Red Square Remembered

Now I DO remember how cold it felt last year in Manitoba. I’ve been back from Moscow for a few weeks now already, but in reviewing these pictures, I’m surprised that I’ve finally actually thawed out. The last event of our itinerary was a tour of Red Square. So there we were, Elizabeth my colleague and admitted drama queen, eight young singers (grades 7 and 8, there for a choir festival), and your roaming Romanian dispatcher. Elizabeth had worked at the Anglo American School of Moscow for several years and had eagerly anticipated a return trip. She, like so many expats who live in Moscow, has this love/hate relationship with this fabulous city. During our stay in Moscow she also confided in me that she hoped she would have numerous of those genuine “Russian experiences” that would dispel all traces of homesickness and would reaffirm her reasons for finally deciding she’d had enough of Russia. She was not about to be disappointed.

The bus got us to Red Square easily, whizzing through wide boulevards of non-existent Sunday morning traffic, apparently the only time these streets are ever unencumbered with jams of far too many cars, a litany we are hearing from city dwellers all over Eastern Europe. It’s -25 C (with wind chill, it’s gotta be -40), and we are uncomfortably cold. Let’s quickly take a group shot in front of the outrageously pretty and famous St. Basil onion dome extravagance. The skinny gangly girl in the tiny ski jacket is standing on alternate feet in an attempt to get her feet off the cold stones. Are those ballet slippers or actual shoes you’re wearing? Our inside dog back home used to do that on our driveway until visitors from Britain bought him cold weather Muttluks to wear on frosty Manitoba mornings. But I digress. We needed to hurry, because the Полиции or Cheka or KGB or police or military (standing everywhere) would come and disperse us. Apparently it’s OK to take pictures of a few people at a time in front of the church but not groups. Why do they disallow it? Elizabeth: “Because they can.” We managed to snap a few hurried contraband pictures, and then we headed for the GUM department store which flanks all of Red Square, opposite Stalin’s and Krushchev’s famous viewing stands, in front of which the tanks and missiles would rumble by in the glory days when they still had impressive May Day Parades. GUM was closed. It was the first time Elizabeth swore that morning. So it was seriously time to look for a café to get these skinnily (but rather fashionably) dressed kids out of the cold. Every place open was too small and/or expensive, although we did fake a looooong decision process in the lobby of one tiny bistro to thaw out some toes and fingers. Well, in the distance, artfully blended into an ancient wall just outside the Kremlin, shone the Golden Arches of our salvation! Breakfast has rarely been so rewarding of our efforts at survival and perseverance. Nikita, our cherub-faced resident native Russian lad of the group, came into his own translating our hearts’ desires into the McItems on the cyrilic menu for the pretty teenage girl at the cash register—much more fun than simply pointing at the pictures. Once emboldened by McCaffeine and energized by sufficient McFat, we decided that a visit to Lenin’s tomb was in order. As was a possible visit to a souvenir shop. The group from Istanbul was with us as well, and, curiously, all the Bucharest kids wanted to see Lenin, and all the kids from Turkey wanted to go shopping. One pony-tailed dolly from Istanbul (read this with teenage inflection): “I didn’t know John Lennon was buried here!?”

The lineup began some hundred meters distant from the entrance to the mausoleum area. We assumed it was to get us into a contemplative mood for the augustness of the vast experience we were about to enter, this sanctum sanctorum of all things Communist. While the Russians no longer subscribe to that dogma, or are no longer forced to, they still seem to enjoy the quasi-religiosity that accompanies it. A stern uniformed Russky then escorted us silently (the kids had been suitably forewarned to be reverend) to the airport security-style entrance. All electronics, cameras, etc. needed to be coat-checked into nearby lockboxes for that purpose. While we awaited our turn through the gates, ballet-slipper girl stood on my feet for warmth. And the sun climbed higher and higher, incredibly reflecting golden off the variously shaped roofs and finials of the towers all around us. Fabulous. That’s when you wish you had a really wide-angle lens. The mausoleum was deep underground, well, appropriately more than 6 feet under, and warm! Wouldn’t want the old boy to freeze now. He looked rather exactly like someone might who has been dead and pickled for 80 some years, and who has his body cleaned and re-waxed every five years. Mustn’t linger. Stern snap of fingers, nyet stopping. Unsmiling guards everywhere. Just outside the tomb, I put slipper girl on my back to get her off the cold stone. Now that must have jibed well with the authorities, who evidently decided that Lubyanka just around the corner was a little severe for this infraction of protocol, and let it go. A popular joke is that the Lubyanka is the tallest building in Moscow: Siberia can be seen from its basement.

