Mike Ormsby - Never Mind the Balkans, Heres Romania

Table of Contents

Ormsby recounts the mishaps, muddles and privations that make daily life hard for Romanians, and even harder for outsiders. But through it all comes a strange sort of affection for a place, and its people, as they struggle to regain their sanity after the years of madness under Ceauescu. If youre going to Romania, its better than a guide book.

Ivor Gaber , Tribune (UK)

Never Mind the Balkans, Heres Romania highlights the confluence of Romanias deeply-entrenched cultural traditions as they meet the new freedoms, temptations and commercialism that come with being the newest nation in the European Union.

David Shepard , www.restromania.com. Tourism website, New South Wales, Australia

Romanian clichs treated with intelligence and a unique, subtle irony. This merits pride of place on any bookshelf.

Mihai Gdlean , Foaia Transilvan

Romania is graced with two kinds of foreigner. One sort is here on corporate junkets. The other sort sticks. Were dug in deep. We live in the streets, talk with the locals and deal first-hand with their ways and institutions. Judging by his book, Mike Ormsby is a sticker of some distinction. His reports from the front line are precise, detailed and a joy to read.

Frank OConnor , Vivid (expat magazine, Romania)

Mike Ormsby sees Romania very clearly. Sometimes we surprise him, sometimes he challenges us. Nevertheless, he clearly appreciates our charisma, confidence and warmth.

Mihaela Spineanu , Elle (Romania)

Romania has found itself a British Caragiale. The book makes you die laughing.

Raluca Ion , Cotidianul

Ormsby brings out the delightful absurdities of Romania very well. Hes critical in a way that only someone who knows, and loves, the country can be. This chronicle of slightly agonised passion is exactly the kind of guidebook a visitor to Romania needs - an insight into the cultures paradoxical heart.

Nick Hunt , author of Walking the Woods and the Water

2015, Mike Ormsby OrmsbyMike mikeormsby.net

Nicoaro Books NicoaroBooks nicoarobooks.com

First published in 2008 (Editura Compania, Bucharest)

ISBN Print edition: 978-606-93902-1-4

ISBN ePub edition: 978-606-93902-2-1

ISBN Create Space edition: 978-1477465363

ASIN Mobi edition: B008EVCY4W

DTP by prodtp.ro
Author photo by Cosmin Bumbu

These stories are based on fact. Spooky but true.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my extended Romanian family and friends for helpful feedback.

Above all, I am indebted to my wife Angela Nicoar for her editing, suggestions, and constant support. Also, to Maria and Ferdinant for wonderful summers la ar and gossip from Radio an ; to my three sisters-in-law: Nicoleta Nicoar in Zrich, Veronica Nicoar and Cristina Nicoar in New York; to Adrian, Cristina & Sarah Prohaska for hikes and yikes in Transylvania; to Horea & Imelda Sljan in Jakarta, and Dana & Jerome Leroy in Kigali.

Thank you to my family in England: Vera Ormsby, Eddie & Andrea Ormsby, Margaret & Derek Martindale, Colette & Brian Cooper, and my cousin Ray Ormsby.

I am grateful to Rupert Wolfe-Murray for opening a door, and to you too, if I forgot.

Mike Ormsby
Bucharest, 7.7.2012

For my parents Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free? Jim Morrison

Preface

In early December 2006, a few weeks before Romanias accession to the EU, an item about tourism was broadcast on the BBC World Service, in Romanian. The journalist asked an official what he planned to do about allegations of high prices, poor service, and bad hygiene in some of Romanias hotels. By way of reply, the official told the reporter that the hotels were full and if he cared to try booking a room, he would discover it was not possible.

Jogging Is Good for You

I tie my running shoes in the elevator, on the way down to the lobby. I leave the apartment block and trot towards the big crossroads. The traffic is heavy and loud. Horns beep, lights flash, and tyres squeal business as usual for central Bucharest at 5 p.m. The weather has a bite to it: 3 C, with a sharp breeze blowing north-east from Bulgaria. I stop at the kerb, flexing on my heels to warm the calf muscles. I hitch up my socks and pull down my baseball cap to keep wind from my eyes. A big dusty Mercedes passes by. A guy in black leather leans out and yells at me:

Gay!

Heads turn nearby, at the bus stop. Cheers, mate. The traffic lights change and I scoot across puddles, trying to look butch. Not easy in a lime green top and black Lycra tights.

Tonight Ill do seven miles. Thats about four laps of the Parliament aka Ceauescus Palace of the People second biggest building in the world or something. I nod at the guard on the first gate, hoping he might recognize me by now. But its a different guard tonight. He stares back fish-eyed, as if were in a spy movie.

A sleek black car suddenly appears behind him, zooming for the exit. The car is side on to me. I am on the drivers right, but hes staring left as he approaches, busy watching the oncoming traffic so he can pull out as soon as possible. He almost hits me. I skid to a halt and skip around the back of his car. I rap knuckles on his boot, twice, just enough to get his attention. His head jerks around. As I pass his door, I splay two fingers and jab them towards my eyes look properly next time . He glowers at me and screeches off into the traffic.

At the next exit, less official than the previous one, there is no gate house and no security guard. A small dusty brown car kangaroos from the darkness. Its a Dacia, worse for wear. This driver is also looking left, waiting for a gap in the traffic. No chance. He slows down and stops. But as I run past the front of his car, it suddenly and inexplicably surges forward and rams into my left leg, knocking me off balance. I yelp in surprise. Luckily for me, the driver brakes and spins his head towards me. His eyes are wide, his mouth drops open. He gazes at me through the windscreen. He looks like a little fish in a bowl, puzzled by my world. I jab fingers at my eyes, yell at him to look right, next time. Hes speechless. As I run off, he blasts his horn. Evidently, it was my fault.

I jog downhill, taking it easy for the next five hundred meters. As I turn the corner into Constitution Square, a familiar, dry, crunching sound echoes across the vast semi-circle of cobbles and concrete. A sleek BMW has torpedoed into the back of a Jaguar. Steam hisses, a headlight rolls across the road like a glass eye. The drivers eject from their seats and start yelling at each other. Traffic grinds to a halt and then the horns start: an endless cacophony, like bleating sheep.

I keep going. A well-dressed woman stands with an expensive-looking dog, its face like a cabbage. She gazes into space as the dog plops a steaming stool onto a neatly-clipped verge. Then she walks away, dragging the dog. I watch to see if she will produce a plastic bag to scoop the poop. But she doesnt.

I turn the next corner, where cars, trucks, buses and big motorbikes are lined up at the lights, revving. Some of the drivers evidently like music I can hear it from fifty yards. On the next stretch, empty cars sit smack in the middle of the pavement as far as I can see. But none of the cars has a parking ticket. To get by, I must run in the gutter. Buses and trucks roar past me in the gloom. At the next corner, I find a Renault buried in a wall, its bonnet concertinad.

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