Marea Neagra (The Black Sea)

maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

millie befriended a stranded star
who's rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

e e cummings

Talk to any Romanian, mention you’re touring the country and they will inevitably ask if you’ve been to the sea. With a coastline of only about 150 miles, the country is close to being landlocked, but you’d never know it. Everyone here vacations at the Black Sea, generally as often as possible.

After the relative hard work of managing Chisinau, Tiraspol, and the miserable train ride back to Bucharest, it was time for a break, so I decided to see what the buzz was all about. I chose the resort of Mamaia, the most renowned of Romania’s Black Sea resorts.

Mamaia is a strip of land between the coast and man-made Lake Mamaia; about five miles long and just over 300 yards wide. While the quality of the sand certainly has its moments, it is poor compared to more famous beaches, and this is not the reason to visit Mamaia. More interesting is the thick clot of Romanian beach-goers that clings to the shore like a pulsating, libidinous frosting, caked onto the beach as far as the eye can see. The thick film of Slavic machismo, bare-assed toddlers, and admirably even-tanned women spills well into the sea in all directions, making one imagine that the entire Romanian coast is lined in such a fashion.


On a lark, I started hiking the beach to the north, curious to find where (and if) the mass ends. Ultimately, I hiked for about three hours (with an occasional stop for a cold glass of Ursus) before coming to the industrial complex that marks the end of useable beachfront. Just north of Mamaia is an undeveloped section of beachfront where the humanity thins. The population becomes both exclusively male and highly concerned about tan lines, but all sporting the *ahem* Full Mihai, if you know what I mean. About two-thirds populate the beach and the water, and the rest awkwardly perch in the underbrush like concerned ferrets.

News Flash. Lonely Planet? This would be good information to have!

Needless to say, I thought this a place better to leave to the imagination rather than to document with photos, and I did not stop for a cold Ursus. Here, instead, are some notable facets of resort life.

I’m not sure if you can appreciate the rarity of this. This is surely the only 70’s model Cadillac in all of Europe. I have no idea who owns it, but it was sold in Lubbock and licensed in Canada. I imagine the bird dung is local.


Deep-fried anchovies (or Hamsie). Surprisingly tasty if you can get over their little eyes staring at you. I found it helpful to give them names before consuming them. Imagine I gave one of them your name.


Like the ancient Romulans from whom they take their name, Romanians can be cruel in their forms of entertainment. Here, children with immune system failures have their enclosed habitats pushed onto a swimming pool as the crowd laughs at their efforts to stand up.


Mamaia’s nightlife is equally vibrant to its beach culture, though I seem to have been in the wrong section of town to experience it. I was, however, finally able to experience a much-storied tourist scam that is common throughout Eastern Europe and Russia, the infamous “Tourist Police.”


It goes like this. Some guys come up to you, ask you a bunch of questions, then claim to be the police and ask for your passport. With your passport in hand, they demand a bribe to return it. Here’s how it went down.

I’m sitting on a bench, around midnight, doing a little people watching on the promenade. Two guys pop out of a car and start darting around with no apparent purpose. The fat guy comes up to me and says something unintelligible in Romanian.

Me: “Huh?”
Fat Guy: “Tureest? Where frohm?”
Me: “Alaska”
Fat Guy: (motions for his friend to come over) “Tureest. Alaska.”
Other Guy: “Tureest?”
Fat Guy: “What Otel you stay?”
Me: “The one over there.”
Fat Guy: “Pasaport?”
Me, realizing what’s going on: “Hahahahahaha. Pasaport? You must be the ‘Tourist Police!’ No, I don’t think so.”
Fat Guy: “Tureest. Alaska. Pasaport.”
Me: “Wow. You guys are really bad at this. You should at least dress up or something.”
Other Guy: (shrug)
Me: “No, really. I just had you pegged as some losers at the beach. At least stand up straight.”
Fat Guy: (shrug)
Me: “Okay. Nice meeting you. Incantat. La revedere. Pa.”
Fat Guy: (shakes my hand like a sissy)
Other Guy: (shakes my hand like a sissy)
Me: "You know, you people should learn to shake hands, too."

I am briefly stunned that anyone has ever fallen for this.

Ultimately, Mamaia was a lot of fun. More, really, than I expected. While more expensive than most of Romania by a long shot, it still falls short of Alaska prices. And given a choice of the Black Sea or the basalt boulders of Sandy Beach, well...



Next time: Portugal.