the cat house

Zoltan and I spent most of the holiday at l’Atalier, checking out the favorable girl to guy ratio and drinking coffees mixed with whiskey and Bailey's.  There weren’t much better ways to spend cold December holidays.  I couldn’t get a hold of any of the girls I saw the day before, so we simply resolved to meet with a different group of his friends later that night. We spent some time watching music at an outdoor festival that was celebrating the holiday.  There was a drum corps group trying to be a mix between Safri Duo and Stomp playing the finale, after a short lineup of Romanian folk and soft rock.  After one of the bandmembers had talked for a bit, Zoltan translated for me.  “He’s saying they were originally from Cluj, so they’re really glad to be back playing.  And they all went to the music school here.”  He added his own commentary.  “But look at what they’re doing.  Music school?  I think probably they started out with a good idea but then some producer came along, wanting to make them famous and this is what happened.”  

St. Michael's

When we walked away from the festival that was held outside the Hungarian Catholic Cathedral and under the statue of the Hungarian king, King Mattias, we were interrupted suddenly by a military parade.  "It's strange that they're doing all this over here," he said.  "I mean, it'd make more sense to do it in the Romanian square on the other side of town."  "Maybe they're just trying to rub it in that they own the house now," I suggested.

a poster at the bar

We went to a café called Bulgakov.  I insisted on going there, since it and its companion bar, Woland’s Cat House, were both named after the Russian writer, Mikhail Bulgakov, and were themed off of his book, The Master and the Margarita, one of the more clever and ingenious satires published during the Soviet Union.  Though, my old host mother, who was a school principal, argued, “It is not a satire!  It is a very serious piece of literature.  There is not one funny thing in the book, it is very serious.”  Either she didn’t read the book or she didn’t get it, since there were plenty of funny things in the book and plenty of commentary against the Soviet government, which was why it took almost 20 years to get it published through the Soviet censorship boards, despite even Stalin himself thinking it was a clever book.  Though Stalin was known for his statements like, "This book is too clever, it must not be allowed!  But do congratulate the author on a job well done."  He would then write down the author's name and make sure he was included in the next purge.    

“The real genius of Bulgakov’s work though, I mean the Master and Margarita specifically,” I told Zoltan as we drank hot, mulled wine in the bar, silhouettes of cats with knives for claws and bright red eyes were painted on the dark green walls, “is how the Master was writing his work and then burned it in the stove.  After he left, his lover saved the works.  The same thing happened with the Bulgakov’s book itself.  He also burned his manuscripts.  It's clear he probably added that bit in when he rewrote the book from memory, but still, it's interesting.” 

Zoltan’s friends joined us.  One was an English teacher that taught at a university in Cluj and who traveled often to Bucharest to see her boyfriend.  The other was her boyfriend.  Then Zoltan’s sister came, who was in from the countryside to be ready for when they’d leave for Italy the next day.  I tried to speak some Romanian to the waitress, but she didn't understand my attempt.

"She's Hungarian," Zoltan explained.  "We were speaking Hungarian, so she had to change languages.  The owner of this bar, actually, is Hungarian, so most people who hang out here and work here are Hungarians."

"You learned some Romanian?" Zoltan's sister asked.

"Yeah, sure, I mean, just the proper words.  I learned that 'pussy' is a kiss and that 'moya' is a blowjob.  But not much beyond that." 

friends in the Cathouse

The last to join us, in proper style, was Pavlos ushering in two girls.  One of them was his couchsurfing hostess and the other her friend.  I have already mentioned that Hungarians make a significant minority in Romania.  The Bulgakov bar was renowned for being a Hungarian joint, while all the people sitting at the table, even with the addition of Pavlos’s hostess and friend, were Hungarian.  Pavlos’s hostess didn’t want to stay long, since she had a party to go to later.  

“Pavlos,” I explained to my Greek friend, “we’ve got to get up early tomorrow, around 6, if we’re going to make the train that will take us to Deva and Hunedoara.” 

“No problem,” he said.  “I’ll just go to the party and stay up all night long.  Sounds fun to me.” 

"This place is good for you, Pavlos, you're a real Woland."

Pavlos, with his immortal spirit of party, winked as they left.