Ode to Cismigiu

When I first arrived in Bucharest, the gigantic Cismigiu park was a source of anxiety: it was there, in that grey, nasty, polluted, mud-hole that the glue-sniffers and pan-handlers haunted the shadows. The place has become progressively more hospitable, as we've noticed during occasional visits these past two months. Then, suddenly, today the place became nothing short of miraculous: flowers have exploded everywhere; green spaces have taken over where before everything was the color of muck; children run in circles around old people; the old people sit in groups talking about young people; strange dogs wander about looking important; and even the giant concrete pools (which I didn't believe would ever be full of water) are suddenly lakes...upon which couples in rowboats paddle beneath haughty willow trees... upon which swans glide about doing their swany things. To enter Cismigiu, in short, is to leave Bucharest behind and enter a vegetative dream.

C