Well, mission accomplished, let’s hurry to the bus and warm up seriously. We needed only to step out of this area and retrieve our accoutrements from the lock box and be on our way. Nyet! We were herded to the left instead of to where we wanted to go, by another stern uniform. This was the second time Elizabeth swore. “Ms. Hunt, we can’t use language like that in class!” “We’re not IN class; we’re in Russia!” Now we scooted RATHER irreverently and quickly past a whole line of graves. There’s Papa Josef Stalin, there’s Nikita K, etc. Now that was done, and the bulk of us could head back to the bus, but Elizabeth and our young translator, Nikita also K, would retrieve our lock box stuff. Nyet! No cutting through here. (Swear, swear, offer of a bribe, refusal. This was all related to us afterward.) So they began to run. Every time they attempted to shorten the distance, and were redirected by an omnipresent stern uniform, there would be more frustration colorfully expressed by Elizabeth. I think kids are hard wired to be reactionary to agitations in an adult. As all parents know, this can manifest itself in diverse ways, but Nikita, sweet kid that he is, got more sympathetic by the moment. The more she cussed, the more his encouraging chatter. “Don’t fall, Ms. Hunt! It’s slippery! It won’t be much longer, Ms. Hunt! That’s the way police are here in Russia!” They were redirected around the entire square, until once more they came into the original lineup that led them to this “Russian Experience” in the first place! From there of course, it was a simple matter of getting to the security gate where we were before, and retrieving our belongings. Nyet problem! And why do the authorities make these arbitrary decisions that make your Russian life so difficult?? Elizabeth: “Because they can!”

By now, we were late to get on the road to the airport. Our Toyota bus blasted down vast avenues and connecting roads, construction everywhere, fabulous and massive buildings impressive on each side, and promptly got to the airport by a Russian miracle—uncharacteristically light traffic. But the Russians, as you know by now, are fond of making things difficult (because they can), and had placed the bottleneck of a luggage X-ray station right in the doorway of the airport terminal. Another anomaly here: an older man in uniform who spoke excellent delightfully accented English, had an actual smiling face and acknowledged our plight of urgency; he lifted the barrier, and let all ten of us through, sans security check. In no time at all we were checked in and now had free time. I commented to Liz that this last considerate gesture could seriously skew her tally of rude things that routinely happen to one in Russia, but she was confident that the day was not yet over and that her decision to have moved out of this fabulous, fascinating and frustrating country had been indeed the right one. Then, just as we were about to enter the gate into the departure lounge, a large well-dressed Russian brute literally shouldered her out of his way (did the Russians invent the hockey body check?) and he made his important way up the stairs and out of sight. Her point having been forcefully made, we metaphorically shook the snow of that country off our feet and boarded the craft for our return journey to Bucharest. Would I go back? In a heartbeat, but let’s try it in the spring or the fall next time.


These pictures were all taken in the palatial stations of the Moscow subway system:







Incredible mosaics, paintings, and sculpture to help with the propaganda of Stalin's glory of Communism:











On the world's longest indoor escalator, perspective changes after a while. The ride from top to bottom--a full three minutes!










Young men far out of touch with the former Communist ideals pictured in mosaic above them:

Five Romanian "Rhapsodies"

