Vrei nuci?
We spent much of the day today exploring the ruins and monuments of Alba Iulia's Cetate (citadel) and then wandering around lower Alba Iulia to visit any shops which still happened to be open on New Year's Eve.
We found some good bookstores, took a photo of the Hotel Trasilvania (accompanied by unavoidable refrains of "Livin' it up at the Hotel Transilvania!" — man, this version seemed far more menacing than the original, if you know what I mean), and explored the various kiosks and counters in a Soviet-era "department store" (where you walk up to the glass counters and shout and point at anything you want — works fine for the shops selling artwork, crafts, and gifts — works not so efficiently for the counters selling food and personal items).
Around the Cetate, we were a little upset to find that the recent restoration efforts for some of the walls and gates had gone a little overboard. The First Gate, a fine example of Baroque Austrian marblework, had been so thoroughly "restored" that it now looks like last week's concrete, rather than the 18th century's marble. "What happens when they hire a construction company, rather than an archaeological team to do this kind of thing," my wife conjectured. The Third Gate is currently under restoration, and I'm worried about what it will turn out looking like as well.
Near the big orthodox basilica in the city square, we found a nativity creche, complete with wooden stable, life size figurines of the holy family and . . . what? . . . live sheep. I couldn't pass up this photo opportunity, but by the time I got my camera out, the sheep were turned around the wrong way.
I: Hey sheep! Hey sheep! Look over here! Hey sheep!
She: Um, these are Romanian sheep. I don't think they speak English.
I: Oh yeah. Okay. Hey oua! Hey oua! . . . Hm, they don't seem to be responding to that either.
She: [snickers]
I: What? . . . WHAT?
She: That's because you're calling the sheep "eggs". "Oua" are eggs. "Oaie" are sheep. The sheep don't know why you're shouting about eggs, but they're pretty certain you're not talking to them, I bet.
I: [sigh]
(You can't blame me too much — how many words starting with O and composed only of vowels can there be? Oh wait, this is Romanian we're talking about. There are like 50.)
At any rate, right about then a drunk old guy with a plastic bag full of empty beer cans stumbled up beside us and shouted, "Psssshhhhhh! Baaaaaaaaa!", to which both sheep promptly spun around and bleated "Baaaa!" right back at him. Why didn't I think of just speaking sheepese in the first place?
Of course, once this guy had provided such a presumably invaluable service to us (Mihai Something-escu, sheep-turner extraordinaire) he proved fantastically difficult to shake off, following us for almost half a kilometer through the square. His conversation topics alternated rapidly between introducing (and reintroducing) himself to us, showing us photos of the King of Romania, and offering us walnuts from his bag.
Old Guy: Eu sint un pictor. Pictor mai mare. (I'm a very great artist.)
We: Great.
Old Guy: Vrei nuci? (Want nuts?)
We: No thanks.
Old Guy: [holds up a photo of the king's visit to Alba Iulia and mumbles something]
We: Nice.
(repeat this about 20 times, still with the artist and nuts offer, but a new photo each time)
We felt bad for the guy, because one of the photos included the king being presented with a painting this guy had created, perhaps in his younger and more sober days, and he was obviously (and deservedly) quite proud of the occasion, but we also knew this guy would follow us straight into the front door given the chance, so we had to scrape him off somehow.
When crossing the last street before the set of apartment blocks that were our destination, another person seemed to catch his eye, and he veered sharply off to the right when reaching the opposite curb. Seeing our chance, we walked to the left, meaning our way home would include a slight detour, but at least a private one. However, once we came around the block back to the building's front door, just around the corner we could still hear "Vrei nuci?"
We found some good bookstores, took a photo of the Hotel Trasilvania (accompanied by unavoidable refrains of "Livin' it up at the Hotel Transilvania!" — man, this version seemed far more menacing than the original, if you know what I mean), and explored the various kiosks and counters in a Soviet-era "department store" (where you walk up to the glass counters and shout and point at anything you want — works fine for the shops selling artwork, crafts, and gifts — works not so efficiently for the counters selling food and personal items).
Around the Cetate, we were a little upset to find that the recent restoration efforts for some of the walls and gates had gone a little overboard. The First Gate, a fine example of Baroque Austrian marblework, had been so thoroughly "restored" that it now looks like last week's concrete, rather than the 18th century's marble. "What happens when they hire a construction company, rather than an archaeological team to do this kind of thing," my wife conjectured. The Third Gate is currently under restoration, and I'm worried about what it will turn out looking like as well.
Near the big orthodox basilica in the city square, we found a nativity creche, complete with wooden stable, life size figurines of the holy family and . . . what? . . . live sheep. I couldn't pass up this photo opportunity, but by the time I got my camera out, the sheep were turned around the wrong way.
I: Hey sheep! Hey sheep! Look over here! Hey sheep!
She: Um, these are Romanian sheep. I don't think they speak English.
I: Oh yeah. Okay. Hey oua! Hey oua! . . . Hm, they don't seem to be responding to that either.
She: [snickers]
I: What? . . . WHAT?
She: That's because you're calling the sheep "eggs". "Oua" are eggs. "Oaie" are sheep. The sheep don't know why you're shouting about eggs, but they're pretty certain you're not talking to them, I bet.
I: [sigh]
(You can't blame me too much — how many words starting with O and composed only of vowels can there be? Oh wait, this is Romanian we're talking about. There are like 50.)
At any rate, right about then a drunk old guy with a plastic bag full of empty beer cans stumbled up beside us and shouted, "Psssshhhhhh! Baaaaaaaaa!", to which both sheep promptly spun around and bleated "Baaaa!" right back at him. Why didn't I think of just speaking sheepese in the first place?
Of course, once this guy had provided such a presumably invaluable service to us (Mihai Something-escu, sheep-turner extraordinaire) he proved fantastically difficult to shake off, following us for almost half a kilometer through the square. His conversation topics alternated rapidly between introducing (and reintroducing) himself to us, showing us photos of the King of Romania, and offering us walnuts from his bag.
Old Guy: Eu sint un pictor. Pictor mai mare. (I'm a very great artist.)
We: Great.
Old Guy: Vrei nuci? (Want nuts?)
We: No thanks.
Old Guy: [holds up a photo of the king's visit to Alba Iulia and mumbles something]
We: Nice.
(repeat this about 20 times, still with the artist and nuts offer, but a new photo each time)
We felt bad for the guy, because one of the photos included the king being presented with a painting this guy had created, perhaps in his younger and more sober days, and he was obviously (and deservedly) quite proud of the occasion, but we also knew this guy would follow us straight into the front door given the chance, so we had to scrape him off somehow.
When crossing the last street before the set of apartment blocks that were our destination, another person seemed to catch his eye, and he veered sharply off to the right when reaching the opposite curb. Seeing our chance, we walked to the left, meaning our way home would include a slight detour, but at least a private one. However, once we came around the block back to the building's front door, just around the corner we could still hear "Vrei nuci?"