ROMANIA
- A Sentimental Journey -

by Adriana Carcu

I wake up at the sound of a strange melody, sudden, near and forceful. It takes me a while to realize that I am back in Timisoara, my hometown, and that the sound is coming from the church across the street, that I’ve been watching grow all through these years. The church, dedicated to the heroes of the 1998 revolution, is finished now and its bells are … electronic; four loudspeakers fixed on the large cupola toll the hours. I have never heard a sound like this and I’m not quite sure whether I should feel proud or not by such a strange communion of the religious tradition with technical progress. The first day is starting, and somewhat woozy after the last night’s joyful welcoming ritual of drinking one tzuica (Romanian plum brandy) after the other, I realize that for the next two weeks I can let my Romanian self out again; I can talk with my whole body, I can be as emotional as I want, I can wear the craziest things without worrying about anybody thinking me strange. Timisoara, my city of wonder, is waking up loudly, people are talking on the street right under the windows for long minutes; you don’t need a newspaper here. I go for the breakfast buns and the neighbors greet me as if I’ve never been away; I chat about the weather with the backer. Here I am again, in the town of my childhood, of my student years, the town of my dreams and romances. The town that got away from me on that winter night when I saw Piatza Maria on CNN, the square where I grew up; the place where the revolution started, filled with people who were calling the words I would have never thought possible, “Jos Ceausescu! Jos dictatorul!”

From the taxi taking me to the centre of the city I watch the shiny streets; the sun reflected in the wet pavement that has just been sprinkled clean like in all the summer mornings I remember; new houses, fairy tale castles, new companies, new shops. Timisoara, the city where I used to play on the streets and in the parks together with German, Hungarian, and Serbian kids, learning a bit of their languages, sharing a bit of my sandwich; the city that has newspapers and theatres in three languages, the city where the co-nationals (these days also Austrian and Italian investors) have always lived in peaceful harmony, is growing with the time, gradually gaining its place in the European constellation it joined this year. I see the vast parks, I used to get lost in, on my way to the playgrounds, the trees so big now that the branches are literally penetrating through the windows into the rooms, bathing them in a pale liquid light, and I remember how I used to think that the city was very big. It is all the same now and yet, so different.

I look at the massive colorful cathedral dominating the centre of the city, facing the opera house, at the many restaurant terraces along the fragrant rose gardens in the middle and around the iron fish fountain, as animated as ever, and I finally get that merry go happy feeling you always get in Romania, no matter how early, no matter how late in the day. Even if today the car has become the king of the street, the people spend most of their summer time outdoors enjoying the sun, the air, the evening breeze.

Next day I go to Piatza Unirii (the Union Square), a place where you want to be on a beautiful summer day like this. The noisy, colorful outdoor pubs scattered all over the huge place are surrounded from all four sides by a most spectacular display of the architectural style called Secession, a style that has earned Timisoara the name of The Little Vienna: huge palaces, museums, churches of all confession, and patrician houses from which the paint is fading away decorously in an exquisite combination of colors.

The filigree profile of the church towers against the violet sunset, the furled umbrellas like the folded wings of huge white birds, and the ancient cobbled pavement send you a hundred years back in the joyful times of fin de siècle.

One day we are invited to visit an artist friend, the sculptor Stefan Calarasanu. We meet at an Indian coffee house called Bollywood. In the somewhat decadent atmosphere of the pub, we recline leisurely on huge velvet cushions, sipping our sophisticated cocktail.

As we finally enter the building, another flawlessly preserved Jugendstil palace, I am astonished by the perfect beauty of the iron railings, the stained glass windows in the hall and the intricate plaster decoration of the ceiling.

The apartment is a complete revelation, apart form the tall double doors bearing the same stylistic mark, the large labyrinth-like place is filled with a wonderfully assorted array of artwork, some of it belonging to the artist himself.

Later in the day we head for Piatza Traian, going past the 100 year old Catholic Church I remember so well from my childhood. Again, flowers everywhere. The winding golden belt of stucco surrounding the building across the square is catching fire from the declining sun, the iron statues on the roofs are watching over us with raised spears.

We cross the bridge over the Bega channel, where I used to bathe and float on top of old pneumatic tires in a cheery tumult of childhood joy and clear water,

and before descending in the Taverna for dinner we have another look at the Piatza de fin (Haymarket) so colorful, busy and surreal in the burning sunset.

Down in the tavern, old memories come up. The place is decorated like a living room of the Timisoara of old, the time of the Hapsburgs, the time of the Bidermeyer furniture, of the family pictures in heavy frames; scale radios, old typewriters, faded mirrors.

We get fresh feta with olives and ripe tomatoes, salad de boeuf and eggplant crème for starters; sarmale (stuffed sauerkraut) and roasted chicken with rosemary and garlic as the main course, and delicious crêpes with sweet creamy cheese and raisins for desert. We eat and we talk, all at once, all together, it doesn’t matter, we are among friends. A mannequin sitting on the counter is watching over us condescendingly, the flimsy pink dress afloat in the breeze of the fan. The place is getting filled with people I know, the conversation is general, somebody starts playing a guitar, the long ruby shadows of the wine in the tall glass carafes are quivering on the laced table cloth.

I am home again.

Romania, Timisoara, 20 August 2007