București: the city of memories (Hometown edition)

Concrete. Parks during glorious sunsets. Communist buildings. Covrigi (Romanian pretzels) with poppy seeds clinging to them. The air thick with the scent of car fumes. A long, narrow garden tended to with the same love and care my parents gave me. Their house, my house, and all its contents: toys, report cards, photos, and the lingering weight of brooding teenage years. These are just a few of the things one can encounter in my hometown.

Bucharest, the capital city of Romania, seemed to develop at the same time as I did. Their communist dictator fell from power in 1989, making the 90s and 00s the years of rebuilding the country. My parents and brother moved there from Athens, Greece, in 1999, and I came along a few years later. One of my favourite games to play in the car with my brother was to hold an “ahhh” sound with our voices and let the cobblestones bounce the flat tone with each bump in the road. A few years later, the cobblestone roads were gone, and so was the game. We grew up in massive parks within this cold asphalt city that had gems of a bygone era scattered in between. Where clever schemes by trained parrots and some stubborn street peddler will cheat you out of 15, or, to the unskilled negotiator, even 30 RON. 

Even though I complained when forced to go as a kid, I nowadays miss the farmer’s market closest to our house. No other market can compare to this Balkan masterpiece. Veggies and all types of cheese and meat and fish and spices. Overwhelming catchy songs bellowing across the market. Even more stubborn and persuasive people reside in these spaces, and going there is not for the faint of heart. The only time I would venture into this fast paced and chaotic environment willingly was to buy my mother a few hyacinth flowers for Women’s day, as it also doubles as Mother’s day in Romania (another occasion to be cheated out of a couple of RON when receiving back my change). 

My teenage memories are preserved within a fog of shisha smoke. The Old Town city centre: sleazy bars, first outings and a place where most of my self-preservation skills come from. On any given night, a fist-fight was fully in swing at the KFC there or a fire blazed in a random trash can. Not to mention my unfortunate fashion and makeup decisions were displayed at this location in all their glory. 

I decided early on in my school career that I would be leaving Romania for my university years. Having had the international experience of going back and forth to Greece, a dual identity was created: in Romania I was Greek, and in Greece I was Romanian. On the inside, I never felt these identities clash, nor fret about the consequences of embracing one or the other more. Most recently, I realise my choice to leave for university and live abroad in continuation, is directly influenced by my experience of an international life. 

Bucharest is not my birthplace, but it is my hometown. The community of Greeks in Romania also helped it feel that way, and at times it didn’t feel as lonely because of them. They helped push me to make the decisions I made. Family friends kept the taste of Greek food, music, and the ease of planning and communication in my life. Going back now and seeing Bucharest through visitors’ eyes has refreshed my taste for it. But it’s only gotten less recognisable to me as the years have gone by, both geographically in terms of new shops and restaurants and clubs, as well as culturally, in tolerance and more diverse demographics. 

Regardless of how I visit this city now, I know that my memories will stay with me no matter how far I go. Going to school in the morning with my dad and inventing a tradition of our secret handshake for each time I would get out of the car. How I would take the metro back from school with my friends, laughing and teasing each other. Spending time watching my brother play video games in a classic younger sibling way. And of course my memories of leaving the city, each as memorable as the first. Making coming back sweeter but ultimately more painful each time.

Photos: Kyriaki Mallioglou