Big Brother Back in Bucharest

This year's NATO Summit is being hosted by our newly adopted home-city, which means that within two or three days our neighbors will include Bush, Putin, Sarkozy, and Hamid Karzai. The highlight of the summit, according to the latest round-up of world news, will be discussions of Afganistan. The "Macedonia" issue is also slated for discussion (whether FYROM, the Former Yugoslav. Republic of Macedonia, whose very name the Greeks reject for complicated reasons, should be allowed to join the NATO party).

With the imminent arrival of so much blustery power in one city, here in the "age of Terror," things are feeling a little spooky. Our normally boisterous Piata Lahovari (just steps from the massive Howard Johnson's, where surely many dignitaries will be staying) is utterly empty, since the streets surrounding us have all been barricaded. Snipers are already practicing their drills and finding suitable perches on nearby buildings (not a comforting thought, or perhaps it is supposed to be a comforting thought...); stray dogs are being "removed" from their usual pooping and sniffing routes to who knows where; they are reinforcing the windows of the local McDonald's and KFC (American businesses are famous targets for protestors); and all the million man-hole covers in town have been sealed with bright rubber tape, to indicate whether or not they have been pried open. The reason for that last precaution is fascinating: Ceausescu and his evil Securitate forces honeycombed the city's underworld with elaborate systems of tunnels, primarily for the purposes of spying upon the citizens of Bucharest. Since these tunnels connect the most important buildings in town, they are an obvious security concern.

What does this mean for us? For the first time since we arrived in Bucharest, it was QUIET last night...almost too quiet to sleep. When we make our rounds to the nearby playgrounds, low-flying helicopters buzz overhead (are they watching us?). There are police of every variety huddled around walkie-talkies about every hundred yards on every sidewalk here in the city center. There are gangs of men in dark suits and dark sunglasses standing around very fancy cars with darkened windows. In short, we feel very much like we are being watched, like we might be under suspicion just for stealing out to buy another jug of drinking water and two more of the ever-insufficient containers of milk that we go through at an alarming rate.

It also means that our city is looking very spiffy all of a sudden: in a few short days of uncharacteristic efficiency, our square was dug up, landscaped, and festooned with shrubs and flowers. Everywhere you look there are fresh coats of paint, and supernaturally green sod where there was mud or dust just last week. There is the illusion of cleanliness where there was only a moment ago the reality of urban filth. In contrast, new kinds of graffiti (see a photographic example, above) are beginning to appear on the walls of just-scoured buildings.

Post-Communist Bucharest, we have seen, bustles with capitalist energy and its citizens now almost take for granted their personal freedoms...even if we do frquently note on the faces of the older citizens (those who knew the hard realities of the Ceausescu era) a hardened look of suspicion and weary stocism that just won't go away.

So this week's NATO Summit and the security explosion offers us just a taste of what it must have been like to live under constant surveillance. It's not a little ironic that the summit is being partly headquartered in Ceausescu's monstrous palace, now re-dubbed the "House of Parliament," or the "House of the People," which could only be built after bulldozing a huge portion of the old city, including monasteries and churches.

As for us, well we're heading out of town for the summit itself. If what we're seeing now is merely security "practice," we'd rather be storming the remote villages of Maramures in our rental car....far, far, away...where no dignitaries are likely to mess things up.

Christopher

Triple Archeological Invasion by the Bacchic Bambini

Each day on our Italian sojourn, we enjoyed (or endured, depending on the mood of the little Bacchae) an archeological adventure. Our neighborhood site was Paestum; our agritourism rooms looked out over the plains upon which Paestum (one of the great cities of Magna Graecia) was founded. The massive temples were especially stunning set against the gunmetal skies of early spring, with an icy wind blowing hard from every direction at once, it seemed. Nevertheless, the old stones were surrounded by profusions of green--and the kids frolicked among the first flowers of the year and rolled around in the grass when they were not tight-roping along the marble refuse. Luckily, there was a great little "enoteca" across the street from the archeological site, where we could retreat to reheat ourselves after our ramble. On Easter Sunday, we roamed the ruins of Velia, a smaller Greek (then Roman, then etc.) site in a specatcular setting, with its series of Medieval towers and walls propped high up on a breezy acropolis overlooking the Greek and Roman layers beneath. The site was very beautifully labelled, with nice bridges yawning across mosaic floors and lots of spots for thrilling toddler gymnastics. Monday we stopped in at Pompeii for a look around. Obviously, there's not a single day of the year when the place isn't crawling with tourists, but the place is so massive that it hardly matters. Alas, it had just hailed and then rained, so the kids (very, very cranky after several days of travel) were as interested as jumping into every pool of muddy water between the Roman cobblestones as they were gazing upon what is in essence a beautifully intact Roman city. About a half an hour and several tantrums into our visit, the kids' Chuck Taylors entirely saturated in Pompeiian mud (don't people pay for such treatment at spas across New England?), we'd all had enough, so we beat a quick retreat into Naples in search of pizza. Photographic evidence of our little pagan bambini above... Ciao, Christopher

