Ceausescu the megalomaniac

ABOVE: The Palace of Parliament (take my word for it)

Nicolae Ceausescu , ruled Romania (in brutal dictatorial fashion) during 25 years (he was executed by firing squad in the 1989 revolution). He was also a well known megalomaniac. There is no better evidence of this than the Palace of Parliament in Bucharest, the 2nd largest public building in the world (after the Pentagon), 3rd largest in the world in terms of volume - all in all a monster of a building. It also happens to be the most visited tourist site in Bucharest - I had to go and see it for myself.

LP recommends you approach the building from Piatta Uniiri - it claims the building can be seen from a mile off. Yet that morning, when I stepped out the metro station at Uniiri, I found myself engulfed in the densest mist - even the 2nd largest public building had vanished behind the white blanket.

As you walk down B-dul Unirii towards the parliament, you realise some resemblance to Paris Champs Ely sees: The tree lined avenue is there, so too are the wide pavements, and the stone buildings . But that´s where the similarities end - the paint on the facades here is peeling fast and discoloured from the pollution - there´s no Gucci, Chanel, nor Michelin 3* restaurants. Instead you notice a lot of empty shops and, those that are operating are , anything, but classy outfits.

The actual Palace of Parliament is huge (no surprises here), more chandeliers than I care count (7000), 250 kg curtains, football-pitch sized carpets and so on. Impressive also is the fact that it is entirely made from Romanian sourced material.

Rest of day was spent drinking heavily and eating like a pig in a classy downtown restaurants - then straight onto the airport and a wonderful 7 hour delay. Long live the low cost airlines.

Peles Castle & Black Pistes

Peles Castle, Sinaia





















Take my word for it: Castles don't get any nicer than Peles Castle in Sinaia - It was to Ceausescu what for Bush is Camp David - a place to entertain politicians, the rich, the famous the world over. Having seen the magnificent outside facade, you walk in expecting a disappointing part B - but oh, no, no - it actually gets better, and, by the time you leave, you're in a state of total awe. The owner is the current King of Romania, and, if his initial words are to believed, the castle will go on the market for 35 Million Euros in 2010. A bargain if you ask me.

Lunch consists of a badly burned corn-on-the-cob, and then onwards (and upwards) to the cable car for a ride to 2400 metres, and the top of the Bucemi mountain range. The cable car is crammed with skiers - there are only a handful of snowboarders, the kings of the mountain , in Romania at least, are the skis - for how much longer I wonder. At the top, I get a 360 view and what a wonderful panorama - I snap my camera a couple of times, and tell myself I need to come back next year and try the black piste. That's until I realise there's a 2 hour queue to get back down the mountain. I'll leave it till they've worked on their infrastructure a bit...

Last day tomorrow, a short train ride down to Bucharest, a visit of the main sites (are there any?) and then off and away back home - it's been another great trip.

My Castle, My Home

It's 7.15 as I stumble into the bar at Sihshoarra train station. I am in dire need of a strong coffee. I sit down at a table, and take a look around - there's one middle aged, ragged-looking man slumped on a bar stool slurping from his beer, across from him another equally ragged man with a half-filled shots glass giving one-way conversation. More than coffee shop, this looks like an afters bar with half the energy.

Caffeinized and with breakfast-to-go , I board the 'personale' train for Brasov - there are 4 types of train in Romania from personale (they stop EVERYWHERE) all the way to intercity - I'm in for a slow ride. We leave with 'fire in the disco' blaring out the loudspeakers. I look around my carriage, and can only see middle-aged men dozing in their sleep - wrong music for this morning crowd.

Once in Brasov, I take a bus right back out into the countryside, and head for Rashnov. Rashnov competes with Bran for having the nicest castle/palace in the region. I decide to go to Rashnov castle - my guidebook claims it's more authentic and somewhat less touristy.

A little later, I am trudging in ankle deep snow, on the side of the mountain, heading for the palace on the top. There is not a soul in sight. I am surrounded by tall conifers and pine trees - the incoming rays of sun are melting the snow that has collected on the fir branches, and, every now and then, I hear a big thud as snow comes crashing down. It feels like I'm getting bombed - thud, thud, thud. I take cover under my rucksack and keep heading up.

