“Hanu Lui Manuc is the oldest operating hotel building in Bucharest” (I stole that from Wikipedia), and that’s the restaurant I was sent to by the driver who picked me up at the airport. He told me it is very traditional, and the concierge at my hotel confirmed it would be a good choice for dinner.
I sat down at my table, exhausted from my journey, but craving something real and local.
Around me the crowd was thinning out but the music was still boisterous as a small band of players went from table to table serenading their audience for tips.
I ordered soup, and it was sublime. Lamb neck soup with sour cream and vegetables. When I chose my main course I hadn’t wanted a stew with the soup, so instead ordered “lamb pastrami.” It wasn’t stew, but it was braised and saucy, which disappointed me until I tasted it. It was tender and intensely flavorful.
Inside, my brain hummed, just absorbing where I was and what I was doing.
I’d flown to the other side of the world and was sitting in a restaurant where I didn’t speak the language and was almost blindly ordering food.
Some people would balk at the notion and declare that there’s a lot of uncertainty in all of that, but I honestly love it.
My flight had arrived in London 45 minutes early this morning, which would usually be a great thing, except that meant my 4 hour layover would be that much longer.
Yes, your read that right – I was, on some level, hoping we would arrive a few minutes late.
I had plenty of time, then, to make my connection and switch terminals. In the new terminal I found a lounge where I counted the hours going by. They had a two hour time cap for visitors, but fortunately it wasn’t enforced, and I was able to enjoy the view out the window and a few bites of food.
When we boarded the small plane that would take us to Bucharest (an A318, of which only 80 were built), I glanced around. The interior was a bit rough around the edges and could use some maintenance. I haven’t heard anything concerning about Tarom, the Romanian Airline, so was hopeful that the important maintenance is just fine.
Our flightpath took us ever eastward while the sky grew darker and the great ball of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon behind us.
We arrived in Bucharest 25 minutes early and customs and immigration were incredibly fast, so I found myself waiting for my driver rather than having him wait for me. But he showed up on time, and then guided us deftly down the wide boulevards that mark modern Bucharest, pointing out some of the sights I would seek out, most of which I had read about during my preparation (but not all). He has a friend who is a driver who he offered to enlist as a guide. The offer was tempting but I ultimately declined. I much prefer to be in a town, not driven around it, and from everything I have heard transport here is great.
It was almost 9pm when he dropped me off near my hotel, hidden away in the Old Town, where cars are banned. The receptionist met me and we walked the rest of the distance. In the hotel she checked me in and gave me the key card for my room, two flights of stairs up.
I didn’t even bother cleaning up – I hadn’t eaten since London and was ravenous. Instead I hurried out into the night.
The guidebook I have offers a mixed assessment of Old Town Bucharest. It was at one time very run down, but has mostly been revived. The descriptions paint it as being a bit touristy, and I can agree with all of that.
Across from my hotel is an Irish Pub, which always seem to crop up in the tourist neighborhoods.
Still there were also stately old buildings being worked on, speaking to another era in the town’s history.
My thoughts were tumbling about on my way to dinner, concerned about my choices. Should I have come here? Should I have stayed elsewhere? Have I divided my time correctly? On my way back from dinner, those concerns had melted away.
Because when all was done, I had made it. I am in Bucharest, Romania. Dinner was great, the town is beautiful, and I feel optimistic about the next few days.
butterblogger 