Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

Stefan’s Dilemma

Where should we go on vacation this year?

In Romania, obviously, to see Mon Pere, but for how long can you stay in Romania without getting bored out of your mind? How much can you and your friends drink without damaging one’s liver? (Well, we still research this one). After traveling ten thousand kilometers to Europe, isn’t it a shame to be stuck in one place? “Well, yes”, I said to myself, and I started making itineraries across Europe.

What comes to mind to a Romanian when he says Europe? Italy, of course, as we all have something of Badea Cârțan in us. [Cârțan was a self-taught shepherd and he made a journey on foot to Rome, and when he arrived at the city’s edge after 45 days, said, “Bine te-am găsit, maica Roma” (“Pleased to meet you, mother Rome”). He wished to see Trajan’s Column with his own eyes, as well as other evidence of the Latin origin of the Romanian people. Source:Wikipedia]

After I made plans for about 3 weeks, after I almost booked houses, villas, rooms, around the Amalfi Coast, Golf of Napoli, and Rome, after I told my plans to all my friends in the US and Romania, I started to receive feedback and real traveling advice. They all had a common denominator: don’t go to Italy because the pasta eaters will beat the sh!t out of you! (It was a period of social unrest when the foreigners were totally disliked, maybe because of a certain ethnic group). The first thought was to ignore the advice and travel as an American and speak English all the time. Relatively good idea, but it had 2 flaws: 1) the Americans aren’t really loved there either, and 2) when someone steps on your foot or pushes you, the first words that come out of your mouth are some horrible Romanian curses, sweet words that have nothing in common with English, and that give you away immediately.

And so, I booked Spain, with Barcelona on the top of the list, followed by Madrid and Seville. The details of the itinerary were discreetly left up to me, Mon Pere saying to decide The Young One, and The Young One saying that I confused him so badly with the schedule that he doesn’t care anymore where he goes. He wanted to go to London and Ireland, but if this wasn’t not possible then he’d do us a favor and come with us to Spain. Why didn’t I have to do such favors when I was 16 years old?!?

In the end we (I mean, I) decided: 4 days in Barcelona, 1 day in Zaragoza, 4 days in Madrid. Leaving Seville and South of Spain for the next time, because we have all the time in the world. From Barcelona to Madrid with a rented car, sleep one night in Zaragoza. In Barcelona I wanted to stay in the city all 4 days, in Madrid, a different place every day: Toledo, Segovia, El Escorial. Somehow, life proved us wrong, again, for the best, though.

Preliminaries

Two thousand and nine, June … three generations of Popescus packed their backpacks, put some money in their wallets, and set off for Barcelona to see what the fuss is all about, why everybody praises it so much.

The Grandfather, 73, also called Mon Pere, a heavy man literally and figuratively, over six feet and well over 220 pounds. Very cultured and extremely well read, reads only smart books, hates computers and everything that is technology of the 20th century. Because classical music, Johnny Cash, and Joe Cocker only come on CDs, he bought a CD player from which he uses only 3 buttons: Power, Play and Eject. When he remembers to plug it in, it works and he is very happy.

The Young One, Cosmin, a thin man with an enviable metabolism, eats by himself as much as a platoon and still doesn’t gain weight, raised and educated in America, he can tell you at any time how every electronic device in the house works and why. He doesn’t know what paper maps are used for and before the trip he could hardly find Spain on the map. Until we left for the airport, he thought that Spain was in Germany. I emigrated to America because they have better schools than in Romania. He also reads a lot and can talk with Grandpa for hours, exchanging ideas and commenting on books, when the age gap doesn’t make them very inpatient with each other.

The Kid, also called Dad, also called Dad-You’re-So-Silly, is a well-width-developed person with a very lazy metabolism, when he thinks about food he gets fat, instantly. With his ass, soul and mind in two countries, he still knows what the books are for and from time to time he even reads one, he does decently with 20th-century technology and knows where Barcelona is on the map (he planned the trip, right?). In order to show off how much he knows and how much can do, he will take The Grandfather and The Young One to Zaragoza, Madrid, and Toledo.

With the invaluable help of the Internet, The Kid has put together a super itinerary, with airplanes, rented cars, rented apartments in historical areas (long live homelidays.com and my friend The Tripod), hotels on the shores, and day trips to satisfy even the pickiest traveler.

