

We crossed the Dambovita and I found the famous Saint George Hungarian restaurant. Happily, I saw the very interesting Palatul Voievodal. We paused to check out Hanul lui Manuc, then went up into the delightful Lipscani area. Going past the gorgeous little Kartell Cafe and a disappointingly campy-looking jazz club on Strada Doamnei, we dumped out onto Calea Victorei which was lit up for the festivities.

A goodly number of folks were out walking the streets to take in the colors and sparkle of the decorative atmosphere hinting at the celebrations to come. However, my companions disagreed with me and thought the night was alarmingly devoid of humanity.

A matter of expectations, I suppose.

We headed toward Piaţa Universitaţii where the epicenter of partyuri would thrill untold numbers of Romanians the next night. While plenty of police were on hand to monitor car and pedestrian traffic in the area, expert technicians were all over performing due diligence in testing rock music instruments, public sound systems, huge LCD displays, lasers, and beautiful blue spotlights.

The various streets intersecting at Piaţa Universitaţii had festive holiday lights in the shape of icicles and road-straddling arrays of European Union symbolism. It was rather attractive as my first taste of any sort of Bucureşti pride, which I’d always felt was lacking previously.

I opted for a short stroll down Bulevardul Nicolae Balcescu of the decorations as unmolested pedestrians crossed the street between surprisingly patient waves of modern automobiles.

I spent a little time mulling in the night vibe and glimpsing the various commercial offerings in the neighborhood.

Nickered for the evening, I was chaperoned acasa aboard one of Bucureşti’s fancy new metropolitian buses. With fairly comfortable seats and sparkling clean interior, it was easy to delude yourself into imagining such modernity was rolled out just for Romania’s EU ascension celebrations.

After a comfortably long snooze, the next day started out with a city-wide cloud cover which provides smooth and even lighting for photography but promptly fuglifies your pictures with that drab skyline in the distance of whatever you’re shooting.

Armed with camera, it was time to take the two eggs I’d eaten outside into the wild urban environment of the hitherto least impressive European capital I’d ever had the misfortune of wandering. Yet, after last night’s guided tour, I was feeling better about the prospects for enjoying myself.

I made sure to nab a shot of what was probably the most beautiful building available in the neighborhood I was staying in. It typifies the state of the surrounds, but the positive note is that the local people did not consist of gun-toting street gangs you might expect to run afoul of in similar looking settings of North America. It’s just run-down, not overrun.

Walking down Calea 13 Septiembre, one felt as though Bucureşti were merely a ghost town conspicuously absent of human life. I was darn near the only person outdoors. Perhaps it was the freezing cold weather wise city inhabitants were avoiding or perhaps they were involved in gatherings of family and friends. I’m not sure, but the streets were empty.

It takes roughly ten minutes to schlep your dogs to witness the great beast of Romania. On previous trips, I’d never managed to see Casa Nebunului with my own eyes, but this time I was entreated to a grand spectacle of impressive and gorgeous failure.

Under the despotism of Ceauşescu, “the People’s House” was intended to demonstrate the independent might of communist Romania, as personified by the ego of its’ dictator, of course. I wouldn’t doubt there are still a few communist pensioners who are nostaligic about Casa Poporului.

The rest of us, meanwhile, can look on it today as an eye-openingly immense structure which is the second largest in the world, but incredibly ugly to the point of being obtuse. From what I understand, it was under construction 24 hours a day for five years with three rotating shifts of some 20,000 workers each. You can’t waste such a thing, so it now houses the national parliament among other things.

From there, I retraced the steps of my sherpa from the night before, back across the river and into the Lipscani area. As time goes on, I am increasingly burned out on European churches, but I thought I’d better take at least one photo to give you an approximation how the majority of Romanian biserici appear.

Not all the buildings are run down, distasteful or just plain old, of course. The capital city of Romania boasts a sufficient number of modern glass buildings with the familiar western corporation architecture. Granted, they still had some lingering local flair provided by touches of that ubiquitous Romanian concrete.

Central Bucureşti has plentiful 19th century buildings lining the streets of the old city centru. Most of them have an appearance of Habsburg stylings, although I’m certainly no expert on exterior design. It’s just standard European beauty comprised of columns, statues and bas reliefs oft borrowed from distant Greek and Roman origins.

