Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness

I'm in a strange love/hate relationship with Bucharest. Even though I conceded that I had a bad year, which was mainly because I forcedly returned here, I still love it and in a twisted way it has become my home. And now that I'm leaving for good in two weeks and I have just a few days to actually spend here, leaving my own and only notion of home behind, I feel a bit of bitterness and sorrow for abandoning my little cozy piece of sad heaven. I do realize though that it is for the better, that I am up to plenty of good ahead, I swear I'm excited through the roof, but still addicted to this special kind of sadness.

To make it easier, I keep in mind the (oh so many!) things I hate here, which make it impossible to turn Bucharest into a place worth loving. With no particular affinity on what I hate most, I loathe the stray dogs, the all-arounding needy homeless people, the people lacking common sense which are not at all rare, the overpriced, overrated and overcrowded pubs, the long dusty streets that lack garbage bins, the weird ratio of 3 cars per owner and all the attached discomfort, the scarce parking lots, the uncomfortable mosquitoes, the frustration of searching for a job in such a limited range of opportunities, the sometimes unbreathable air, the fact that I fear walking alone the streets at night, the sweaty cluster in all public transportation means, the way too hot summer days and way too snowy winter nights, the lack of logic and the abundance of kitsch at so many levels.

But there's some pretty great stuff, that makes it difficult to leave Bucharest, this time perhaps forever. I'm gonna miss the walks on streets with old houses, the gorgeous teashops with homemade cheese cakes, the late evenings with frappucinos at Starbucks, my friends that came from quieter and faraway places and brought cleaner and happier air with them making Bucharest worth loving, the occasional attention seeking cats around the block, our seriously flawed apartment which felt like home, the cheap books I would buy from Carturesti, the greatly talented doctors you'd still find in a messed up medical system, the quite fair number of malls and shopping facilities, the way we chose to live near parks and seldom stroll their holed alleys, the Turkish kebab places with kebabs better than in Turkey, the best Chinese restaurant I ever tried, the endless possibilities for nightlife, the cheap taxis and rents, the wonderfully bohemian people you'd still see on the streets. 

I'm leaving the Small Paris for its greater version. And while it pains me, I've learned and try to keep in mind that the mistreatings should not go unpunished, and though my love and my home, this dear city has also done a great job at steadily disappointing me. So there's gonna be some French rehab, and then whatever else comes next, to heal my addiction for all certain kinds of sadness. Bucharest, let you just be the first sick tenderness I'm crossing off my list for reasons of unworthiness.