The surprise in the suitcase

The luggage was not ready yet, but somehow the food was packed into a suitcase. At first I thought that the food was being prepared to be put in the freezer, to have something when we get back, but when I saw that the tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers and even the three mushy apricots were put in a bag, I realized that it’s getting serious. Hard boiled eggs, canned pâté, a bottle of tzuica and one of sour cherries liqueur, salami, smoked and non-smoked cheese, what can I say, we moved the fridge from Bucharest to Spain. The Young One had his things in a backpack, I, in a bigger bag, Grandpa had a little hand bag with two pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear, and an extra t-shirt, his papers and some money, and the suitcase with food, which eventually ended up in the cargo area, being very, very heavy. Once we got to our destination I discovered that he also had with him 3-4 yards of clothing line, just in case, and some perfectly folded grocery bags, also, just in case.

Barcelona Airport – El Prat

Nothing to report about the flight, except that the bottle of tzuica broke in our luggage and, of course, it leaked. It was stinking in the terminal (tzuica having a very specific smell), but all the other travelers were Romanians, so we blamed the stink on the neighbors. Seeing the panicked looks in their eyes and how fast they started checking their luggage it seems that they also had some tzuica with them. The Grandfather swore badly and tried to drink what was left of it. He couldn’t, it was a big bottle, and left the carousel area with the bottle in his hand, telling the customs officers who asked (pointing at the bottle) if he had anything to declare, that he had nothing. They asked in Catalan, Mon Pere answered in Romanian. Somehow they understood each other. The taxi driver and I didn’t understand each other, because he knew neither English, nor Romanian. My conversation guide was in Spanish, and that fighter for freedom of Catalonia pretended not to understand. I wrote the address on a piece of paper, and thirty euros later he left it somewhere next to the address. I found the address, I found the host waiting for us, some euros exchanged hands, the Grandpa had a drink (or more) of tzuica with the host, the host happily obliged and drank with him, got on the scooter, and away he rode, very steady, to my surprise.

The apartment was strategically located behind the Mercat de Santa Caterina, a local market with meat, fish, and produce, somewhere on the Carrer de la Flor del Lliri (one of those very narrow streets), 2nd floor, 3 bedrooms (each Popescu in his own room, privacy, eh), kitchen, a tiny bathroom, and an even tinier balcony where, very quickly, the clothes line was in position. Which, of course, started a family heated discussion about doing laundry while in vacation, but when my father reminded us that he had brought with him only 2 t-shirts, 2 pairs of socks, and 2 undies, we let him be.

It had easy access to almost all the tourist attractions, The Cathedral, Old Town, Placa Catalunya, and a supermarket on the corner, open from early until wee hours.

Saint Eualia Cathedral, Barcelona

The legend says that she was exposed naked in the market and a miraculous snowfall, in the middle of spring, covered her nudity. Because he was 13 years old, there are 13 white geese. …… The enraged Romans put her into a barrel with knives stuck into it and rolled it down a street (according to tradition, the one now called ‘Baixada de Santa Eulalia’). The body of Saint Eulalia is entombed in the cathedral’s crypt. The cathedral has a secluded Gothic cloister where thirteen white geese are kept, the number explained by the assertion that Eulalia was 13 when she was martyred. The cathedral was built throughout the 14th and 15th centuries.

This is the description on the little guide you can find in the cathedral. Cosmin had the curiosity and the patience to count the geese, without any success, though. They moved constantly and he couldn’t count more than 9 at a time.

Placa Catalunya

June 4th will be remembered as the day when we lost The Grandfather.

The talkie-walkies we brought from Arizona were in the luggage, unopened, The Grandpa’s cell phone as well, I communicated with Cosmin by frequent blinking of the eyes and short and dense sentences. One hour later, us in full panic mode, we found him feeding the pigeons in the plaza: “where the heck have you been?”, he asked, joyfully.

June 4th will be remembered as the day when we found The Grandfather.

My father busted his right knee in Barcelona, out of nowhere, a sharp pain which, in addition to the physical discomfort, also brought an “on the fly” adjustment of the program, in the sense that Mon Pere, from being the most mobile in the family, ended up being more prudent than The Young One, and that says a lot for those who know Cosmin.

With the help of many pain pills, he solved the knee problem (only in Madrid, though), but instead he got a toothache from the air conditioner in the car. Luckily he still had some of the tzuica.

Instead of walking around for miles and miles, as we initially planned, we got passes to Barcelona Bus Tours, some guided tours, on-and-off as many times as you want.