#1 (Ed) The “Singing” Romanian

My first taste of Romanian songs came when the “local hire” teacher of Romanian culture and language asked me and my guitar to visit the class to help with the preparation of a Romanian carol presentation for a school assembly. Of course, I jumped at the chance. The rehearsal began with the dear lady simply announcing the carol and unceremoniously commencing. The dozen students to a greater or lesser degree all joined in, each at their own comfort level re the parameters of pitch, rhythm, involvement, amount of giggling, and so forth. After a couple of verses, a somewhat indistinct impression of a melody glimmered through the din, and I presumed to stop the effort, in order to establish some sort of key, or pitch centre, or ground zero in terms of tonality. Years of shouting at her classes had lowered the teacher’s tessitura to baritone level, contrasting alarmingly with the potentially sweet sound of the grade 7 voices, which as yet, had not raised themselves beyond speech-like utterances vaguely semi-coordinated with the syllables of their teacher. But, trusting there was a normal woman’s voice in there somewhere, and that these were basically normal children, (judging by their sparkle, brighter than average), I dared to suggest that we find a key that we could all sing in. As Henry Engbrecht is fond of saying, “there’s room for all of you on that pitch”. To fast-track the class onto a key that would work, I simply dropped into my accustomed falsetto, and ignoring their surprised looks, invited them all with my eyebrows to join me as I sang what I remembered phonetically of the opening syllables of their just-rendered "Steaua sus rasare" (The star appearing on high). It worked! There WAS room for all of us on the same melody. The eastern European lugubriousness of the musical attitude of the song made rhythm a non-issue. But the next one, Mos Craciun (Santa Claus’s white locks), was quite a rhythmic delight, and in addition to all of the above concerns of pitch and specifics of melody, we now had to contend with the exact microsecond at which a song begins. Now, every guitarist who reads this surely has had to endure that one person in a sing-along who invariably begins the next agreed-upon song in the graceless fashion of a leader who sallies forth half-cocked, ostensibly currying favour by breaking trail through the wilderness of musical expectations to show that he (it’s usually a male) can lead the way. Naturally, in this instance, it was our beleaguered Romanian teacher who necessarily played that role, having grown accustomed to survival techniques involving her culturally unruly charges, most notably, the boys. Of course, all the usual appeals for improved behaviour were utilized. Through the Romanian language barrier I was able to discern admonitions that included “blasfemie!” and in deference to my exalted rank and standing, appeals to not waste the valuable time of the “professor”. After a couple of false starts to locate a key that demanded neither shrieking nor groveling for pitches, we worked on refinements of what we in the conducting industry call “prep” signals, and the normal population calls “breathing”. It’s amazing how a preparatory breath before the first phrase of a song, done together, sets you up to begin the song at the same instant! Important, to say the least.

The rehearsing for the third piece began with more cacophony than the others, and I struggled to ascertain some recognition of any possible fragment of melody, or rhythm, or even syllables. Nor could I be certain whether our teacher was shouting instructions or performing with the kids, such a vocal confusion ensued. Ah, I finally realized, there IS no melody, just chanted words! So, musically speaking, all we have left is rhythm, like rap, except without the attitude. And then of course, I had to put my oar in and make demands about exactness of rhythm and proper syllabic emphasis, and likely far more than they would have been happy to settle for, before inviting me into the process. But how delightful it turned out, several rehearsals later, when they brought out what the Mennonites were sure they had the exclusive rights for, a Brommtopp! This is a bucket-shaped drum with a horse tail (real of course) coming out of the drum skin. The kid who played it wet his hands and then tugged at the tail, letting the hairs slide through his wet grasp, and the drum moaned and barked in response to his rhythm and hand pressure.

It was wonderful to see all the ways the kids in the audience at that last assembly reacted to these songs: familiar delight, fascination with the Brommtopp, unabashed sing-along participation, pure joy! And the kid who couldn‘t stop giggling, did exactly that—not stop giggling, while the others sang; the teacher sang in what could be discerned as an actually pretty singing voice, and the kids sang with musically modulated abandon. At the end of it all, this pied piper packed up his guitar along with this experience, and put a big checkmark onto the plus side of the balance sheet of life events.

#2 (Ed) More Fun than Physics
In the holiday, we turned the little yellow Polo north for some Romanian adventure before jetting off to Mexico. First stop, the small city of Sibiu, 200 km from Bucharest, which translated to 8 hours! (That’s a different story, and it includes a mountain rock slide traffic delay.) Sibiu was declared by the European Union Ministries of Culture Council to be the European Capital of Culture in 2007 together with her sister city, Luxembourg. This city is also called Hermannstadt, named by the Saxons of old; indeed, a large percentage of this population still speaks German. We enjoyed a concert by the local Bach choir in the ancient and large Lutheran church, which dominates one of the squares of the city. But earlier in the day, we had the nerve to visit the “Gymnasium”, a German high school for university bound students. We encountered a couple of kids in the hallway with open, youthful faces, and struck up a conversation. They admitted to be skipping class, and thought that giving a couple of English speaking visitors a tour of their school would be MUCH more fun than going to physics. Happy to oblige, they took us to a packed 9th grade music class, in which the teacher matter-of-factly urged these four newcomers to sit down and join the class. They were singing a series of carols, every student as cooperative and compliant as any teacher’s dream come true: full participation, smiling faces, sweet tuneful 2-or-more-part singing, NO talking, excellent recorder playing in 3 parts! Aren’t grade 9s supposed to be a handful in every situation? The sweet lady at the electronic keyboard at the front of the class forged ahead “heedless of the wind and weather”, one song after another, through our interruption, my photography and our subsequent departure, pausing only long enough to wish us a “Frohe Weihnachten”, and a “Craciun fericite”.



