Adventures in Romania, Day 1: The Boundless Bureaucracy of Bucharest
And maybe some food.
By the time the sun rose the mercury had already hit 36°C. Waking up in a sweat from a night of short, fitful bouts of sleep, I knew a shower was both necessary and futile. On my short stumble to the bathroom I noticed one of the flat’s many hidden quirks, all but invisible in the previous night’s darkness: A urinal with a sink next to it, in the hallway just outside of the bathroom, with a tightly fitted accordion-style door for privacy. Why not? Taking the urinal for an early morning test ride, I was a bit surprised (and more than a bit uncomfortable) to find that closing the accordion door left little more than a foot’s width of free, manoeuvrable space. Cozy is one way to look at it, unsanitary is another. Sidestepping into the actual bathroom I quickly discovered there would be no trace of hot water for the shower. Given the almost 40°C heat, I really didn’t mind.
The shower’s droplets seemingly evaporated from my skin, replaced seconds later by beads of sweat, the latter which I towelled off. I struggled to slip on a shirt, the rough, air-dried cotton skidding from the friction of my clammy skin. It was hot. Still mostly naked, and groggy, I was greeted by a kindly seventy-eight year old woman upon my exit from the bathroom. She offered me a hot cup of water poured over coffee grounds and I gratefully accepted. My host's mother, I would learn, permanently occupied one of the flat's three bedrooms (really two bedrooms and a den of sorts). She was both kind and casually racist, as Eastern European grandmothers tend to be, and as I sipped my coffee I politely took in her complaints regarding the previous guest, “a black,” as she would describe them. Saved by my host’s timely return, the conversation switched to my plans for the day. Trying my best to explain my citizenship situation in a language I haven’t spoken regularly since childhood, I ensured most of my brain power was used up by 9:00 am.
Stepping outside into the searing heat of the city, the flashing lights of nearby fire trucks caught my immediate attention. Before me stood twenty or so onlookers, each with a cigarette dangling from either their mouth or fingers, or in one case both, watching as smoke engulfed one of the flats in the adjacent building. I shouldn’t speculate, and hopefully no one was hurt, but it wouldn’t at all surprise me if the blaze was caused by the neglectful disposition of a still lit cigarette.
My rented room was a short walk away from Bucharest’s Park Lake mall, which, mercifully, is air conditioned. The mall, amidst its seemingly endless rotation of retail, also boasts a giant Carrefour supermarket in the basement and a passport office upstairs. Convenient. After a month of relentless travel my eating habits left much to be desired. Rituals and self care had given way to a steady diet of baked goods, beer, and bad life choices. In Carrefour’s extensive prepared foods section I spotted what I thought to be a Greek salad, the perfect break from my ever increasing carb count. I ordered a plate and was surprised, though not unpleasantly, to find large chunks of ham amidst the cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, and feta. Turns out I had ordered a Bulgarian salad, or at least Carrefour’s interpretation thereof. Close enough to healthy, I figured, to justify the three pastries that followed. Between bites of my breakfast I set to work.
I came to Bucharest with no real game plan, only a rough idea of what I’d need in order to obtain my Romanian passport. Born to two Romanian citizens, I’m automatically a citizen, but am not automatically issued any documents. The steps towards obtaining a Romanian passport are murky, and efforts made through the Romanian consulates in Montreal and Vancouver proved futile. Numerous emails and phone calls to different government agencies and lawyers also got me nowhere. So I figured: Fuck it, I’ll just show up at the passport office and figure it out from there. The queue at the passport office held true to form, complete with early appointment holders having to shove their way past later appointment holders. I must admit, though, the hour I waited was far shorter than I expected to wait. Nor did I leave with a passport, but the latter I did expect.
To save us all some time, I’m going to blow through many of the details here: In order to receive a passport I need a CNP, a Romanian identification number. In order to receive a CNP I need to register for a Romanian birth certificate. From the passport office I travelled to the nearest Civil Status office (in Bucharest’s Sector 3) to be told I can only register a foreign birth in Sector 1. You get where this is all going… To be honest, though, at the end of the day it wasn't Bucharest’s bureaucracy that blocked my passport progress, it was Canada’s. Here’s the deal: In order to obtain my Romanian birth certificate I need my Canadian birth certificate, proof of the document’s authenticity, and a notarized translation. I managed to get all this done in 2018, and came to Romania armed with my birth certificate, a signed stamp from the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs to prove its authenticity, and a notarized translation I paid no small sum for. But alas, as of January 11, 2024, Canada joined the Apostille Convention, meaning that documents such as birth certificates would now require an apostille, a separate document, to prove their authenticity. The Canadian Embassy in Bucharest (who I had to call twice since the first time they were on lunch) told me they couldn’t issue me an apostille because my birth certificate was already stamped by the Department of Foreign Affairs. Confused yet? It was at this point I thought about abandoning my mission and going back to London.
