In which the streets of Bucharest expand to display it's monolithic buildings, disrepair and eclectic churches.
The first aspect of Romania that struck me was it's vast spaces. In Bucharest, wide roads cross even wider squares, empty of anything, simply there as breathing room for the dominant apartment blocks that loom either side. The geometry of these buildings is harsh, cutting the sky and jutting into the aforementioned void, while repetitive square windows and vents form a Rubik's cube pattern across the façade. The echo of Soviet Era utilitarianism lingers on every balcony and telephone line, challenged by the defiant flares of graffiti.
An atmosphere of decay and neglect is noticeably prevalent. As we turn off the expansive roads into less spacious areas of the city, abandoned buildings are frequent, ominous but enticing. Forlorn pieces of furniture gaze out from doorless entrances and shards of glass hang from smashed windows, the darkness within refusing to answer our curiosity. We peek through the gaps in the gate, physically divided from these spaces that used to contain life but are now left to the ravages of time, memories peeling from the walls along with the discoloured wallpaper.
In contrast to the otherwise sombre atmosphere, the city's churches are vibrant and elaborate, which might sound obvious to anyone familiar with European cities. But rather than the beautifully bleak and angular style of those Gothic churches, Romanian churches blend an eclectic mix of Renaissance and Ottoman architecture, bold and sweeping on the outside with every inch of the interior covered in colourful and dynamic paintings.