#3 (Millie) The “Winter” Concert
Millie meanwhile, managed to maneuver her league of nations through a Winter Concert that incorporated the signs of the season along with the Faith and Variations of her 175 elementary students. Tree decorating, Santa and his elves, Hanukkah, Ramadan, gift-giving, the Nativity –--- they and more were all there, ensconced in a play in which 5 little mice scamper around Bucharest trying to figure out what the December fuss is all about. Among the students who arrived to try out for the Silent Night solo, the fellow with the most incredible voice, the purest of boy sopranos, the one who really wanted to do it ---- Mohammed. Mohammed ended up writing the script for the Ramadan excerpt instead and sang a wonderful Islamic chant, accompanying himself on the drum. He was most content with that. Usman, on the other hand, was not allowed to sing any songs, but he could be a Christmas tree. It was OK for Yahav to play the carols on the recorder, but she couldn’t sing them. All the Christian kids were OK with doing the Hanukkah dance. Those who refrain from faith matters still had lots to do. Take a moment and imagine my lists. The show finished with an all-school extravaganza onstage declaring, “ We can hardly wait to celebrate this year” (take out “for Christmas”, insert “to celebrate”) against a backdrop of sets that had arrived along with each segment of the play. Of course, this is the way it has to be. We are an international school. Having said that, it was also the first time in years that the Nativity scene had been brought to the stage. The warm appreciation of the Romanian population poured in for days, as did that of those positioned otherwise. We talk less about the cold at this time of the year.

#4 (Millie) Vivaldi’s “Winter”
Today’s choice of 5-minute listening clip was Vivaldi’s “Winter” from the Four Seasons. Of course, I never just TELL the students what they are listening to. They have to dig into their vast region of clue-formulating thought and build upon that to try to come even close! The Grade 4s and 5s are pretty good at this, given that they understand the difference among baroque, classical, modern, etc. So they guessed the composer correctly, and one class even speculated that it could be the Four Seasons, although they were doubtful because the first measures of “Winter” sound positively spooky. The short, crisp rhythms morph into a crescendo that had them closing their ears and wishing this was about a monster coming to wreck mayhem and misery upon its victims. Perfect. Once I was able to describe winter as our Manitoba friends know it right now, they learned that their wish had come true! One child wondered how Vivaldi could have got it so “right’, living in Italy. I suggested that one of his friends might have been a famous explorer. This could have opened up a whole kettle of (jack)fish to veer the lesson off course, so we let it go and reflected on what snow was like, as we looked out the windows onto the green grass.
So, if you own this CD, give it a whirl. There’s a marvelous figure in the violins (about one minute in), that we determined sounds exactly like a shiver. So every time we heard it, we imitated said shiver. This was great fun, and will bear out tomorrow when the parents bring their kids to school with stories in tow about having had to listen to the Four Seasons half the night. More than anything, it's a treat to work with children who are no strangers to the theatre, the opera, the ballet. I can play any classical CD for these kids and they will always declare how they love the music. When they hear a segment from an opera, no one giggles or mocks it. In fact, eyes shine and little fists clutch at little chests as some of them announce that this is their FAVOURITE song! (No matter what, it’s always someone’s favourite song.) Not a hockey town.

#5 (Millie) Al Simmons and the Pyjama Song
Friday was pyjama day at school (some things never change), so I schlepped around in PJs and found myself yawning by 2 p.m. Luckily I had brought my favourite Al Simmons CD to Bucharest, so I hauled that out for our Listening Clip of the Day. To my delight (and loss of control), the kids laughed themselves into hysterics. I know it’s funny, but this….?! What are they going to do when I play the Lego House song? Anyhow, this was the BEST song they had EVER heard!! Then, when I told them that I knew Al Simmons, they just about croaked. That was too much. I must certainly be a famous person to know such a funny man!