When I finally make it to the top, I get looks of astonishment from the castle staff

Staff 1: "you come up mountain? "
Staff 2: "many snow, much walking"
Staff 3: "that's veeeery long way. Why you not come with steps from town. Only 5 minutes"

If only I had read my guide book...

In anycase here we are - at Rashnov palace which competes with Bran for one of the most visited tourist attractions. And I am on my own. You read right. All 8 staff of the Rashnov Citadel and myself...My castle, my home! I enjoy it to the max: throw myself in jail for a while, have a go at archery (it was never my thing), flirt with the cafeteria girl, flirt with souvenir shop girl, and
, when my idyllic world is shattered by the all too familiar sound of Spanish at 80 decibels , I make a quick dash for the exit and the steps down to town. It's a treacherous walk - the thud, thud, thud of the snow crashing down on me felt less life threatening.

Brashov is a nice town - again it's the medieval look that does it for me: the coloured guesthouses, the peeling paint on the facades, the cobbled streets, the soft street lighting...the mist which has lingered on for most part of the day adds to the effect.









It's dark by 5, and given the freezing temperatures outside, I decide there's no better plan than find the one place that will solve the entire night ahead. And I find it in the (very Romanian) name of "Cafe De Les Artes": I have a hot cup of tea to bring some warmth into my frozen limbs, eat goulash (not really romanian, but near enough) that will restore my energy levels, wash it down with romanian cabernet sauvignion that makes me merry , and finish the night off with gin-tonics that make my head spin...

Off and Away...

It's hitting midnight, and am in El Prat Airport about to check in. I gaze up & down the line - I see only Romanians, their huge suitcases and thick winter jackets. I make a mental note that it's going to be really cold, and wonder why no other Catalans had planned the same trip.

We're alone - aside the Romanians and myself the airport is practically deserted - There are only Romanians at the Security pass, when I go and take a leak, I recognize the man next to me from the check-in line; when I'm not sure what gate we're leaving from , I need not worry. Just follow the crowd - we're all going the same way. You wonder, with all this proximity, whether by the time you get to Cluj Napoca you'll be at the point were you're exchanging E-Mails and phone numbers with your fellow passengers.

The eerie airport silence is suddenly pierced by a repeated announcement over the public address system - last minute call for two guys travelling to Birmhingham. I picture them both passed out snoring on an airport seat obvlivious to it all, and cruely let out a grin.

Flight goes without incident (resonable considering I collapse into sleep as soon as I take my seat), and we touch down on Romanian soil in the pitch blackness that is 5am.

I grab my bags and head for the bus stop: I want to get to the Cluj's main railway station, and then head out to the countrysdie. I flag down a bus, ask driver if we're going to the station - he nods, I get on. After a while we stop - the driver waves me over and makes signs for me to accompany him. We walk over to another bus, he talks to the driver and tells him where I'm going. I think back to BCN and wonder whether a bus driver there would ever do anything remotely similar. When we get to station, I thank my new driver and, using universal sign language once again, ask him how much the fare is - I haven't paid a cent since leaving the airport - he gives me a warm smile and shakes his head as if to say: nothing, you're welcome...incredible.

I buy my ticket (Romanian prasebook coming in handy), give Cluj Napoca a quick whistle stop tour, and then board the train for a 4 hour journey through rolling countryside (unthawing by this stage) to Sighisoara, a medieval Saxon town: citadel perched on a hill-top, cobbled streets, half-a-millenium old townhouses...and also where Dracula was born. I've come at a good time - the streets are practically deserted and tourist-free, I can only imagine (and frown) at how this place must change with the summer tourist season.

Tomorrow, I'll keep on the move and head south to Brasov...more stories from there.

Date with Dracula: 4 days in Trasylvania....

"We are in Transylvania and Transylvania is not England;Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things" Dracula

We shall see - off and away tomorrow, flying to Cluj Napoca, and then making my way down to Bucharest via Sighisoara,Brasov and Sinaia