Though I failed in my mission I decided to make the most of what’s left of my day and figure out the rest that night. It must be said, for all the frustrations I encountered, I managed to maintain a level head, and eventually, an upbeat outlook. Almost six months into my new meds I can’t help but wonder how much of this resilience is due to the meds themselves, and how much of it has been there all along. It was time to treat myself, and in Romania one of the best ways to do that is through food. A few short minutes of Google Mapping turned up this gem, and I set out in search of mititei, colloquially known as mici, grilled rolls of ground lamb,beef, and pork (though who knows in what ratio) with spices, mostly garlic. And goddam, those mici hit the spot. That spot being my expanding waistline.
Bucharest has many beautiful parts. My mission took me through none of them. In fact, some of the sectors I travelled through were downright dystopian. Taking the tram through town I’d catch the occasional glimpse of the odd building with a caved-in roof, as though the Nazis had just bombed. Walking towards the downtown core I felt as though the streets may as well be paved in cigarette butts. Passing a person using a bench for a bed and an empty beer bottle for a pillow, I desperately sought refuge from what was now the 44℃ heat. I came across the all but abandoned Unirii Shopping Mall and entered in search of AC, I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.
Back in my burning hot hostel I sat shirtless in the kitchen with my host, also shirtless, and discussed just how ridiculous my day of bureaucracy was. After a length of time, the time it takes to charge my phone to 30%, I once again struggled to slide my t-shirt over my sweating skin (also, is this thing getting tighter?) and set out to the Carrefour’s awaiting air-conditioning. I picked up more food, this time sarmale; cabbage rolls often stuffed with meat and rice. Being sensible, I picked up some grilled vegetables too. And maybe a pastry. And a couple of beers. Some rudimentary research revealed public drinking to be less than legal, so I picked up an empty coffee cup at a nearby cafe and set out to the adjoining park (yes, it’s a park with a lake) for my evening picnic.
As the sun’s light faded the mosquitoes came out to play. I decided being a moving target would be more pleasant than staying static. As I walked I began to very much appreciate the soft rubber running track installed around the lake. At least until I tripped on a section of unmaintained track. It’s still Romania, after all. As darkness descended a light, a particularly pink one, caught my eye and drew me to it. Near the centre of the park I found a fountain, set and lit to music. I sat nearby, set aside my cynicism for a moment (it really is a waste of water tho,) and enjoyed myself immensely. In another part of the park a giant screen showed the Euro semi finals, England vs. The Netherlands, and a large crowd gathered on a small park peninsula to watch. There was a certain joie de vie in the air, missing from London, and certainly missing from Vancouver. It was nice to be immersed in it for however long I was, but tired from a day of bureaucracy, it was time to head back and try to sleep.
I returned to my room around midnight to discover a new guest in one of the flat’s three bedrooms, leaving our host with a single mattress stuffed into a windowless closet to sleep in. Gotta hand it to them, Romanians know how to hustle. The Euro semi-finals came in clear as day, the flat too hot to close the windows at night. I could feel the excitement when England scored their second goal. Closing my eyes once the crowds dispersed, I knew I couldn’t leave. Romania has cast its spell, and the mountains are calling.
This has been a mild divergence from my usual Adventures in Antidepressants. Continuously writing about my mental health is at-times exhausting, so stay tuned for a few posts’ worth of travel adventures with some mental health check-ins along the way. As usual, if you’re enjoying these stories and would like to read more, please share this or any other post, like and comment to help game the algorithm, and please subscribe (it’s free unless you feel like kicking a few bucks my way.) Every interaction makes me feel seen, validated, and encouraged, and hopefully helps break the stigma surrounding mental health. Thank you, each and every one of you, for all the support and encouragement so far.