Parking

Walking around the city arm in arm with literary recollections… Laying on façades invisible memorial plates with quotes in verse or prose… Experiencing live the sensation of osmosis between fiction and reality… Feeling literature become history, and history – literature…

The parallel journals of two travelers, separated by more than three centuries, who crossed Asia from the west to the east, following the same route to the capital of China, offers us a human measure of the passage of time. Double photographs of the same places, even the

Emil Popescu was an architect. His specialty was the oil factories and we can say, without any exaggeration, that wherever in the country an oil factory had been built in the last five or six years, one could easily tell it was the work of architect Popescu's skilled

excerpts What's your name? asked Bajnorica. Atena, the answer sounded clear and neat, casting the light of the trustful, caring and obedient friend over the young girl. Bajnorica looked at her face closely, assessing her age around her early or even late twenties,

excerpt (Yes, man, it was her, Dalia, his girlfriend from fifteen years back, the sausage girl, the blonde at the slaughter house, married to the drunken sub-lieutenant who was away one week at a time on field practice, yeah, mate, the one you first saw at a meeting with

Mosilor Street, the modern thoroughfare of a Bucharest that struggles so hard to appear occidentalized and yet doesn't quite manage to: something Balkan, Levantine lingers in the atmosphere of the streets, in spite of the concrete ten-floor blocks, of the road with

excerpt  THE IRON PALM TREE In front of the Burebista eating inn stops one of those tiny automobiles that no one notices, a frog Skoda or a small Fiat, one doesn't know exactly what model, because the respective car raised a huge amount of dust that the Dobrogea