The above photo is from one side of the Romanian central bank’s regal headquarters constructed in 1889. Banca Naţionala a Romaniei was founded in 1880 approximately coinciding with the introduction of Romanian Lei, whose name is derived from the Dutch word for lion, as the national currency denomination.

Prior to BNR, the Romanians had been using, almost exclusively, foreign currencies from dominant foreign powers which had controlled most of its’ territories for centuries.

Next up is the ornate roof of the National Romanian Library which was formed after the unification of Romanian states in 1859. Sadly, it is scheduled to be replaced once the Ministry of Culture obtains funds to complete construction of a new library building begun some twenty years ago.

Despite the impending closure, I found it interesting that the library currently has a wheelchair-accessible ramp as though it were trying to qualify for ADA compliance, which is hardly a current priority of the Romanian government. Simple, cheap and effective, the ramp grants alternative entrance to this institution of knowledge.

Over six months ago, I saw a spectacular church through the views of a broken mirror and I’ve been rather keen to locate it’s seemingly hidden presence in the tangles of Bucureşti. This time I did manage to stumble across it, mostly by accident. Eagerly, I snapped away a dozen photos in the hazy lighting, of which this was about the best I could muster.

It’s a preciously intricate piece of the Russian Orthodox Church financed by Tsar Nicholas II in the early 20th century. Sometime shortly after the Bolshevik revolution, the Romanian state confiscated the property.

Today, the temple belongs to the Romanian Orthodox Church who has named it after Saint Nicholas, no doubt a tongue-firmly-in-cheek reference to the original benefactor, and has designated it as the preferred church for university students in Bucureşti.

I headed back down Bratianu in order to scope out the pre-darkness light displays on the Teatrul Naţional where LCDs beamed digital images of waving Romanian flags. Interestingly, this is also home to a milkbar decorated in honor of the Romanians who started the Dada anti-art phenomenon.

Unlike some fire departments, the pompieri of Bucureşti were available just in case of problems. They set up trucks in various locations, including these on Bulevardul Ion I.C. Bratianu (the five-time elected prime minister of pre-communist Romania).

Strands of light draped over tree branches like so many electric fingers beckoning you closer toward the center of celebration.

We went underground into the metro station to nab a quick coffee and pass a little time. Only the latter part happened. We had taken up one of the few remaining tables near the entrance and tried to flag down the sole waiter who was very busy.

Every time we caught his attention and attempted to get menus, he would give us the finger (not that one) to indicate he would be back in just a minute. However, he never did bring us menus. Over the ten-odd minutes, he somehow found the time to serve other tables, including people who came in well after us.

We got our own menus from the To Go counter and plotted our ordering strategy. Myself, I was going to order the Mexican Vanilla coffee, basically a cappuccino with Kahlua and vanilla extract, for something like 9 RON (the price of a whole pizza in Braşov).

Another fifteen minutes passed until we could force him to stop long enough take our order. We began to relax and have some conversation. But at some point, one of our band realized he had been waiting another twenty minutes without ever having been served the damn coffee.

Hey, Julius Meinl coffee house! We left without ever getting our drinks. None of us will come back there again. Ever. Do yourself a favor and fire everyone. Next time, hire a manager who knows how to schedule staff and hire waiters that care about customer service. Kthx.

Having wasted our time at the Julius Meinl excuse for a coffee shop, we headed up the non-working escalators and onto the surface streets. It was now dark and a huge crowd had gathered at Piaţa Universitaţii. There was a line of ants working its way through the bee hive, so we joined the conga line and made our way through the mob.

On stage at Piaţa Universitaţii was the Romanian rock band Voltaj (American readers can see it looks like Voltage). I wanted to stay here to enjoy the show, since I like the group and there was wiggle room to find a decent photo shooting position. It was expected we would see President Traian Basescu make a speech here around midnight.

I was undermined by my tovaraşi who did not care for Voltaj and thus wanted to head over to nearby Piaţa Revoluţiei where another concert was being held simultaneously. Not wanting to be separated from the tribe, I begrudgingly gave in and joined my friends pushing through fields of bodies.

Look, it required some serious effort to part the seas of planted humans and make our way across thousands of elbows feeding into a side street that lead to Piaţa Revoluţiei. Not fun, but somewhat expected given this high-draw venue. Along the way, street vendors sold all kinds of weird party accessories.