The Bakkens Jet to Italia for the Easter weekend

The Bakkens Jet to Italia for the Easter weekend

We just like to say that. Weekend in Italy? Fly to Rome from Bucharest for cheap and in an hour and a half? Okay. So we had to fly on an airline called WizzAir and had to fly on a pink and purple airplane (though Sophia declared it the best possible colors in the world for our skyway adventures), and that we had to leave at 4 am and ply the kids, who stayed away from 4am on, with M & M’s, we actually did land at Ciampino Airport at 7:30am and were out on the Autostrada headed South towards Naples by 8:45.

Let me say that we did not know that we had chosen a region of Italy famous for its Mozzarella di Bufala and at every turn of the road there would be someone grilling baby artichokes stuffed with parsely and green onions and bathed in olive oil. We only intended to eat ourselves silly on genuine Neopolitan pizza and dive into the Amalfi coast for Spaghetti a la Frutti di Mare. So the fact that all these storefronts were devoted to fresh buffalo mozzarella was sublime. We ate the mozzarella every which way: a whole round ball drizzled in olive oil and set atop grilled bread with sweet cherry tomatoes; generously sliced on top of our many varieties of pizzas; straight from our own little plastic baggie picnic-style on the table in our room at our farmhouse in Paestum.

One of the funnier food “mistakes” of our trip: at a lovely Ristorante built into the ancient Greco-Roman walls of Paestum, we ordered what we thought were small meatballs (polpettini) in sauce for Alexander and Sophia. What we got? Baby octopus in a tomato-bean ragu. Alexander devoured them—tentacles and all—nonstop. And at our seafood Ristorante outside of the coastal town of Positano, the kids both CHOWED a cross between baby cockles and sea snails. They scientifically jabbed their toothpicks into the shells, tugged out the nubbin of meat, then popped it into their mouths. Afterwards, they spent the better part of an hour playing with “Monster Fish” with emptied out mussel, clam, and shrimp shells while our charming waiter told us stories of Sophia Loren (who used to live in the "neighborhood," just down the cliff from the restaurant) and plied us with contorni.

In four days, we put approximately 500 miles on our little rental Peugeot. On the first day we wound our way along the coast down to the Greek site of Paestum. Unfortunately, while there were some pretty Mediterranean stretches, it seemed like most of the road took us through the Italian version of past-its-prime beachside condo hell. Lots of boarded up bars (advertised as “American style bar!) and discos and shady looking espresso stands. Of course, it was Italian style so this meant there were also panini stands. We stopped off at one grocery stand advertising Mozzarella di Bufala intending to buy just some to sample. When Christopher returned to the car (after abour half an hour...since he'd made friends with the cheese-making owners and was threatening to just stay there for the entire weekend) he came carrying a plate of bread drizzled with olive oil, some varieties of Gaeta olives (Gaeta being a town we would soon pass), and a hunk of what we took for a regional ricotta salata. His bag was full with a spray of ripe cherry tomatoes, a litre of homemade wine, two balls of Mozzarella di Bufala, two logs of the spicy ricotta salata, aged pecorino, and two bags of olives. Snacks a la Campania.

