One afternoon, I arrived at a drizzly Henri Coanda International Airport in Bucharest. My friend Anka spotted me as I made my way through customs into the arrivals hall. It’d been exactly a year since I’d last seen my Romanian friend.
Just a summer before we were in high spirits, sharing our thoughts on the future at a sidewalk restaurant somewhere on Columbus Ave.
Her brother Adrian was waiting for the two of us in a blue Jaguar in the parking lot. I instantly felt guilty he’d schlepped across town to pick up someone he didn’t even know.
I liked the man instantly and saw a similar temperament between the two. Both had sharp wits and a good sense of humor, Adrian’s undoubtedly a bit more of the self-deprecating variety.
I asked questions about buildings as we zipped through downtown Bucharest. I wanted to know their names, what historical significance they had, but mostly what made the people in this part of the world tick.
Both were patient as I sat in the backseat like a child pestering his parents on a long afternoon drive to grandma’s house.
After Adrian let us off at Anka’s apartment, I had a few minutes to drop my bags and freshen up before being whisked away to the Teatrul Odeon, one of Romania’s best known arts venues, and the reason Anka was back in the city where she spent her youth.
Anka, an absurdly talented costume and set designer, had her services called upon by Andrei Serban, one of Romania’s finest exports and a very famous theater director throughout the world.
He also happened to be my former teacher.
It had been 8 years since I’d seen him as I entered the 105 year-old building and saw his tall frame sporting a green button down shirt.
“Oh my God,” he said. “How are you?”
We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments and I complimented him on his appearance telling him he looked exactly the same, which he did as far as I could tell.
Even in his 70s, he was absolutely tireless in his approach to the work and commitment to creating theater that said something about the world, or at least held a mirror up to it.
You can imagine the influence he had on a wide-eyed and very earnest 25-year old actor back in New York.
I had questions.
SO many questions.
Only back then I wasn’t as comfortable as I am today not having the answers.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” he once told me.
Anka and I made our way into a beautiful but airless theater. I had been warned en route to the stage that because the theater was considered a shrine of sorts, the committee had refused to add air conditioning.
After a few moments in our balcony chairs I saw no honor in our martyrdom despite how good the play was. Even the Barrymore and Belasco theaters have AC, I thought.
The play was terrific. It was George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man, or in Romanian, Soldatul De Ciocolata.
Of course, I didn’t understand a word but admired the commitment of the performers as well the communal experience it provided for the audience. At times I felt more like I was at a small Baptist church than a play.
I smiled as I remembered many of Andrei’s signature moves as a director. Whatever world he created on stage it was always bold.
Afterwards, Anka and I took a little stroll and grabbed a bite to eat at Caru cu bere, a restaurant in a beautiful gothic revival building that opened in 1879 just down the street.
We talked about the play and how surreal it was that I was actually in Romania, her country, a place we’d talked about meeting for years.
The atmosphere and company also compelled me to thank Anka for her friendship.
“I just wanted to say how grateful I am that we’ve become such close friends,” I said. “When we started hanging out about 8 years ago you were there for me at a very difficult time in my life. Thank you for that.”
She paused before sharing a shorter but similar sentiment.
“I don’t make friends easily,” she said in her heavy accent. “But you’re like a brother to me.”
I smiled at my all around good fortune. Here I was in this strange but beautiful city having dinner with my big sister.
------
If you enjoyed this article, sign up for my bi-monthly newsletter with my favorite book, film, and travel recommendations in addition to my latest articles on productivity and inspiration.
Plus, I’d love to share my free Creativity Day Planner — a simple two -page template on building good daily habits.
After Adrian let us off at Anka’s apartment, I had a few minutes to drop my bags and freshen up before being whisked away to the Teatrul Odeon, one of Romania’s best known arts venues, and the reason Anka was back in the city where she spent her youth.
Anka, an absurdly talented costume and set designer, had her services called upon by Andrei Serban, one of Romania’s finest exports and a very famous theater director throughout the world.
He also happened to be my former teacher.
It had been 8 years since I’d seen him as I entered the 105 year-old building and saw his tall frame sporting a green button down shirt.
“Oh my God,” he said. “How are you?”
We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments and I complimented him on his appearance telling him he looked exactly the same, which he did as far as I could tell.
Even in his 70s, he was absolutely tireless in his approach to the work and commitment to creating theater that said something about the world, or at least held a mirror up to it.
You can imagine the influence he had on a wide-eyed and very earnest 25-year old actor back in New York.
I had questions.
SO many questions.
Only back then I wasn’t as comfortable as I am today not having the answers.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” he once told me.
Anka and I made our way into a beautiful but airless theater. I had been warned en route to the stage that because the theater was considered a shrine of sorts, the committee had refused to add air conditioning.
After a few moments in our balcony chairs I saw no honor in our martyrdom despite how good the play was. Even the Barrymore and Belasco theaters have AC, I thought.
The play was terrific. It was George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man, or in Romanian, Soldatul De Ciocolata.
Of course, I didn’t understand a word but admired the commitment of the performers as well the communal experience it provided for the audience. At times I felt more like I was at a small Baptist church than a play.
I smiled as I remembered many of Andrei’s signature moves as a director. Whatever world he created on stage it was always bold.
Afterwards, Anka and I took a little stroll and grabbed a bite to eat at Caru cu bere, a restaurant in a beautiful gothic revival building that opened in 1879 just down the street.
We talked about the play and how surreal it was that I was actually in Romania, her country, a place we’d talked about meeting for years.
The atmosphere and company also compelled me to thank Anka for her friendship.
“I just wanted to say how grateful I am that we’ve become such close friends,” I said. “When we started hanging out about 8 years ago you were there for me at a very difficult time in my life. Thank you for that.”
She paused before sharing a shorter but similar sentiment.
“I don’t make friends easily,” she said in her heavy accent. “But you’re like a brother to me.”
I smiled at my all around good fortune. Here I was in this strange but beautiful city having dinner with my big sister.
------
If you enjoyed this article, sign up for my bi-monthly newsletter with my favorite book, film, and travel recommendations in addition to my latest articles on productivity and inspiration.
Plus, I’d love to share my free Creativity Day Planner — a simple two -page template on building good daily habits.
No comments:
Post a Comment