Lit devil horns, wizard hats, glow sticks, and even cans of beer. The Romanians seemed to be in the spending mood as a surprisingly large portion of the population were decked in or wielding these various trinkets. In addition, I think ever third person was clutching a bottle of champagne for that big moment.

Upon arrival at Piaţa Revoluţiei, I was rewarded by the drab, repetitive sound of dance pop which is indistinguishable from hundreds of other corporatized music stars from a multitude of other countries. On the big screens I could see some attractive woman in her mid-30s with long wavy hair and beads of sweat trying her hardest to be the next Madonna or Janet Jackson.

The music was crap. Her voice was interspersed with the breathing of someone unprepared for a vigorous workout. Anda something, if I recall, was her name. Basically forgettable. Her backup dancers consisted of some fairly ugly men dressed in faux-ghetto costumes which gave them the appearance of cheap, worthless pretenders.

Oh! But did I mention the female backup singers? Yeah, they were fit and flexible, mostly naked, and shaking their money makers in hypnotic fashion. Life is good. I cracked open a half-liter cutila de Stejar which I’d been smuggling in my camera bag and made the most of what entertainment was offered to me.

Ah, my revenge came soon enough. Around roughly 23:00, Voltaj had left Piaţa Universitaţii and now took the stage at Piaţa Revoluţiei and my friends had to put up with it.

I noticed that most of the over-40 crowd was leaving Voltaj to make their way toward Piaţa Universitaţii where Basescu would be speaking at the top of the hour. A couple songs later, it was half an hour before midnight and we’d regrouped for the trek back to where the president would be speaking.

We made our way down the streets along with thousands of other people, many of whom had open bottle of champagne or plastic two-liter bottles of Burger. All the while, we were carefully watched over by uniformed police officers on hand to contain any potential extra-celebratory behavior by tipsy revelers.

The wall of onlookers began to draw in closer and closer as we neared the outskirts of Piaţa Universitaţii. Finding a fountainhead through the corpses, I wedged myself into a steaming pile of flesh and received unrepeatable rebukes for my troubles.

Personally, I’m pretty sure a tumbleweed would find it easier to break through the broadside of barn than it was to chisel through the forest of leather coats and blue jeans planted along the north side of the intersection. With my photography equipment fairly safe in my camera bag, I put my hands together like a monk and tried Mosesean parting.

With some luck, we managed to make it almost parallel to the outer edge of the national theatre before an aggressive cacophony of vocal males trumpeted the news that the wrought-iron fence I was pinned against was the end of the line because a fire truck was blocking any attempt at progress.

Momentarily bewildered as to how I’d ended up in a corner pocket and trying to analyze a potential exit from this maze of excitement, I had a small sense of sorrow for the thin train of people who had trickled behind my friends to follow the trail we had blazed. They were trapped, too.

Most resorted to osmosis, melting into the weeds of audience. Desperate to find a photograph-worthy vantage point, our quartet regressed back into the sea of madness. Throngs of smug Romanians took advantage of the molasses to gleefully poke and prod at my unprotected flanks as I met resistance from the immobile wall in front of me.

Resilience is the key, my friends. Unrepentant for the error of our ways, I poured myself into every hairline fracture. Shoving old men and knocking down old ladies, I trampled over all obstructions and clearcut a new path through the wilderness. Or so it seemed, for a minute.

Then it came.

That familiar voice of President Basescu addressing the gathered crowd. We paused mid-journey to soak in unmistakable joy springing forth from the public address system as he spoke to the people. In tandem, mouths closed and all eyes turned to Teatrul Naţional.

His positive message soberly focused on both the successful striving which had gotten Romania accepted into the European Union and on the opportunities that lay ahead for those who recognized the responsibility incumbent upon themselves to create a better life.

There was a palpable sense of relief at hearing the official words declaring that Romania was, in fact, a full member of the EU after all this time and effort. Many people basked in the glory with grins as wide as the Danube, while a number of others quietly broke into tears.

It was an outrageous high.

For a nation of Romanians who have been maltreated and enslaved for centuries, kicked around by European superpowers, rarely ever in full control of their own lands, survived the horrors of brutal dictatorship, and often discriminated against as second-class even today, to be recognized as important partner in the future of Europe and accepted on par as a legitimate, independent, and recognized member caused such an immense pride that it was unswallowably stuck in the caw of everyone I could see.