Our Agritourismo Casale Giancesare was located up a hill overlooking the sea outside of the ancient city of Paestum. We were greeted with espressos and cappuccinos and a glistening Irish Setter called Milli who was happy to scamper around the lawn with Sophia and Alexander. Milli even tried to scarf down Sophia’s Hoppy bunny at one point, and a mouthful of Littlest Pet Shops toys. Our kids were in need of serious doggy-time though—they’ve been missing our dog, Daphne, so this was an excellent diversion for them and they, in return for chase-the-dog-who-stole-the-toys, they received, in return, slobbery licks.

We have realized, in our jam-packed four days, that there is a limit to S & A’s tourism. Generally in Greece, the weather is warm so they too can scamper about outside. Since this was March, our wanderings around the ancient temples and ruins at Paestum, Velia, and Pompeii consisted of me, Mamma, headscarved and looking like some babushka from the Eastern bloc, and the kids alternately invigorated by the windy-wind and throwing tantrums and complaining about “having to walk.” Papa Christopher dutifully carried both Sophia and Alexander, despite having to content with the deadly affliction of “crunched back” thanks to soccer Romania-style, the squirming weight of our kiddies’ bodies, and poundages of luggage, and a lumpy bed in our Bucharest pad.

Of course, all of this tourism was buoyed by really marvelous food. Our main aim for Easter Sunday was to find some sort of Agritourismo that served a fixed menu. Oh boy did we ever! Outside of the town of Velia—a small sign off the road, down a dirt road, to Agritourismo Azienda La Fattoria. For 30 Euros a person (the kids counted only as one person) we basically were fed like royalty. First: every other table was long, filled with Italian families passing around these enormous chocolate eggs (basketball-sized, nut encrusted). Then we were told that it would be better not to have bread because we had a long, long meal ahead of us. What did this consist of?

Round One: Bruschetta di Pomodoro and a fried bread fritter covered in pomodorino sauce and crumbled local Campania cheese.

Round Two: An antipasti platter. Thinly sliced pancetta. The house's Cappicola. Two different kinds of salami. Baby bell-shaped Riccotini. Pecorino. Lard-heavy pancetta. Artichokes and olives.

Round Three: Fresh Cannelloni Lasagna and "Napkin" Pasta with Asparagus Sauce.

Round Four:
The meats? Slices of Pork, Slice of Beef, and Chicken a la Forno.
La Verdure? Baby Five Beans, Chicory/Spinach/Broccoli Robe in Garlic, Roasted Potatoes with Rosemary, Eggplant Stacks a la Forno, roasted peppers, stuffed baby Artichokes, pickled zucchini Ribbons, and I’m missing something else.

Round Five: Dolci (Ricotta-Lemon-Raisin Torta), Grappa, Ferne Branca, Espresso and Cappuccino.

Round Six: A lovely Easter phone call from Christopher’s brother in California. “Where are you?” he asked. “Ahh, we’re somewhere in the South of Italy with our bellies full and our kids finally asleep in the car,” Christopher answered.

Round Seven: Later, much much much later, two beautiful pizzas for a late dinner. Two kids who thankfully and finally both simultaneously slept through a late dinner.

We all ate and praised the God and gods that be for our four days away from the less-Mediterranean inspired Romanian fare. (Why is it that even industrial poverty and concrete apartment blocks looks better on Italian hillsides than they do in the mountains of Eastern Europe?)

Kerry

From Puferleţi to Poop

Today Alexander came back from the playground with his Romanian babysitter clutching in one hand two small azalea flowers, and in the other hand an enormous bag of Puferleţi Super Prix! At first, I thought he was munching on some Romanian version of Cheetos minus the orange powder. No evidence of the orange stain around the mouth, so I thought: Ah! These Romanians are wiser than us. No more orange shirt collars and fingers.

His babysitter, Andrea, explained that Alexander had made some friends at the playground—shared sand toys and Puferleţi. So on the walk back, he insisted he have his own bag—he, too, wanted to be just like the rest of Romanian toddlers. So Andrea bought him, for all of 2 Lei (approximately 75 cents), an enormous bag of his own puffed, processed nuggets.

To Alexander’s selfish cries of “No, mama,” I swiped one from him. Absolutely tasteless. No, not true. More like some sort of air-puffed wood glue with the merest whisper of sugar. None of the illicit pleasure I associate with eating the junk food of childhood—none of the manufactured salt or onion or cheese flavors. Not even MSG.

