This autumn, I got an opportunity to attend an ENT conference in Bucharest. I jumped at it, not literally of course, though I almost did! I thought, why not marry business with pleasure, earn a few CPD points and visit a place I normally wouldn’t even think of going to. And oh boy, am I glad I did!
From the airport to my hotel, Bucharest felt like a city that was once in its royal glory but had gone through a few rough patches during the communist years. Not too posh, not too poor, just somewhere in between, trying to hold itself together. Honestly, I’ve seen worse lanes in London! Like any other city, traffic jams seem to be a favourite local pastime. Luckily my hotel was just a short walk away from the conference venue, the majestic Palace of Parliament, right next to Europe’s biggest Orthodox cathedral. These two massive buildings stand tall and proud like the city’s crown jewels.
The security check there was as tight as an airport. Passport, bag scans, the whole drill. I almost felt like an international delegate of importance. The palace itself was breathtaking! Even the boring lectures couldn’t bore me. Whenever the speakers went too deep into graphs and surgical jargon, my eyes would wander off to admire the chandeliers, the intricate carvings, the marble floors… continuing my own version of “visual learning”.
Over the years I’ve realised medical techniques are a bit like fashion trends—they keep coming back in style. Only with more statistics and clinical studies !Also, I must say, European doctors know how to dress! Such a refreshing change from the “rolled out of bed in scrubs” look that’s quite common back in the UK.
Bucharest itself felt surprisingly safe, apparently safer than London. Met Police, are you listening? The cab rides were a whole education by themselves. The drivers had the most fascinating stories. One had worked on cruise ships, another was an ex-military driver, and one cheerful fellow proudly told me he was a cook and part-time Uber driver, and was flying to Berlin that very night to join Hans Zimmer’s concert tour! One new dad told me that in Romania one parent must stay home with the baby until it’s twenty months old, and the government actually pays them a monthly allowance. I almost fainted. That’s not maternity leave—that’s a holiday with diapers.
After the conference, I couldn’t leave Romania without meeting the infamous Dracula. So I set off to Bran Castle, the so-called Castle of Dracula, perched dramatically on a cliff in Transylvania. The drive was a treat ...winding mountain roads, deep forests, colourful Saxon villages, and picture-perfect churches with domed roofs and painted walls. Inside, no pews! Everyone stands through the prayers. I thought to myself, praying here really must be a workout, both for the body and the soul!
After the castle tour, we had lunch at a nearby restaurant overlooking the Carpathian Mountains. It was warm and sunny, the snow-capped peaks gleaming in the distance. Absolutely mesmerizing. The drive back, however, was not as magical—we got stuck in a mountain traffic jam for hours. I didn’t mind though; it gave me more time to soak in the beauty around me. One of my fellow travellers wasn’t so lucky—he missed his flight to the UK!
Back in Bucharest, I spent a few hours exploring the newer parts of the city, trying to make the most of my last few hours in the city.And as I sat at the airport later, writing it all down, I felt grateful. Travelling solo is a different kind of fun. You learn to plan, to navigate, to stay alert, and to handle everything yourself. I locked doors, read maps (well, sometimes walked south when Google Maps clearly said north), managed my expenses, and turned the lights off myself—all things Kiran usually takes care of. Dear Kiran, you have your uses after all.
Just when I thought my Romanian adventure had come to a smooth end, Ryanair decided to throw in a plot twist. At boarding time, they told me I couldn’t get on the flight because it was overbooked. Apparently, I had “agreed” to take flight points and move to another flight. News to me! No email, no notification, just a polite “please step aside, madam.” I stood there stunned, dragging my suitcase out of the terminal, trying to figure out what next. Every Ryanair seat was sold out, so I had to buy a new ticket with another airline—for a jaw-dropping £££
Airports, I tell you, can be emotional deserts. Not a soul to help when you actually need it. So here I am, still waiting for my new flight, lighter in wallet but richer in stories, hoping to get home soon. Ryanair, you bumped the wrong person! And trust me, you’ll be hearing about this for a long, long time!
All in all, every conversation, every mishap, every view just reminded me that the real libing begins the moment you step out of your comfort zone....
Isn't it?
3/11/2025
my transylvanian diaries
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