Bucharest is, to use the well-trod witticism, a land of contradictions. The slow decay of its fabulous French-style mansions is apparent, as are the worn away bits of ornate metal gates. There is also the ubiquitous feeling of a country recovering from the heady days of Communism, and its overthrow 20 years ago, like so many countries of the Eastern European bloc.

The elaborate old buildings sit alongside unsightly housing blocs, and other modern buildings, sometimes draped in regalia of the country’s democratic party, whose symbol is two crossed hammers, akin to the sickle and axe of Communist regalia. Although now, the Communist has a negative ring, even 2 decades after the execution of the flamboyant leader Nicolae Ceausescu, who pilfered the country of billions of euro to build a massive 20-story palace termed the “People’s Palace”.

Gypsy children flit into decaying mansions built in the French style, in the heart of the city’s center. It is the land of the Roma. Predictably, hated by the rest of the population, they are a benign bunch, quietly living in unexpected corners of downtown, doing odd-jobs such as digging holes, and sweeping up park leaves at midnight. Or sitting outside of churches, begging for money.

The Onion Domes of churches, the charmingly sagging and sometimes broken power lines, even in the most affluent of neighborhoods and the monotone of ethnicity, make you realize, ‘We are not in Western Europe anymore’. If that doesn’t jolt you to this realization, then the sight of street children digging food from garbage cans, or their chain-smoking seven-year-old friends will. By now, Bucharest either seems terribly backwards, or that I am patronizing it. But to understand this city I had to leave behind all of my cultural and ethical expectations, and to accept it for what it was. The Romanians whom I befriended, all of them friendly, certainly did. They soberly told me all of their country’s problems, but did so without resignation, nor a zeal for correction. Like Romans are wont to say ‘This is Rome’, I had to remember that this is Romania.

Bucharest is one of the most beautiful cities that I have seen, and rightfully deserves the name ‘Little Paris’. Unaccustomed to tourists, it is not a very cushy place, but knowing a little Italian, French or sometimes English helps enormously. A ramble down the side streets in the heart of the city, recalls the quiet elegance of old Europe, especially after the thick night fog sets in. The old houses boast triangular domed roofs, separate attic peepholes, personalized iron-wrought gates. No two houses are the same- each has its own particular motif and colors.

The exchange rate was of the dollar to the national currency Leu- is ~3:1. Nothing beats seeing the Opera for $2.25, and splurging on elaborate dinners that would cost north of $65 back in the states, but in Bucharest come out to about $20, as well as the ridiculously loud and drunk patrons at a nearby table- who got up to sing a round with the live band- at one of the nicest restaurants in the city! Now that I’m back in Western Europe, I already miss the idiosyncrasies of Little Paris.

These pictures were taken in April in Indiana on the polluted grounds of an Exxon Valdez plant. Life had a miraculous reemergence, growing atop slag- a mixture of steel and sand- stone. It is hard as bedrock, roots cannot penetrate beneath it. The slag has been there since the turn of 18th century, so everything below it is long dead.

A couple of summers ago I had the amazing opportunity to travel to Japan for two weeks of culture, learning, fun, and freedom. What transpired easily exceeded my expectations and opened my mind. I didn’t know exactly what to expect, only that I anticipated the unexpected. I remember filling out my profile—17 years old, 4-year Japanese student, allergic to fish but partial to shellfish, a carefully chosen picture of me attached—and receiving my host sister Chihiro’s profile. I was incredibly excited on the day of travel: I was about to embark on my dream trip—a homestay with a real Japanese family in the quiet countryside. All throughout the year I thought that June couldn’t come fast enough, though when it did, it went by too fast.

During those first few days of the homestay period, when I spoke, I did so almost exclusively when I was spoken to, and with the guidance of imaginary cue cards flashing through my head to ensure I was using the polite forms of the Japanese verbs. I tiptoed around gingerly, so afraid that whatever I did would be offensive. I practically tried to be invisible.

