I had been longing to visit a new country. I tend to return to the same places—some know me almost better than my own neighborhood—so this time I decided to change direction and arrived in Romania, or more precisely, its capital: Bucharest.
The sun is on my side, so I set out early for a walk. In George Enescu Square, I find a lively garden, and within it, the impressive Romanian Athenaeum, with its elegant dome and the air of a classical temple devoted to music.
Soon another building leaves me speechless: the Central University Library. Its neo-baroque façade stands majestically across from Revolution Square, where an obelisk-shaped sculpture recalls those turbulent days of December 1989, when Romania forever changed its course.
In a small nearby park, I discover a tiny church, one of those that seem to guard a secret. Next to it, a portico leads me to my first bookstore of the trip: Nebulous Stars, with its cozy café, an upper floor, and books in several languages.
I stroll unhurriedly. After passing the lovely Hotel Continental, I arrive at a very “Instagrammable” passageway: a rainbow of colorful umbrellas hangs above my head. I suspect the culprits are the owners of Trattoria Colosseo, the restaurant occupying the passage.
The Odeon Theatre boasts a beautiful façade, and in front of it, the gentle sound of a fountain adds rhythm to the scene.
And then—aha!—a historic café: Casa Capșa, founded in 1852. I can’t resist. I step inside. Its interior transports me to another century—lamps, mirrors, moldings, the soft murmur of conversations. I imagine literary gatherings, custard pastries, and the clinking of champagne glasses.
In Tricolorului Square, several official buildings line up as the city’s traffic hums steadily.
Soon after, I reach University Square, lively and surrounded by faculties and statues honoring some of the country’s historic figures.
Along the way, I step into several Orthodox churches: small, circular, filled with gold and vibrant frescoes. There are no pews as in Catholic churches; here, faith is lived standing—amid incense smoke and candlelight.
Farther ahead, a grand doorway catches my eye. On its terrace, people are enjoying drinks; the entrance itself is spectacular. I discover it’s the Le Dome restaurant, and it doesn’t disappoint—frescoed ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and even a bathroom worth visiting.
Nearby stands another striking building: the former National Bank, now an elegant hotel. To the right of its entrance, a golden door leads to The Vault, a bar that opens at six in the evening, where you can sip a cocktail surrounded by old safes.
Another charming spot is the Macca-Vilacrosse Passage, star-shaped, where several streets converge beneath a golden glass roof. Cafés, bars, and restaurants fill the space with life, whatever the weather outside.
The National Museum of History deserves an unhurried visit. From there, pedestrian streets lead me to places with names as diverse as Grand Café Van Gogh and the Kilkenny Irish Pub, where the city’s cultural mix feels alive and joyful.
Ahead, three literary gems await me:
- Takumi, a delicate and minimalist Japanese bookstore.
- Cărturești Carusel, the city’s most famous one, with a bright white interior that spirals upward like a ribbon of light.
- And Mihai Eminescu, a classic refuge with that scent of paper and time I love so much.
Between churches, squares, and cafés, I also stop by the legendary Caru’ cu Bere, “the little beer cart,” which since 1924 has served traditional dishes in a hall of stained glass and carved wood.
The Palace of the Parliament looms in the distance—monumental—and before leaving, I pass by the Nadia Comăneci Clinic, a subtle nod to the country’s sporting history.
LITERARY NOTE
The book that would best accompany this walk is Dracula by the Irish writer Bram Stoker, whose story is inevitably tied to Romania. But since I haven’t read it yet, today I’d rather bring you another: my beloved Federico García Lorca and his play The House of Bernarda Alba.
Perhaps Bernarda, with her strict mourning and desire for control, shares something of Dracula’s shadowy air.
In a Spain of the 1930s, after her husband’s death, she chooses to keep seven years of mourning, locking her daughters—young, spirited, longing for the world—behind the walls of silence and tradition.
As I walked through Bucharest, I thought of both stories: of women’s strength, of the silences that weigh and those that set us free.
Maybe traveling is simply another way of seeking the light—even among the shadows.
