Friday 6 November 2009

beerpires and wolves in romania







Back from a whirlwind weekend of bus-journeys and Dracula fettishing. To explain: we had the idea a while back to visit Translyvania, this idea merged with needing something to do on Halloween- and of course the two go together more perfectly than pumpkins in your window and we had organised a full-blown trip by Thursday. Full-blown as in, actually will blow people’s faces off by the effort it took to get there: 12 hours each way, and believe me, no matter how comfy the seats are it is impossible to sleep properly. As Katherine put it today- we need a holiday after the holiday.

So we went on the bus overnight and got into Translyvania sleep-deprived but slapped in the face by the cold wind from the surrounding mountains. Got to the lovely Rolling Stone hostel (with not one hint of a Keith Richards picture), got a place in the attic dorm and headed out to look around Brasov (one of the biggest towns in Trannyland). This consisted of wondering into a few graveyards, sussing out the most Halloween-inflicted bars for the evening, and climbing the hill to the watch-tower to get a stunning view over the town. I had to admit, crossing a wolf roaming through the town earlier in the day- (and I am sure it was a wolf as no wild dog would have a growl quite as scary), I was a little anxious that we would cross into some wolves and bears in the hills, but we were lucky enough to avoid them.

That night we started drinking at six in the first bar with pumpkin lanterns and American indie music, the next one which blurred into the first, the jazz bar with Jon Bon Jovi blaring out, and ending in a Jamaican Bar dedicated to the master Bob M. At this stage of course we were all completely out of it, it being about 5 hours after the first pint and little sleep, but after Katherine and I had made the eye at some Romanian boy dressed in archaic Priest wear he invited us all to a house party, and we would be losers to turn the offer down. So we followed the Priest to a dingy basement with one euro entrance fee. It was an exceptionally cool party with video projections and talented Dub DJs and I was so awed by the fact we had managed to enter such a place, in Romania, on Haloween, that we didn’t leave until about half-four. Of course by this point we were as half-dead as the vampires we were pretending to be, and beds were the only way forward.

The next day we were shoved out the hostel and went to Bran; the town containing the infamous castle of Vlad the Impaler- more commonly known as Dracula. The ride there was just as entertaining as the town itself. Driving through barren mountains, overtaking horses trundling gypsies in carts and being persuaded to enter the “Vampire Camping” site and “Wolf Supermarket” advertised on either side, it could not have fitted my conception of what Translyvania would look like more. Walking up to the castle was a sight- its looming gothic spikes and grey walls suited this particular weekend only, and the pathway up was littered with tack-shops selling ridiculous Dracula mugs, which I of course purchased. Inside wasn’t at all scary, and the poor translations of English were more laughable than moving- for example, Stoker died of the stroke. Being opulently Western we got taxis back to the hostel, and being not rich, we had to prepare ourselves for twelve disastrous hours on the coach.

sex shops and slot bars in belgrade.






So Friday afternoon I had the travel itch. There was a long weekend ahead, so many places called out to be visited and were only a 20 euro train ride away (never mind the time length). After reading about Belgrade’s esteemable night life I rested on that one and it was sorted for Saturday.

An uneventful and remarkly flat train ride later and Belgrade was at our door step. When we walked off the train, ten minutes out of the centre, we were confronted with hoards of rubbish made up in corpses, covered over with white sheets. It took a scrutinising eye to discern whether or not they actually were corpses. Oh I forget- on the train ride when we passed the Serbian border there was a strong stench of burning that lasted quite a way in- and almost as if a circular story- before we got on the train to return just now there was a an absent fire among the same piles of rubbish I described, completely unattended, again providing that burning stench. How strange!

So, as we had gotten into a smaller station there was no cash point in sight so no chance of a taxi. We were a little stuck and a little more panicked, surrounded by unfamiliar communist-looming buildings, a landscape of rubbish and an incomprehensible language and alphabet covering street signs. Coming to our rescue, thank god, were two similar aged Serbian lads. One could speak no Enlgish, the other only disjointed sentences usually containing “strange” “bad English” and “Alan Shearer!” (after finding out we were from N.castle). These friendly folk made sure we got a tram in the right direction and assured us there would be “no security” so no pay.



I was taken aback by the difference in architecture and feeling in this city to any other I had visited in Europe, marked by the safe symbol of the EU and funding. Buildings were in the process of demolishment, but could have been that way forever, traffic lights broken, zebra crossings unused, few Western shops or even English writing. The bridge into “old town” was unimpressive, as was old town itself- the romantic name not laying claim to any majestic-ness or beauty. There seemed a general lack of any of the Western tourist rinsing we were so used to. In fact it felt more like people were honoured you had come to visit them. Like when you make the effort to visit a friend who is lonely lives far away, Belgrade welcomed us as such. The “square” we got off at was more a roundabout with a dilapidated statue in the middle, surrounded by buildings covered from head to toe in obscenely sexy advertising.

Our hostel was a modest, exceptionally clean flat. Again, there was no sense of them working on a competitive basis: they provided good service but it was no atmosphere conducive to fun. After relaxing from a bread-baby-belly dilemma (too much one journey) we headed onto the Belgrade streets, opting for a fun Irish bar as the recommended places seemed too pretentious. Three cocktails later and we were trollied, and decided to go in search of a club. With no idea where to go we were tempted by a racket of cheesy music protruding from a flat a few strories up on thr main street. We no invitation we walked straight in and danced like we were bezzies with the birthday boy. Craving more liquour, (but definitely not needing it) we inspected what was displayed on the table. In my stupor I subconsciously pretended to wear mittens and knocked wine bottles and glasses over as soon as I tried holding them. It resulted unsuccessfully and we became entirely dispirited with the party so next stop bakery then bed.

The extra hour due to winter time changeover was a welcome relief next morning when my pounding head gravitated me to the comfort. A downing of cold water and a hot shower later, we were back on the streets, this time in daylight and with an eye for sightseeing. Well Belgrade does not fall short of interesting sights, well away from the tourist gaze. Beautiful is a word saved for Budapest, but it was marvellous all the same. I was actually constantly awed with the vulgarity of the buildings and general lack of any attempt to hide or change this. Grey was the only colour palate they took from- as if the lack of money produced in Serbia provides a black and white vision to with it. We saw the fortress (bland) the main street (Grey Street Newcastle) the market (Soviet kitsch) and oh, the Bohemian Quarter- which was kind of wholly redeemable for all of Belgrade.