Andrea said, “These are the snacks of Communist childhood. Empty of taste and desire. Bland. Filler that is not even filler.”

So Alexander has now taken up Communist nostalgia. Ahh. Puferleţi.

And Sophia, upon seeing the bag, remarked, “Hey, can I have some of those…we get those at school. C’mon, I’m hungry for them.” So she too has been filling her Eastern European kindergarten emptiness with the fullness of popped vegetable product!

But, we have more interesting ways to fill such voids. Lately, my afternoon ends with a stop at our new favorite pastry stand. This one cooks the pastries al forno in the shop. So we bought two "Strudel con Mare"—apple strudels. One for the walk back, one for dessert tonight. The phyllo strudel dough was crispy, the edges slightly charred. The filling was identical to the stuff in good, fresh American apple pie. We ate one—hot and dripping apple goodness—within two minutes, all while navigating a sleeping Alexander through busy traffic in his stroller. Then decided, with one shared look of strudel desire, to eat the second one immediately as well.

Some of the apple filling oozed, then splattered on the sidewalk—which made me wonder if indeed all those splats of dog poop dotting the Bucharest sidewalks aren’t dog poop at all but errant spatters of Strudel con Mare. Which makes me think that rather than take the odd and hazardous detours around such piles and spatters I should just step into them, thereby embracing Bucharest’s sidewalk Strudel con Mare con Jackson Pollock. But no. Sadly, all of Bucharest’s strays and well-tended canines seem to prefer the sidewalk to the curb; and the occasional owner seems disdainful of any sort of poop-scooping. Alas, not spatters of apple ooze but dog poop pure and simple.

That said, the kids devoured what we got them at that same strudel stand: their own freshly baked wood-oven pretzels dipped in poppy seeds and salt. I think, fingers crossed, Alexander has forgotten the Puferleţi for the moment...

Wish you were here in Strudel Land,

Kerry

Blessing of the Icons

This Sunday, people traveled from all over Bucharest to have their household and sanctuary icons blessed at the aptly named Parcul Icoanei ("Icons Park"). After waiting in long lines, they and their icons were showered with holy water and blessings. These photos give you some sense of their reactions to that encounter with the sacred.

Trios, Couples and Singles at Chismigiu

Some photos of trios and couples (and sad singles) as they appeared on a Wednesday afternoon in March at Chismigiu Park...which is nick-named "Lovers' Park."

Spring in Bucharest

Spring in Bucharest? How lovely to know that we have sunny days in the 60’s and back home in Meadville it is still snowing, snowing, snowing. The forsythia is already blooming here as is an errant magnolia tree. On Tuesday night, thanks to Christopher’s museum recording career, we received free tickets to see Romania’s best violinist play a Stradivarius at the museum. We sat in the second row and swooned over the Bartok and Rachmaninov.

Afterwards we headed to a fancy dinner at an Italian restaurant about twenty steps from our front door, where, to Christopher’s great delight, they had a wood burning pizza oven. As we are finding, however, fancy doesn’t necessarily imply attentive service. Our waiters were alternately neglectful and stubborn—refusing, for instance, to leave our many bottles of wine on the table so we could all help ourselves. We had to wait and wait and wait for the bevy of waiters to notice that our glasses were empty and forlorn. And as this is a restaurant frequented by the newly rich and ostentatious, we had to sit beside this mobster type who smoked his cigar and made a big show of the champagne he’d ordered for his much younger girlfriend.

Thankfully, the foccacia made up for these minor irritations...as did the two wineglasses Christopher and I swiped—we have been drinking our market wine-$5 for two liters-poured from a cask directly into a recycled Orange bottle from teeny tiny glasses that make us feel like we are drinking $1 liters of wine. I can now report that we happily drank the swill from our new Bordeaux glasses and it now drinks like it's actually $10 liter (though this may also have something to do with our bootlegged copy of Lars and the Real Girl actually working! Romanians are adept at illegal downloads of movies so we’ve been watching all the current releases on our enclosed balcony at night. Though for some reason, 10,000 BC isn’t as compelling on the small screen as it might be on the big screen with popcorn and mammoth KitKats).