Bicycles with subscription

In America there is zipcar, to share the car with others based on subscription and annual fee. But the bicycle system is a million times smarter and healthier. I didn’t know, I had heard something in Amsterdam, I was in awe. Annual or monthly subscription, a small usage fee, an extensive network, the possibility to see the availability with the help of the mobile phone, wow, what could you want more green than that.

Antonio Gaudí y Cornet

You can’t go to Barcelona without seeing and visiting Gaudi’s unusual and absolutely unique constructions. We were lucky (without knowing) to be there on the only day when the visit to Sagrada Familia was free. Of course it was more crowded than usual, but we didn’t care.

Somehow my dad knew a lot about Gaudi, while myself, well, not so much.

The crowds then migrated to Parc Gruell, where Grandpa sat nicely and waited for us to walk around in awe.

Sightseeing in Barcelona

C4, mon amour

We arrived in Zaragoza in one piece, the proud survivors of Barcelona traffic, and of 300 kilometers on the highway in Catalonia. The highway was easy, Barcelona, not. Antonio from rentals in Barcelona, what a guy, when he saw me he yelled: “the American is here!”, me being the only one renting an automatic car, and then he threw me into the incoming traffic without any presentation of the car, the car being parked 1 inch from the car in front, in neutral with the handbrake pulled (being with an automatic transmission, I expected to find the same positions of the shifter as in the US – they were not), he put me behind the wheel and started yelling at me to get out faster, backing out of a dark garage into a street only as wide as a car. And I drove away, cursing terribly, merging myself into the traffic like I was blindfolded. I only knew that I had to go West. Small and hidden street signs, the Garmin didn’t work because of tall buildings and narrow streets and because it couldn’t find its satellites, the car, a Citroen C4 full of last-minute electronics, was a mystery, luckily the pedals were still there (only 2, phew) and the steering wheel turned the same way. I drove for 5 hours and I still hadn’t learned the car. The Young One, from the back, was rolling on the backseat laughing and explaining to me what the 18 buttons on the steering wheel do and what the 4 screens on the dashboard show me. I was content to find the turn signal, the radio, the headlights and, by mistake, the wiper.

At one point I found the hole where the gas was put in, but then I had a problem with the man from the gas station who sold porn tapes and didn’t know English and “broke down” his cheap diesel pump and I had to buy expensive diesel, but no complaints, what the hell, the car drove like a baby with 6 liters and half per a hundred kilometers!

The Romanians from Zaragoza

Almost half of Zaragozas (or Zaragozans) are Romanians. The barmaid was from Craiova, the chambermaids from Olt County, the handymen, the builders from the city center, the butcher’s saleswoman (on this occasion we also found out what we were putting in our mouths, she was super helpful explaining what each type of meat was) were also Romanians.

In the middle of the city it was the market. As we arrived during the siesta, everything was closed, but the Concierge being Romanian and all, they gave us the room, with a slight upgrade as we explained that 2/3 of us snore like chainsaws and the rest cannot stand the noise. After an afternoon spent in Zaragoza, I started the dialogue with the locals by asking if they were Romanian – it was easier and, often, it helped.

Sightseeing in Zaragoza

High Life – literally

My surprise for my travel partners was renting a duplex apartment in Madrid.

The surprise of Madrid for me was that the apartment was on the 5th floor without an elevator and the duplex was actually a loft/penthouse(ish) divided into two levels. We were on the roof, we had a terrace with an over/grill, and an outside shower, a perfectly equipped kitchen, an internal staircase and two bedrooms under the roof and one at ground level. Ground, I mean kitchen level. The Grandfather, tired, but at night he still needed to go to the bathroom and, we (who were sleeping under the roof), could hear: “Bang! Clank! My head hit the ceiling, and then a fucking beam, and my teeth fell out. At the age of 73, I ended up sleeping in the attic!”

Anyway, after three days of staying in that neighborhood, the lady from the meat shop, and the fishmonger and, above all, that nice Pakistani guy from the beer store, all knew us and, and when we were stepping into the store he was greeting us cheerfully: “good, good, five”.

For that the dialogues of the Popescu boys were something like this: “Come on, Grandpa, don’t drink so much beer.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, tell this to your Dad, not to me, give me, sir, five liters of beer, I need to hydrate.”

