Timisoara is Calling

On that late September day in Timisoara, summer had dumped the last of its heavy heat into the afternoon hours, like the hardest teacher who surprises you with a brutal final exam. But evening brought a detente calm, maybe we earned the teacher’s respect, and everything was smooth in stillness after a satisfied sunset of Byzantine gold. As it faded to deep argent reds I took the hint and ordered a cocktail, a mirroring negroni whose hearty gin danced perfectly with vermouth’s sultriness while wearing just enough sharp campari to make the palate pay attention. I sipped and looked around.

In front of me was a square, a piazza, piața in Romanian. Some call Timisoara “Little Vienna” but I never saw a piazza so ideal in Austria. Families pushed strollers without hurry, 20-somethings not on their first date waited for dinnertime, and the lady’s little dog watched me watch the rest from its seat in a duffel bag. She was on her phone, and the dog glanced meaningfully at me, then at the statue.

Bronze and playful, it was an eternal youngster in a classical medium, blending the perspective of experience with access to Nowadays. He had his hand pressed to his face in the old “call me” sign you make at an acquaintance across the restaurant, or a kid imitating gabbing elders. I’ve done both in my day.

But art is strongest when it has something to say, some reminder, and in the empty spaces of his body I saw the things we lose when we’re on the phone, choosing an inevitable isolation even when we’re talking to someone, or maybe we’re talking only to the phone itself? That probably had nothing to do with what the artist intended, but such is the joy of unknown art: you feel freer to make it your own when no one else has forced their two cents into your mind.

Travel taught me that, about art, about perspective, about the things we can do that mean more than scrolling. And in the Timisoara air I found plenty to fill the holes left by modern disconnection. The soft air held the familiar and foreign sounds of Europe’s semi-secret fifth Romance language, which alternates between sounding Italian, Polish, and back to Portuguese. To make the music literal, a nearby pianist contributed his chords and melodies to the glowing evening.

With no tip jar or sign, I didn’t know if he was scheduled to play or had just stopped off on his way to elsewhere. It didn’t matter. He was there and I was there and we are all here in our great big together. I had come to Romania because it was one of the last unexplored spaces on my map of Europe, and found a remarkable country that cried out for more, catching me in a tension between wanting to share the discovery and a jealous dragon urge to keep the secret hidden. And me, was I here by design, or just passing on my way? Night came on, I paid, took these couple photos, and went on my way.

A couple years later, after reading a New York Times article about the city, I would write this post today, remembering that evening with its A minor harmony, Vermouth savor, and renewed awareness that this beautiful world holds endless surprises and depth. I want to share this sweet recollection of that underestimated place which reaches out a familiar yet exotic hand in welcome. Thank you for taking my call.