The triumphant culmination of what is sure to go down in history as the very first chapter in a very bright future for the Romanian people. And a better chance for all who live within her borders.

A grain of sand in the hourglass to be savored.

Then came the counting. Cincişpe, patruşpe, treişpe, twelve, eleven, ten…

When it occurred to me that the speech had actually ended, I tugged the arms of my compatriots and dove afresh into the now pliantly dazed sardines which had trapped me in a spot where I could hardly see anything. Making a beeline toward a less condensed section back where I had been some 20 or minutes ago, I glided through the chanting assembly.

Just after it struck midnight, I found myself in a small gap of people. Large enough for the four of us and we could see the national theater much better. North, south, east and west of our location, the zombies were starting to reawaken from the bliss and press inward on one another yet again in eager anticipation of the fireworks show which was sure to follow.

My location might have been embarrassingly subpar for photography, but I encourage you to imagine that were you to see the display with your own eyes, you would have found the entire tableau to have been sublime. Camera phones taking pictures, small children hoisted into the air, champagne uncorked, the waving of blue, gold, and red.

Snap, crackle, pop. Whoosh, boom!

I wish I had been able to do more justice to the long and varied explosions above, but I was literally stuck with just enough room to listen to the oohs and aahs from all around me. Untold sums of money later, the budget had been exhausted and the skylights slowly drifted to an end.

But not the party. It had only begun.

Traditional Romanian folk music filled the air of Piaţa Universitaţii on this special Revelion. On any other night, a large number of people might have scoffed at hearing the old songs played the old way on old instruments by old men in this age of manufactured junk like Britney Spears and Trei Sud Est. Not tonight.

To my surprise, strangers grabbed the hands of their neighbors and people seemed to spontaneously break into the hora, that uniquely Romanian circle dance. And, yes, my friends, I put my camera away and this Romerican clutched the palms of those unknown so I could join in the hora.

Quite frankly, I’m not precisely sure how long it went on. I did somehow have the presence of mind to capture a few moments before they had passed completely.

Once the fireworks were over and spontaneous hora dancing subsided, the crowds began to thin out a little. Many older people and families with small children were heading home. Others may have gone on to other parties. Some stayed at Piaţa Universitaţii to mingle and even continue small pockets of dancing.

After a minor incident involving misplaced apartment keys, I found myself heading back in the direction of Piaţa Revoluţiei. There, the concert was still happening as a Romanian rock band entertained a large crowd of mostly under-40 partiers speckled with a few senior citizens here and there.

If I’m not mistaken, I believe it was widely-popular Timpuri Noi on stage who was jamming out the tunes. In the spirit of European Union ascension, the champagne-chugging Romanians were enthusiastically reveling in the classic EU fashion of criticizing American politics, greed, and war — an element of European culture no member state can ignore.

Not limited to just bitching and moaning, the guitar grinding boys from Timpuri Noi also prescribed a solution to the “American problem” which dripped with sarcasm, using our own cultural computer lingo as analogy for the changes they demanded the world’s greatest power needed to make.

I think they were suggesting a course of action for the 2008 elections.

After the rock show ended, the piaţa was closing down. Custodial crews moved in to start cleaning up the scattered litter and smashed alcohol bottle shards reflecting the spotlights of the stage. Law enforcement brooded over the departing partiers as we headed past the central university library with it’s Christmas tree decorated with EU symbols.

Stumbling down the dark street of Bis Enei, some folks headed home while I went straight back to Piaţa Universitaţii where the celebration was still alive.

By this time, the majority of responsible adults had indeed left. A few older folks remained behind to find young, attractive dance partners in the hora circles still spinning in the streets of the piaţa. Seizing the moment, I, too, jumped into the mix and clasped the hands of strangers as we twirled over broken bottles slowly grinding glass back into sand.

The live band on stage played muzica populara for the rings of EU citizens dancing and drinking their way into a new era on the welcoming streets of Bucureşti, where I finally had my first good experience with people I’ve never met in the capital city of the country I call home.

As I recall, my head touched a pillow around seven in the morning.

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 7th, 2007 at 2:50 am and is filed under Living, Politics, Society. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.