But then, during one of those first nights, I remember sitting down for dinner to a plate of perfectly cooked scallops and smiling internally at the reality that my anxiety had deprived me of: Chihiro and her family were just as nervous as I was, and just as eager to please as I was, as shown by the fact that they had obviously studied my profile and gone through the trouble of making everything perfect down to the smallest detail, including serving my favorite foods. Those were the best scallops I have ever tasted.

I realized that I had mistaken nerves on their part for indifference, shyness for coldness, and that to continue to let that happen would be a waste of our time. I had failed to recognize their kindness, the universality of human feelings, and the fact that, usually, situations aren’t as bad as I perceive them to be.

After that, I didn’t waste any more time. At first, the language barrier was daunting: conversations were halting, shy, hesitant, each girl embarrassed that she couldn’t articulate herself as well as she would have liked (try articulating what “gusto” means in Japanese—needless to say, I didn’t have any luck using hand motions). But we encouraged each other against giving up, and through pantomime, an electronic dictionary, and sheer force of will, we managed to connect very well. I told her my background and interests, she told me about her dreams to study sports therapy in college and that, yes, her grandmother was indeed appalled upon learning that I was allergic to fish. We enjoyed getting to know each other better; I remember showing her my high school yearbook and presenting her with an omiyage (a gift for the host), and her wanting to take puri-kura with me (those candids you take in a photo booth with friends). So the conversations got smoother, and although both of us still suffered from nervousness, I could see that there was no real reason for it. I was touched when she gave me a friendship bracelet, and when I returned to California, I mailed her a letter with a homemade bracelet in return.

At times, Japan was oddly surreal: here I was, physically and mentally miles away from my normal, everyday life. The experience was nothing short of exhilarating and liberating because of the mixture of emotions I underwent. The trip gave me a heightened sense of awareness through a perfectly formulated cocktail of adventure, independence, validation, and self-gratification. I was so proud to be able to interact with people, or even to recognize the words on signs and packaging—what I had learned was relevant and I could see my knowledge “working” before my eyes.

Trying to communicate with the Japanese people—even if I know my host sister must have been merciful and only pretended to understand me at times, bless her—was especially satisfying after seeing the eventual, relieved smile and spark of recognition in my listener’s eyes, knowing then that I had successfully tapped into someone else’s understanding. Even when I got frustrated, I realized that disappointment had no place in this journey and would only spoil the memories of this time for later. I understood that it was all a matter of taking advantage of the moment. Traveling and interacting with people native to places I admire creates a sort of “culture shock” for me that forces me out of my comfort zone so much that I get a singular, sensational, significant experience in return.

The police act as de facto immigration officials- they are allowed to stop any foreigner on site and demand to see their passport. If you’re unlucky enough to have left yours in the hotel, you’re headed for an unpleasant visit to the station. Where you will be yelled at in rapid Italian, and may be bullied into signing unintelligible papers proclaiming your guilt. However this scenario is not very commonplace, and happens to only a handful of internationals. I’m still hedging my bets.

It would seem that from its intimidating police force, and the power vested in them, that Rome and ultimately Italy is an oxymoron of an industrialized country with severely scaled back liberties. However its staggering liberties for free speech also struck me in my first days in the city. In the heart of the city a Communist protest -albeit small- took place, lined by artists selling overpriced drawings to gullible tourists, and gorgeous old buildings.

One of the police forces that I have become fond of is the Carabinieri, or the military police. Some of my Carabinieri acquaintances complain that they cannot stop certain people because they will be accused of racism. Such is the consciousness and fear of being labeled racist among the Italians that I met- that they will profess their innocence for extended periods. This is at least one parallel to America- as the Henry Louis Gates Jr incident fades fast from popular memory.

While Rome is different from the rest of Italy, as New York is as different from the rest of the U.S., Romans don’t feel overburdened by its ubiquitous police. They simply dismiss it as ‘good for safety’. Its tolerance for Communists- something unimaginable in America, and the seemingly anti-racist public sentiments draws it inevitably into the industrialized pocket of the world, even if it may seem over-policed. They all register as Italy’s charming idiosyncrasies.