Posted 14 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
In Bucharest, waiting for my connection to Istanbul, I come across a statue to somebody Georgescu. I don’t know where he fits into the country’s history of monarchy, Communism, dictatorship and new democracy. During the monarchy somewhere judging by the date.
I see it and think how nice it would be if there could be a monument for all the people who’ve helped me on this journey. The gentleman raising his hat and giving directions in Vienna, the girl in the cafe who spends ages asking her colleagues for vocabulary to explain something to me in English, and the German fraus and Gergo and Rodika, to my friends at the Syrian embassy who gave me the stamp of approval and delicious cardamon coffee. It would be for everyone who’s given advice and directions and tried to find the words in English and shown patience and good humour.
It’s almost as if being foreign and alone, with limited language skills turns you into an honorary child or relative and everyone is programmed to look after you.
In the garden at Budapest’s Great Synagogue there is a memorial to Raoul Wallenburg, the Swedish Ambassador during the second world war.
He and 21 other ambassadors and diplomats used a system of safe houses and diplomatic papers to offer refuge and immunity to thousands of Jews then in danger under anti-Semitic laws.
Posted 13 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
By the huge petro-chemical works at Braze I glimpse a family with a horse and cart, a mother with a bundled up baby sitting in the back. At the McDonald’s in Gara Nord Bucharest there is an old woman wearing a yellow and blue flowered headscarf and peasant style apron asleep at a table. I bet in tourist guides to Romania there’s a picture of someone like her.
The buildings near the station include grey, concrete blocks of flats and older one-storey houses. They nearly all show signs of decay.
It’s as if the people are more permanent than the buildings.
Posted 13 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
I’m only passing through Bucharest, spending a couple of hours at most, but on the overnight train from Budapest I get to know a small part of Romania.
Rodika is a doctor, in her forties, tiny with dark hair and a pinkish manicure. She grew up in Transylvannia which she assures me is not culturally part of Hungary, despite historic links. ‘There are some people who feel strongly Hungarian,’ she admits in French. I’m pleased to be back with a Romance language.
She’s been in Budapest visiting a childhood friend. They grew up in the same village, ‘She, she is Hungarian. And she lives in Budapest now. But Transylvannia is not Hungarian, no matter what some people say.’
We settle back onto her lower bunk as the train travels through the darkened plains of Europe. I ask her about Romania; is it thriving, do the young people stay there? ‘No,’ she tells me ‘Even my son, he left this morning for Germany. He wants to study architecture but he’s never shown any interest in buildings before. But how can I say no to what he wants?’
‘It was different under Communism. I was never a Communist, but everybody had a place in the world. It’s not like that now, you need to be rich.’
She stops twisting her fingers together and brings out some cakes, baked by her old friend in Budapest. They’ve been laid on a fluted cardboard tray and carefully double-wrapped in paper.
We share them between us and they’re almond and plum and delicious.