Pavlos and I went down to the train station together. I dropped my stuff off there so we could walk
around downtown a bit more. Hungry, we
sat down at a Serbian café to get some more ethnic food. Pavlos ordered the fish soup and fish plate
and I ordered the stuff steak. I
contemplated what a stuffed steak was while we waited. A group of Russians came in, sitting behind
me, and ordered vodka and juice. They
pounded the vodka and pounded the juice and then left. The waitress brought us our dishes. The meat was stuffed with cheese and more
meat. Serbians clearly had no doubts
when it came to eating meat. I was glad I
didn’t have any carnivorous reservations of any sort and I dug it. It’s hard to be picky the further East you,
as customer service declines a great deal with every kilometer, and I often
shrank back in mild embarrassment even every time Pavlos tries to explain to
waitresses that he can’t eat anything with dairy in it. Not that customer service really exists in
Western places like France either, but they do have plenty of hippy vegetarians
in that direction setting up cafes. The
people of the East are harder, sterner folk, years of oppression making them
more resilient to the pansification of post-modern civilization.
We made our way back to Hotel Moscow to sit on the internet while gazing at the beautiful Russian and Serbian women who were sitting there to drink coffees and to listen to the piano. Pavlos was wearing his headphones, as usual, to blast away part of the atmosphere of where he was at. I believe in full alertness to an atmosphere, so that one can be propelled into the most heavenly height of the sense-experience of the moment and as the senses merge together in a single identity, the moment blurs together like streaks of paint across an impressionist landscape. I would have shared this with Pavlos, but I knew he wouldn’t hear me over the gangsta rap he was bobbing his head to – “bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks”. I’m not saying I never listen to earphones or Dr. Dre, nor that they themselves can’t enhance the experience. I often find that I feel myself floating to Chopin when I’m wandering dark alleyways in fog and rain.
As I sipped on my cappuccino, I found myself moody and ponderous. Was I happier before Pavlos joined me as a traveling companion? Was I sadder? Was there a difference? I’d certainly had fun with Pavlos, but I knew also I found myself annoyed with him. It was an indication that we needed a break, certainly.
We went to the Irish pub, for one last round of Irish car bombs. We had to explain to the bartender how to make them. “You take a half shot of Bailey’s, a half shot of Jameson’s and a half glass of Guinness,” Pavlos explained to him. He brought back one shot of Bailey’s, one shot of Jameson and a full glass of Guinness. We scratched our heads at that. The waitress then understand what it was we were trying to explain and then tried to explain it to the bartender. He just poured half of each into another glass, making a clouded up mixture of Jameson’s and Bailey’s. It didn’t matter too much though.
“Here’s to the good times we’ve had,” I toasted and we drank. I got up and hurried back to the train station, catching my train just in time. I was the only one in my compartment of the entire journey to Timisoara, Romania. There may have been five or six more people on the entire train, including the old guy standing in the hallway, staring out the window while taking long drags from his cigarette. None of the compartments had any heat and I sat bundled in a corner, watching the IT Crowd until my battery ran out. The hours passed. I read from a new book, Sarajevo Marlboro, that I received from Reet. I tried to pass time and ignore the cold, but I was failing. There was nothing to see out of the windows but darkness and it was only five or six in the evening.
The train stopped. It was time for the Serbian border check. Soldiers came on board, pulled up all the seats in every cabin, searching for drugs or explosives or something. They left. The train moved on. Romanian border guards came on board and did the same thing. One soldier pointed to my accordion. “What is that?”
“An accordion.”
“Open it up.”
“Sure, would you like me to play?” I asked.
“What?” he asked me.
“I said, yes.”
The train continued. It was too dark to read, too dark too watch anything out the window and too cold to sleep. I tried to think about what happened between Pavlos and me and imagined what Pavlos would do in this situation. Normally, he was always dancing to something while we walked, especially when he went down a staircase he liked to skip steps and spin around as if he was in a club and he was busting moves to the music, only this music was being pumped only to him via his headphones. So, I decided to do just that. I pulled out my phone, turned on some LMFAO and party rocked around in my cabin. It kept my blood moving, warming me up a bit and helped me pass some time.
I met my next hostess, Teodora, at the train station. She was holding a book so that I could recognize her. It was a good thing I was easily recognizable, since I saw about three girls holding books. She was short, round and smiling. “How was your trip?” she asked me.
“Long and cold. I had to dance to keep warm.”
“It was an hour late too.” As I checked my watch, she added, “We’re an hour ahead of Serbia.”
“Sorry. You didn’t stay here the entire time, did you?”
“I was at a bar nearby with some friends, had a couple of drinks.”
“Well done.”