Christmas in Cancun

Christmas in Mexico = great times swimming, snorkeling, eating gobs of badly matching food, drinking terrible wine, shopping in vain for the perfect souvenir, painting ceramics, happening upon dear friends from “back home”, perusing ancient Mayan ruins, talking forever and working our evenings around the "entertainment", such as it was. Johanna realized a childhood dream and swam with the dolphins, replete with “dolphin push”. Daniel bombed around Cozumel on a scooter. Maddy’s painted ceramic outshone the ones you could buy. Ed and Nathan rented a boat aiming to find coral. Millie read two books. As for the “all inclusive” part ...... well, we'll let it go as "been there, done that"! Unceasing din. Noisy music piped in everywhere, water aerobic instructors hollering through titanic speakers. A few times Ed and I got to comparing it to Bucharest, where the "house music" whacks away in most public places! I guess the sound of waves and the birds doesn’t quite cut it for the savvy tourist. We did have very good flights, smooth and uneventful except for the Mexican airport guys who tried to tell us that there was no airport in Bucharest. For a minute there, we contemplated telling that to our school board. But we are back, luggage and all, awaiting our next adventure.

Christmas in Romania

"O Tannenbaum" or “O brad frumous”:
Romania loves Christmas and celebrates it to the fullest. Bucharest is aglow with lights and ribbons and decorated trees throughout. The trees are hung with anything from wrapped boxes to stuffed animals. Massive garland is usually strung from top to bottom rather than ‘round and ‘round, some symmetrically and carefully laden, others more haphazard. Every Piata has its own décor, making each easily identifiable for drivers still figuring out the city. All are beautiful and blue seems to be the favourite colour.



"Here We Come A’ Wassailing":
At 8:00 a.m. on December 24, we were aroused by a sharp knock at the door. In his non-dressed state, Ed peeked through the peephole, and beheld ---- carolers! Four young men, occasionally on key, stood in the apartment vestibule outside our door and favoured us with Romania’s best-loved carol, “Dimineata lui Craciunu”. (Tomorrow is Christmas day.) In the next couple of hours, we determined that this was indeed a Romanian custom, as they were only the first of a string of carolers, all singing the same song (!), all expecting favours of money or food in return. This however, proved to be the mild version of the custom. From our fourth floor apartment windows, we became aware of large bands of roving well-wishers, going house to house in the early morning hours. Singing is only part of the tradition, which also involves great banging on drums, pipes of all kinds, and raucous shouting. The cacophony set up a bellering and baying of stray dogs the like of which we’ve yet to see surpassed. These revelers are cross-generational, all of them dark-skinned (gypsies?), many dressed in red, with some of the kids in complete bearskins, head to tail. We are told that some of them sing rather well. This revelry reminded us of the tales of the Brummtopfers of our ancestry.

"Dimineata lui Craciunu" (in tune): Christmas Eve at the Athenaum : An evening of Romanian carols sung by ”Preludiu”, one of Romania’s leading choirs

Although we were in a receptive mood for an evening exactly like this, we were hard pressed to think of another choir as fine as the one we heard tonight. These rich harmonies, warm voices and divine tuning, sung from memory with most heartfelt faces, proved that all the awards in the world have not wearied these singers. They finished the concert with an audience sing-along, including “Chingle Bellss”, which got the most applause of all!

“Oh Bring us Some Figgy Pudding":
Supper at Caru cu’ bere was nothing to write home about, although the setting and the entertainment that came with it offset the food quite nicely. We should have stuck with the figgy pudding.



"I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day":
At 11:00 p.m. we attended the service at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, which proffered more Romanian and German carols, spiced with pipe organ. By midnight there was standing room only; the community of worshippers arriving to celebrate the mass spilled out into the street. From 11:50 to midnight the bells rang nonstop.

"Joy to the World":
7:00 a.m: As we made our way across our vast apartment to call our kids, the phone rang! They had “beat us to it”, and we all talked at once for about half an hour. They were celebrating Christmas Eve together, just like we always did, with gifts and games and encircling each other to say nice things on purpose. If your morning coffee can have a “spring in its step”, ours did today. As for us, our “no gifts this year" promise to each other held up in its usual way. Millie just happened to have picked up a “Kleinigkeit", upon which Ed was obliged to extract the “Kleinigkeit’ that HE had just happened to pick up also. And as usual, the "trifle" that Ed had got for Millie was much nicer (and bigger) than the one she had got for him, he protesting all the while that it's for "both of us"!!! Ah, tradition.....

