UBB

If you read travel notes by simple tourists or people on journalistic, cultural or political assignments, from the 1920s or 30s, if you peruse recurrent images about a Bucharest imprinted with evil or good charms, equally decrypted and encoded, moving and repulsive, you

excerpts From Winter to Summer Two seasons, rather than four, by all means. Late fall, with powerful stags calling. After the horse races in Moldavia and the first fires in the remotest houses of Bukovina, winter comes. The only flowers left are those in the carpet wool

excerpts Chapter III: BUCHAREST-WALLACHIA (…) My advice to the fatigued traveler who arrives in Bucharest is to pay his first visit to the excellent Turkish baths which we were to try ourselves soon. These establishments, mostly situated in the quarter by the Dâmboviţa

Yellow and blue streetcars, princely coaches, churlish carts and bikes and a lot of folks on foot…From so many streets and ways, like on as many arms of a huge river waves upon waves of people are flowing as if into a boisterous sea, unto the barrier at the end of the

excerptsThe Beginnings With the passage of time the ancient road was called by sundry names: lane, bridge, promenade – as if it needed any name or title, this street of streets whose reign over the city goes back two hundred years. Victory Promenade! The Nation's

Almost no one in Vintileasa saw on TV the scene when the revolutionaries broke into the famous Studio 4 in the afternoon of 22 December 1989. The villagers were busy doing other, more important things. Some were killing their Christmas pigs. Others were stealing wood. Most

The match, said the propaganda secretary, ought to represent the clear expression of the class solidarity of the Vintileasa agricultural workers with all the peoples of the world. And the match between the teams of Impetus-Vintileasa and New Road-Ţifeşti, decisive for

I couldn't say I was properly introduced to Magdalene, the wording would be equally pretentious and inexact; as a matter of fact, she actually rushed into my studio… She was tired, exhausted, shabby, as if she had come out of the hundred year war. I had worked all

excerptIAfter Shrovetide Reverend Ghelasie, mighty tired after the evening of Shrovetide that expended to till the matins service, spent in the company of his friend and neighbor Ghervasie, opened an eye only when the early March sun, also fatigued, cast a reddish-yellow

The rain had stopped and the last traces of the clouds had been completely scattered by the wind… His clothes wet and his hair disheveled he was wandering in the night, looking for shelter… Without being aware of it, he got to the old and worn out crypt of the monastery

It was past midnight. I had gone to bed a long time ago but sleep refused to come. I was permanently lulled between sleep and wakefulness by the same strange dream. I woke up with a start: somebody must have knocked at the front door. I heard the knocking again. Rather dizzy

Taking large strides with his long legs adorned with double-red stripes, the colonel - a brigadier with one star splitting the waves of the crowd who drew back like the Red Sea before Moses, advanced, dry and black like a cigar, to board the gunboat Oituz which, shining