What else do we do here in the Spring? Go to cafes and drink a variety of coffees. Walk and walk and walk and buy Alexander giant soft pretzels from the pretzel shops (these are baked in wood ovens and sell for about 50 cents each). We’ve also been going to Chismigiu Park where Sophia delights in the trampoline and we delight in the beer gardens. People have started picnicking and we’ve been noting some very odd arrangements: a man skinning what looked like leeks, chopping them into small pieces, and then dumping them into jumbo Water bottles filled with water. Leek Tea? Another couple was happily dining on cheese, rolls, salami and an appalling bag filled with what looked like an assortment of innards. And then on the way out of the park, we encountered a man meticulously sponge bathing in a fountain.

We are also happy to report that Sophia is her usual self at school. She had to sit, for a few minutes, in the “naughty chair” for talking too much. She was then tickled by her teachers. Her teacher told us that they are all thoroughly enjoying having Sophia in class—and that they have never encountered a child who talks as much as she does. She has also mastered a few ballet moves and is diligently practicing her Romanian language lessons.

Kerry

Hoppy Levitates

No doubt elevated in soul and spirit by the colorful, Vampiric sights of Sighisoara, Hoppy the Bunny levitates while a gleeful (but responsibly concerned) Sophia looks on with amazement.

Saxon Land, or Germans in Romanian Mud

An excursion to Biertan, which was one of the more fascinating Saxon towns. Here we found what we found at all the Saxon Land villages we raided: another locked, gorgeous Lutheran church we couldn’t get inside to see, more mud pits, a dilapidated, abandoned winery, and another restaurant closed because of a private party,

Apparently, Biertan is home to a odd reunion every September: the German-Saxon diaspora gathers here for drunken revelry and cursing at what the Communists did to this country.

These Saxon towns are spectacular in their way: the road through each town is lined on both sides with what appear to be barns, each one connected to the next, all of them painted another bright pastel color. The inhabitants, unlike their abodes, were all rather dreary figures—dressed in the colors of mud, mainly, and violently sullen.

After Biertan, we returned to Sighisoara.

Defeated by meatballs and tuna mash, we picnicked on salami, bread, cheese, and chocolate and watched a very obscure version of MacBeth filmed in the late 70s (the heavy metal mullet on MacBeth gave that away). The intimidating visage of "Grossmutter" watched over us while we supped.

C & K

Sighisoara & Kid-un-friendly dining

We finally arrived in Sighisoara, and to “Grandma’s House”—our 15th century Medieval cluster of rooms in the upper citadel. A strange mural greeted us on the living room wall: a grandmother who, upon first glimpse seemed to be clutching two small pineapples, but was, on second glance, grasping a book. On the opposite wall, the inscription: “Grossmutter’s Hause.” (Speaking of odd phrases, we kept seeing signs that read: “Drum Bun!” alone the highway. No idea yet what that might mean but we patted our fannies accordingly.) In the large bedroom hung a very lascivious portrait of a tiny, waisted, wide-hipped blonde who on first glance seemed to be clutching pineapples, but on second glance….
Sighiosoara is birthplace to Vlad Tepes (the Count). So we had to (at 50% off for residents of Grandma’s House) eat at Vlad’s home, which was decorated in medieval bloodsucking kitsch. Thankfully, there were enough dragons to keep the kids entertained (dragons even on the plates), while we all stumbled our way through a dreadful meal.

We keep expecting some version of Greek peasant food here—but what I keep reading on the menu (and what indeed shows up), are things like: “mush” (polenta mash), meatball-like sausages that resemble, well, lopped off appendages (though the kids shovel these balls into their mouths with abandon), chicken soup (real broth but Liptonesque noodles), and at Restaurant Vlad-Dracula, a tuna salad that was a lump of tuna mash surrounded by canned corn, chopped pickled cucumbers and peppers, and undressed cabbage slaw.
The effects? Both Christopher and I have sludge in the guts (though this may be the result of very sweet red wine we’ve been drinking to keep our sense of humor as our children shred napkins and bread, leaving a wide trail through all these restaurants).

We are discovering Romania is not built for children—most restaurants are ill-equipped and keep insisting on giving the Bakken bambina tall wine glasses and fancy china. While our kids have stepped up as best as they know how, stemware is just too tempting.