"O du Froeliche":
This was the opening hymn of the service at the Evangelische Kirche (Lutheran) this morning. The sermon, in clear and (to us) surprisingly comprehensible German, compared the accounts of the Christmas Story in Luke and John. It was lovely to hear the story read in the language in which we first learned it. It was nostalgic.




“Bring me flesh….”:
Noon: And now we were treated to a feast, the likes of which Good King Wenceslas himself would have admired. Christmas dinner consisted of the finest flavours surely to be had in the city. The best part? The beef! Our declaration begat the curiousity of the waiter (Romanians don’t eat much beef), and a discussion ensued covering a plethora of topics which included the farm and my beef-producing brothers back home. The waiter was partial to saying, “Wow-wow!!"
"We Wish You a Merry Christmas!"
As Christmas day in Romania draws to an end, somewhere it is just dawning. Our hearts are full as we send our thoughts, good wishes and hugs out to our friends and families. May “auld acquaintance” not be forgot, and may you experience many blessings in the New Year ahead! Against the night sky, we can see brilliant fireworks as the celebrations continue.

Crăciun Fericit!
Millie and Ed

Istanbul

This is the city to travel to if you want to open a floodgate of conversation with the folk you happen to be talking with at the time. Well-traveled people acknowledge Istanbul as near the top of the list of cities not to miss. Having now been there, we keenly agree, although we are hardly an authority on any aspect of it, except maybe how to ignore a hawker!

We had all of three days (!) and barely skimmed the surface of what this great city has to offer its visitors. Nor did we spend enough time delving into its extraordinary history in advance, particularly as relates to past opulent Empires still evident in the architecture, the mosques and the bazaars. Istanbul is the only city in the world that served as the capital to three major empires—Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman. It the second largest city and third largest metro area in Europe.

A friend from school had seen to it that our hotel not be in the tourist-ridden Sultanhamet area. Once we visited this old section of the city however, we were sorry that we had listened to him! What an adventure!
On the other hand, had we not been “across the strait”, we might not have appreciated the smooth and unruffled manner in which Istanbul moves its millions of people. All public transportation is fast, effortless, on time, and uses the same system of “tokens”. Remember that we are comparing all these cities to Bucharest.

Among the great sights, sounds and smells that Sultanhamet offers are the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sophia, the Grande Bazaar and the spice bazaar. We awoke to the prayer calls that are piped into every corner of the city via public address system five times a day.

It is astonishing to stand in the Hagia Sophia that, for over 900 years, was the most important church in Christianity. It was commissioned as a cathedral in the 6th century and remained that way until the 15th century, when it was converted into a mosque by Mehmet II. In 1934 the Turkish Republic declared it a museum. The mix of features of cathedral and mosque bestows a peculiar aura to this building that juxtaposes incredible Byzantine mosaics, icons and marble columns with a mihrab (niche indicating the direction of Mecca) and Islamic calligraphy inscriptions on the dome from the Ottoman period.

The Blue Mosque was constructed in 1609 as an Islamic rival to the Hagia Sophia. We arrived just before eleven o’clock prayers. Alongside the building, men were washing their feet under the waterspouts. We were expected only to remove our shoes. The interior, one of the finest examples of Ottoman architecture, is decorated with thousands upon thousands of blue and white Iznik tiles embellished with traditional Ottoman flower patterns. Inside we heard a sermon chanted by the Imam, and then we had to leave.

Some would say that if you haven’t visited the Grand Bazaar, you can’t claim to know Istanbul. We’ll not soon forget this labyrinth of 65 twisting streets crammed with more than 4,000 shops! Endless arrays of carpets, jewellery, textiles, clothing, candy, tea, ceramics, etc. etc., become the object of that great institution called bargaining that will release either the beauty or the beast in the tourist. Here again, we walked over streets that have been teeming for centuries, when this very area became the centre of trading during the Ottoman period.

Millie will begin with “How to talk to a vendor at the Grande Bazaar”:

Vendor: (proferring a boxed set of perfumes stamped “Chanel”,”Givenchy”, etc..) Lady, lady. Hey lady, you would like thees perfume ..…very naheees. Like you lady. Very beautiful like you, lady… hey, lady!! Only 50 lira.

