I see a pretty lady in the metro with a bunch of flowers. She is looking so sad. I want to hug her and tell her that everything will be alright.
Romanian ladies are generally pretty; but once and now you find a face that takes your breath away. I see one right now.
I am walking down the old town at around 2.30 am on a weekday and it is crowded like the Ernakulam Broadway at noon.
"Don't these people have work tomorrow?", we ask each other.
(Maybe they are asking the same question pointing at us).
Oh these revolving doors! Argh! They are on my case I reckon. Damn!
I feel bored. I go to trim my beard. I cut my ponytail off. Hair today, gone tomorrow.
Sitting alone in Cismigiu; one oldish dude comes and asks for a single cigarette. He insists on paying for it. His name is John Rambo and he is an ex-serviceman. No joke, he even shows me his ID.
Get into the tram from near the hotel. Old tram, old town, old people - I never felt so young in a very long time.
Whenever I see old people here I wonder about their experiences - they must have survived the war, the interbellum, the war again, the communist era, the revolution and now the democracy. I think this city is like an old cat - hit hard and made harder by the hits.
The city is so arty. To be arty is to move. To move is not really to be arty. Trams move. Trains move.
Again in Cismigiu. Lots of them bring their dogs to walk. The dogs make friends with each other, but their owners don't. Man is a social animal.
It's morning. They are practicing for the evening orchestra at the George Enescu square. I look at them and walk across the square, near the stage. I stumble and almost fall. They see me, some smile; a few laugh. Oh the artists notice me. Cheers.
Get drunk. Walk around. Get lost in the old town. Eat gelato. Yawn.
Last Sunday in Bucharest. Cismigiu again - happy people, beautiful place: beautiful people, happy place. There is a lake. Ah! there is a duck. Hi!
Romanian ladies are generally pretty; but once and now you find a face that takes your breath away. I see one right now.
I am walking down the old town at around 2.30 am on a weekday and it is crowded like the Ernakulam Broadway at noon.
"Don't these people have work tomorrow?", we ask each other.
(Maybe they are asking the same question pointing at us).
Oh these revolving doors! Argh! They are on my case I reckon. Damn!
I feel bored. I go to trim my beard. I cut my ponytail off. Hair today, gone tomorrow.
Sitting alone in Cismigiu; one oldish dude comes and asks for a single cigarette. He insists on paying for it. His name is John Rambo and he is an ex-serviceman. No joke, he even shows me his ID.
Get into the tram from near the hotel. Old tram, old town, old people - I never felt so young in a very long time.
Whenever I see old people here I wonder about their experiences - they must have survived the war, the interbellum, the war again, the communist era, the revolution and now the democracy. I think this city is like an old cat - hit hard and made harder by the hits.
The city is so arty. To be arty is to move. To move is not really to be arty. Trams move. Trains move.
Again in Cismigiu. Lots of them bring their dogs to walk. The dogs make friends with each other, but their owners don't. Man is a social animal.
It's morning. They are practicing for the evening orchestra at the George Enescu square. I look at them and walk across the square, near the stage. I stumble and almost fall. They see me, some smile; a few laugh. Oh the artists notice me. Cheers.
Get drunk. Walk around. Get lost in the old town. Eat gelato. Yawn.
Last Sunday in Bucharest. Cismigiu again - happy people, beautiful place: beautiful people, happy place. There is a lake. Ah! there is a duck. Hi!