Bran Castle

We left Brasov for Sighisoara, intent on improving our understanding of what a medieval Saxon city might look like. On the way, we stopped off at Bran castle, the ex-home of a Romanian king and queen, and now sold as a Draculaian outpost. The various hawkers were selling mugs and tee-shirts and masks all with the hyperbolic visage of Vlad Tepes, the original Count Dracula.

In truth, the castle was beautiful—massive beams and white washed walls and Spartan/Medieval L.L. Bean in decoration. More Greek island home than Transylvanian Alp fortification, in other words. Sophia spied every dragon motif (Dracula was a Son of the Order of the Dragon) and at the castle gates she convinced us to buy her a vaguely Peruvian bird flute (which we gladly bought over the weird sheep-skinned/bladder bagpipes the woman was trying to sell her). For the Bakken seniors? A hunk of smoked sheep’s milk cheese and a giant nut-crusted kutosh.

Kerry

Train to Brasov

Weekend in Transylvania

In part because our recent weather in Bucharest had been spectacular (brilliantly sunny days with the temperatures pushing seventy Farenheit), and in part because I’d not actually stepped foot outside of Bucharest, we decided to take a kind of little spring break in Transylvania with the kids. Our plans involved a lovely journey by train through Wallachia, into the Transylvanian Alps, then several days wandering colorful Saxon towns, raiding castles (in search of dragon paraphernalia, on behalf of our dragon-crazed kids), and weaving our rental car down rustic detours whenever we felt the whim.

The reality has been profoundly and hilariously different. First of all, just about the moment we boarded the first class train to Brasov, winter returned and we had the pleasure of speeding through an absolutely grey and snowy rural Romanian landscape, which looked suspiciously like Meadville, Pennsylvania in early March (e.g. dark and probably about to snow). The outskirts of Bucharest are as filthy and depressing as anything we've ever seen.

By the time we entered the Alps, all the windows in our cabin were entirely steamed over and we huddled in our seats wondering when they would turn on the heat. The kids watched an episode or two of Clifford the Big Red Dog on their tiny DVD player, much to the amusement of every passenger who passed their way on the way to the bathrooms.

Along the way, the rugged landscape would break and we’d clatter past a tiny cluster of lean-to shacks propped in mud. There would be parked the iconic massive wooden wagons tethered to depressed looking draft horses, the occasional bundled figure hanging laundry, and endless fields of garbage. It was almost a relief to see a tidy looking nuclear power plant loom up over the horizon, and much more of a relief to enter the narrow mountain passes of the Alps proper, where we knew huge numbers of black bears and wolves still lived.

If we wiped the window with our sleeves, we'd get a momentary glimpse of the density and beauty of these forests, which spur the imagination in the direction of the Medieval almost immediately--I wouldn't have been much surpsised to see a line of figures on horseback, in full armor and animal furs, plodding toward one of the hundreds of castles in the area. Then the window would fog back over and we'd be listening to Clifford on the DVD player again.

Brasov is surely a lovely town, unless you end up walking the wrong way "toward the historic center" and end up in the industrial nastiness, with one crabby kid in a stroller and another begging to be held. Unless, that is, you then take a cab into the heart of said "historic district" and tumble, starving, into the first restaurant you see.... a four star joint where we are the only customers, ordering at random nearly every dish on the menu to placate our little beasts.

Once fed, the kids settled into their swanky surroundings nicely: to the horror of our two rather stuffy waitresses, over dessert we made farm animal noises and Sophia (wired on a rare glass of Pepsi) made up long narrative songs about her stuffed animals back in Pennsylvania. The kids passed out about the moment the lights went out back at Hotel Ambient and I'm not sure we remained conscious much longer.

Christopher

Root Vegetable Centerfold

Fans of celeriac and parsnips, this is paradise!

Morning Meatballs and Bistros

I am quickly learning that while this is a city designed for women in stiletto boots (the female Bucharestians are dressed up, up, up even at 8am when Sophia and I take our walk to school), this is not a city designed for the stroller set. All escalators down and up from the Metro are out of order (and look to have been that way for several decades), and most Bucharestians seem unwilling to make way for our umbrella stroller and Alexander’s flailing feet. On our way to Obor market today, we had to carry Alexander, in his stroller, down, then up, several long flights of stairs, and then hoisted him, god-like, over the turnstile. As a result, Alexander now flaps his arms the moment he is held aloft, pretending to be an airplane.