She got a taxi to pull over and we put my stuff in. Then we sped around town, picked up another girl, Sima, and went back to Teodora’s apartment. As they spoke, I listened, trying to pick out words and accents. Before coming to Romania, I thought everyone would speak in accents that resembled Dracula’s perceived accent. But I discovered that Romanian accents were something more Italian and less vampiric, while it was Serbs and Croats that sounded like vampires. We went out to a bar later that night, after Teodora made sure I was well fed.
We made our way back to Hotel Moscow to sit on the internet while gazing at the beautiful Russian and Serbian women who were sitting there to drink coffees and to listen to the piano. Pavlos was wearing his headphones, as usual, to blast away part of the atmosphere of where he was at. I believe in full alertness to an atmosphere, so that one can be propelled into the most heavenly height of the sense-experience of the moment and as the senses merge together in a single identity, the moment blurs together like streaks of paint across an impressionist landscape. I would have shared this with Pavlos, but I knew he wouldn’t hear me over the gangsta rap he was bobbing his head to – “bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks”. I’m not saying I never listen to earphones or Dr. Dre, nor that they themselves can’t enhance the experience. I often find that I feel myself floating to Chopin when I’m wandering dark alleyways in fog and rain.
As I sipped on my cappuccino, I found myself moody and ponderous. Was I happier before Pavlos joined me as a traveling companion? Was I sadder? Was there a difference? I’d certainly had fun with Pavlos, but I knew also I found myself annoyed with him. It was an indication that we needed a break, certainly.
We went to the Irish pub, for one last round of Irish car bombs. We had to explain to the bartender how to make them. “You take a half shot of Bailey’s, a half shot of Jameson’s and a half glass of Guinness,” Pavlos explained to him. He brought back one shot of Bailey’s, one shot of Jameson and a full glass of Guinness. We scratched our heads at that. The waitress then understand what it was we were trying to explain and then tried to explain it to the bartender. He just poured half of each into another glass, making a clouded up mixture of Jameson’s and Bailey’s. It didn’t matter too much though.
“Here’s to the good times we’ve had,” I toasted and we drank. I got up and hurried back to the train station, catching my train just in time. I was the only one in my compartment of the entire journey to Timisoara, Romania. There may have been five or six more people on the entire train, including the old guy standing in the hallway, staring out the window while taking long drags from his cigarette. None of the compartments had any heat and I sat bundled in a corner, watching the IT Crowd until my battery ran out. The hours passed. I read from a new book, Sarajevo Marlboro, that I received from Reet. I tried to pass time and ignore the cold, but I was failing. There was nothing to see out of the windows but darkness and it was only five or six in the evening.
The train stopped. It was time for the Serbian border check. Soldiers came on board, pulled up all the seats in every cabin, searching for drugs or explosives or something. They left. The train moved on. Romanian border guards came on board and did the same thing. One soldier pointed to my accordion. “What is that?”
“An accordion.”
“Open it up.”
“Sure, would you like me to play?” I asked.
“What?” he asked me.
“I said, yes.”
The train continued. It was too dark to read, too dark too watch anything out the window and too cold to sleep. I tried to think about what happened between Pavlos and me and imagined what Pavlos would do in this situation. Normally, he was always dancing to something while we walked, especially when he went down a staircase he liked to skip steps and spin around as if he was in a club and he was busting moves to the music, only this music was being pumped only to him via his headphones. So, I decided to do just that. I pulled out my phone, turned on some LMFAO and party rocked around in my cabin. It kept my blood moving, warming me up a bit and helped me pass some time.
I met my next hostess, Teodora, at the train station. She was holding a book so that I could recognize her. It was a good thing I was easily recognizable, since I saw about three girls holding books. She was short, round and smiling. “How was your trip?” she asked me.
“Long and cold. I had to dance to keep warm.”
“It was an hour late too.” As I checked my watch, she added, “We’re an hour ahead of Serbia.”
“Sorry. You didn’t stay here the entire time, did you?”
“I was at a bar nearby with some friends, had a couple of drinks.”
“Well done.”
She got a taxi to pull over and we put my stuff in. Then we sped around town, picked up another girl, Sima, and went back to Teodora’s apartment. As they spoke, I listened, trying to pick out words and accents. Before coming to Romania, I thought everyone would speak in accents that resembled Dracula’s perceived accent. But I discovered that Romanian accents were something more Italian and less vampiric, while it was Serbs and Croats that sounded like vampires. We went out to a bar later that night, after Teodora made sure I was well fed.
 |
| Sima and me |
Many of the buildings in Timisoara are old and falling apart, though there is a
slow process of restoring them to their former glory underway. Many of the buildings are built in a Roman
style, that is, the building is built around a courtyard and many of the doors
open to the courtyard rather than to the street. This means that many bars are completely
unrecognizable from the street and have spread by word of mouth alone, packing
crowds because of their own unique and individual atmospheres. In fact, in all my travels, I haven’t found
so many unique and creatively decorated underground bars since I arrived in
Romania. I knew I’d enjoy my time here.
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