Lady Millie: No thank you, I don’t wear perfume.

Vendor: For you lady, low prahees, 40 lira, lady. Very beautiful, good quality, lady. For you nahees prahees.

M: That’s fine, but you see I don’t wear perfume, so the price doesn’t matter…

V: (interrupting): Ahhhh, Lady, ver-r-r-ry good prahees, for you—30 lira.

M: (less “lady”-like now): Well sir, I hope you can sell it to someone else for that sir, because you’re not going to have any luck with me! Sir! (laughing)

V: (follows suit with the laughing ‘cause that just might be the way to go…) Lady, for you 15 lira! Best prahees.

M: (trying not to look at the boxes in spite of her curiousity to see if all those perfumes are spelled correctly) Well that’s probably more like it but you see, I don’t wear it.

By now, the vendor has tailed Millie far from his original roost, and he scuttles back whence he came. He finds her again later. The same box of ill-fated scents are down to 10 Lira!

Millie: If you keep this up, you’re going to have to give it to me!

Vendor looks puzzled.

M: (on a roll) But guess what, I won’t take it. Know why? I ---- don’t ---- want ----- it!!! . (She chooses a laugh that borders on the hysterical. The vendor is taken aback and turns on his heel. They do not meet again.)

Of course, to respond to the vendors is entirely optional, but if you’re at all in the mood, it can be great fun. They are not all as pushy as this guy, and many of them are entirely good-natured and probably hopelessly bored. But if they see that you’ve just been in the neighbouring store, they will insist on having their turn. This is not to say that we didn’t buy anything. We did. Even rugs. We were prepared in advance for that undertaking however, as Ed will tell you.

I’ll take over. I think that encounter with the ersatz perfume huckster plum barely scratches the surface. Now, let’s see what kind of stamina I had. When I finally found her, Millie’s eye had been captured by a scarf shop, and she’d just settled on a price per scarf for some really serious quantity gift buying. I periodically ducked in and out of this shop, monitoring the progress of this lengthy task. I must have exuded husband-in-waiting pheromones as my patient ennui remained quite undisturbed by the ever vigilant shopkeepers who hovered just outside their tiny premises, casting about for potential suckers for their wares, with an always ready and smiley “Excuse me sir, where are you from?” or, when ignored, “Guten Tag mein Herr, kommen Sie herein!” I flatter myself and my international attitude with the fact that time and again I was mistaken as German, Danish or miscellaneous Scandinavian, whereas in Bucharest, I seem to have American writ large all over me. But I digress. When Millie’s dealings were all but wrapped up, we made a pact to meet at the entrance of the bazaar in five minutes. I guess my listlessness was now gone, having a concrete destination in a finite time frame. Gone as well was my erstwhile curtain of untouchableness. Out of nowhere, a salesman swooped upon me, promptly found a chink in my armour and we entered into an agreement that we would “just look” into his “very” special carpet store. I warned him that I had 5 minutes maximum, but he insisted that was PLENTY time to “just look”. OK, where is it? As he took off at a gallop, making sure I was following, I protested that we had but 5 minutes. “Just around the corner!” he shouted, all at the run. Actually, 7 or 8 corners! I had the foresight to memorize the landmarks as we ran along. At last, there it was, a carpet shop like the hundreds of others, with spectacular inventory, like the hundreds of others. He barked a few Arabic orders to his underling, who brought out carpet after carpet, rolling them out to my feet, one after the other, with the practiced grace of someone to the manner born. “Tea?” he offered. “I only have 5 minutes!” I protested yet again. “Do you prefer the reds, or would you like to see more tribal patterns?” Eight more dazzling carpets in rapid succession, in spectacular array. “I’m sorry, I really do need to go now. My 5 minutes are up.” “What??!” he protests, genuinely dismayed, “Your wife gives you 5 minutes to buy a carpet???!!” Any defense would have been futile, so I wished him a good day, as I made my hasty retreat to the appointed rendezvous.


Shortly after this, we arranged to meet a bona-fide carpet dealer who came highly recommended by friends who have the real thing to show for their troubles. The carpets were bought after much apple tea, wandering conversations and an overnight sleep! Our “souvenirs” pictured here, give our Bucharest apartment a warm and friendly touch and serve to remind us of a wonderful trip.

Backpacking