Sophia dutifully trudges along for our walks. Of course, the deal is sweetened by these little stalls that are on most street corners and sell odd trinkets (puffy hearts, chicks in a nest, plastic music boxes). She calls them “the little desk-stores that don’t have any walls.” She has corned us into giving her 1 lei a day to spend at the stalls (the equivalent of 50 cents) and now has a wide assortment of miniature junk. Today was a 3 lei day, so she came home with a fish keychain and a small cutout dog. We’re hoping most of this evaporates before we have to pack for home in a few months.

It is always a delight, however, traveling alongside Sophia as she narrates her way through the maze of streets and stalls. At the “Nursery” stand at Obor market, where they were selling saplings, Sophia pointed to the apple and pear trees wrapped in burlap and said, in her now street-savvy outrage, “What! Are those people crazy? Why would they try to sell people sticks?” The trees did in fact look like someone’s burn pile. And she is too smart to swap her leis on bundles of twigs.

The Bakkenaki do seem adept in conniving their way into free cookies. At Obor, Sophia flashed her smile at one of the vegetable vendors who remarked on our kids’ charm (though helped by Christopher who snapped the vendor’s photo beside her carrots and then called her Angelina Jolie). Outside our apartment, the kids got a bag of cookies from the Sex Shop bouncer who explained he didn’t need them because beer was his breakfast. (For reference: Christopher and I refer to our apartment as “next to the Sex Shop.” Sophia was delighted find that on the other side of our entrance is the London Snooker and Billiard hall which has a dragon as a logo. Sophia says we live “under the dragon.” Better than her saying, “next to the Sex Shop,” we’ve agreed.)

I am amazed by both the number of places and the times that one can buy sausages and beer. Even the littlest Bakkens were devouring sausage-balls at 10:30 this morning at Obor. I passed on the grilled meats and ate one of those kurtos pastries Christopher has praised. (And this city certainly knows how to do its pastries! All over are tiny windows out of which friendly women sell pastries and cookies. I recently had a walnut and apple strudel; Christopher had one filled with chicken liver). And on the subject of food, already I’ve had a wonderful meal at a French Bistro and had my first sample of Romania sarmale (minced meat wrapped with fermented cabbage--one of our Romanian pals mistakenly called it "rotten cabbage"--on an island of polenta).

Finally, while I seem to have come down with a nasty sinus cold, I am thoroughly enjoying what appears to be Spring in Bucharest. Every day since my arrival, there has been sun and temperatures in the upper 50’s.

Pa,
Kerry

In Praise of Kǖrtӧs Kalácsa

In Praise of
Kǖrtӧs Kalácsa

To understand any culture's cuisine, as far as I am concerned, ignore the fancy restaurants boasting "regional specialties" and head straight for the seediest looking street food you can find. It's worth the potential risk to one's g.i. system, this eating "what the people eat." When in Bucharest, etc....

Thus, wandering through the Obor market for the first time last Saturday, just one espresso into the morning (and therefore susceptible to impulse eating), I stumbled upon a bizarre looking pastry: something like a honey-colored construction cone, cut into spiraling ribbons, and rolled in a kind of crunchy sugar crumble.

And, yes, I tried one. And I nearly had to sit down right there in the street (where gypsy women were hawking kitchen towels and men were trying to sell cell phones, and others were just walking by without knowing that they were marching past a holy Romanian donut stand…) and cry. Since I didn't have the guts for that, I just stood there in reverential silence and smiled stupidly, covered in sugar.

Obviously, I had to investigate how such a sacred snack is concocted. First a loose pastry dough is wrapped around a kind of spindle on the end of a long wooden pole, which is then spun over hot coals until it toasts a dark brown color. Then the screaming hot dough is showered in the crunchy bits, which adhere immediately. From there they are moved to cooling racks until they are bagged for the pleasure of public consumption.

Today, I marched the remainder of the Bacchae toward the kǖrtӧs at Obor and from that moment on we attempted to concentrate on buying produce, when really we were completely lost in Romanian donut reveries for which there is only one known cure: more kǖrtӧs.

Smittenly,

Christopher