And he was pointing at the beer and showing five fingers. You don’t need a conversation guide to understand what he wanted, but that nice guy heard it so many times that he learned it. I think he really missed us when we left! And I think I left too soon, if I had sold the bottles I would have pinched for another day.

Soldier Svejk and The Popescus

Just as the soldier Svejk had an appointment on the first day after the war at 4-5, after dinner, we also had an appointment on the first day of Madrid at 12-1, for lunch and some beers. My cousin came from Seville to see his Godfather, his cousin, and his young nephew. He drove from Seville to Madrid and back in one day. It’s one of the most pleasant memories from the vacation!

Snippets:

Walking around in heat and humidity, we dove into a small pub. Instantly, we get three glasses with ice cold beer in front of us. The following dialog occurred:
“Only 2 beers, please, and water. The young guy doesn’t drink beer.”
“Why?”, the barman asked “is he sick?”
“No, he’s sixteen.”
“So??”
“He’s American”
“Oh, poor guy!”

Walking around with Cosmin, one afternoon, waiting at a traffic light, talking in Romanian between us. A young lady approaches us and, in a perfect english, asks us where That Museum is, because behind it is a kick ass park and she wants to do some jogging. We tell her, discreetly inserting the names Prado and Parque de El Retiro into conversation, and, curious, we ask: “why, of all people, you came to us and spoke in English?”
“Well, aren’t you Americans?”
“We are, but how did you know?”
“I don’t know, you just look like Americans”. Up to this day, I don’t know if I should look at this as a compliment or not (she was a college girl from Boston).

The apartment was in the historic district, pretty central, walking distance to everything. Calle de la Espada, one of those one-way, narrow streets, only one car could fit, we had to unload the rental very fast, way faster that we wanted to. It seems that it was kind of a warehouse district, nothing was sold by piece, everything in bulk. But the owners were friendly, so that was it.

After the chaotic car unloading I left The Grandfather at home and I went with Cosmin to return the car. We had to take a bus back, and until today I’m sure we rode the bus without paying. We just didn’t understand how to pay, and it seems that the tourists were not supposed to take that bus, the only instructions were in Spanish.

Sightseeing in Madrid

Toledo

One evening, on the patio, planning next day’s trip, somehow The Grandfather finally figures out how to turn on his cell phone and how to dial a number and, with his voice rolling over the roofs like a thunder, he yelled: “Gabitzo, fah, how are you?”

Cosmin and I looked at each other, puzzled, then Cosmin had an epiphany, “Oh, that’s Gabi from Busteni. We stayed there with Granny and Gramps one summer.” Long story short, she and her hubby were living in the suburbs of Madrid, they invited us one evening to visit them (very pleasant), and next day they took us to Toledo (or we went to Toledo first and then we visited, I don’t quite remember). It was great, in Toledo there was a religious procession, wonderful, and crowded (I loved it, Cosmin, not so much).

Toledo ’s streets are clothed in finery to celebrate the feast of Corpus Christi: a solemn procession which takes place in an atmosphere of singing, the aroma of herbs, and spiritual fervour. (source: https://www.spain.info/en/calendar/corpus-christi-toledo/)

I got into one of the many tourist traps, errr … shops, the saleslady was a young Romanian. Initially, I didn’t want to buy anything, but my heart melted and I ended up getting a wonderful, braided, very expensive, leather whip. I still have it, on display near the front door and, inevitably, when somebody sees it, it goes: “oh, a whip! it looks great! what are you doing with it?”
Me, looking at Irina: “it’s for her”
The person, horrified: “oh, no, how can you say that?!?”
and Irina: “he’s joking, is for him, actually”

Final thoughts and final notes

I initially wrote around half of this post, in Romanian, in 2009. I had 1 or 2 photos inserted. Lately I kept remembering more and more of this fabulous trip, with my beloved boys, and I decided to translate it and to add more photos, especially with them.

On our way from Barcelona to Zaragoza we stopped at a monastery. We took lots of pictures, but I cannot remember the name. Being 2009, we had cameras, not smartphones with geolocation.

We took around 2000 photos, both Cosmin and myself. The links to the photo albums, in cloud, are below:

Cosmin’s Photos – Cosmin was in a Black and White Phase

Stefan’s Photos: – Barcelona Day 1 , Barcelona Day 2, Barcelona Day 3, Zaragoza, Madrid Day 1, Madrid Day 2, Madrid Day 3, Toledo