ADVENTURE IN BUCHAREST, 1993
BY STEPHEN NICHOLSON

The following account of adventure in Romania in October 1993 is an excerpt (pp. 234-8) from Chapter X, “Further Acquaintances in England and Adventures Abroad” of English music teacher Stephen Nicholson (1957-2020)’s memoir, A Dangerous Love, published by Arcadian Dreams in London in 2023. At the time here described, Nicholson was a dedicated teacher at a prep school in Surrey who, determined to avoid trouble in an already deeply-repressive England, depended on travel in freer lands for any semblance of a love life as the exclusive boysexual he was.

The last significant Eastern European jaunt I made before leaving the UK altogether was the aforementioned one to Bucharest. I had met a few people who had been to Romania and heard of many more, including a lorry driver who used to enjoy the company of several young companions while travelling through the country. Unlike Prague, this was a trip which would need some careful planning to find the right form of accommodation, as well as the best places to go “cruising” and items to take with you. Video games such as Tetris on the Game Boy Tetris, along with a Rubik’s Cube, could be relied upon to keep a boy entertained for some time, but more fundamental than this was the need for decent clothes.

   

Thanks to Nicolae Ceaușescu’s rigid stance on abortion and contraception, there were many young people choosing to live rough on the streets, some actually finding this preferable to staying in orphanages. This meant that many of the boys possessed only the filthy rags they wore from day to day, though this was by no means always the case, especially as they became more established in their trade. Some boys, normally introduced by others who had decided that you were a “safe” foreigner and worth knowing, had become extremely sophisticated with their diaries and Filofaxes with which they would make appointments for weeks ahead.   

I find it hard, in retrospect, to comprehend just how much we managed to pack into those eight October days of my final half-term holiday of 1993. I was travelling with JDT^[1], already mentioned in connection with Charles Douglas and Agde, and we were well-prepared with special treats and suitcases full of clothes and blankets, mostly donated by my local Romanian charity shop, a chain which became Link to Hope.   

I felt this trip would be different and interesting even before we boarded the Tarom flight (one of the few short-haul journeys I didn’t make with Air Miles). Passengers were talking to each other at the boarding gate, and someone asked JDT in a friendly way why he was going to Bucharest, which was considered unusual as a holiday destination. He replied that he was studying the language and was, fortunately, not then required to compare linguistic competence with his interlocutor. I also noticed quite a large school group and hoped they wouldn’t be sitting too far away. 

 

Fortunately, this group was only three rows up from us, and I was immediately drawn to a stunning-looking boy of about thirteen who was imitating the stewardesses as they were giving the safety instructions in Romanian, and generally seemed to be a charismatic and delightful character. I noticed that the seat next to him was empty, and, bold as I was in those days, found myself sitting next to him almost as soon as the seat belt signs had been switched off.   

Far from being suspicious, as an English boy might have been, he was delighted that I should choose to sit with him and chat: his English was excellent and he was very open and friendly. His name was Bogdan, he’d been staying in an English prep school as part of some sort of exchange scheme, he loved England and was sorry to be returning so soon to his own country and, yes, he’d love to meet me in the city and show me round. After a good thirty minutes of stimulating chit-chat, I decided to return to my seat to give him some space to be with his friends, and he gave me his address and phone number.   

Our first night in the city was spent in a hotel, but on the second day we made a determined effort to find a flat where the owner did not live too close-by. We’d been given the name of an agency who’d found something suitable for a mutual acquaintance of ours and, after viewing some clearly unsuitable places, we were taken to a large spacious apartment where a family were living – grandmother, mother, father and two girls aged twelve and thirteen, whom JDT, who swung both ways, took an immediate shine to.   

The idea was that we would pay the family for a week, in cash, and they would move out, leaving the place exactly as we found it. After some friendly chat, in which JDT helped the girls with their English homework, they decamped, presumably to a relative’s house, and I went out to explore local shops and was astonished to be able to buy pleasant bread, cheese, salami and good wine at ridiculously cheap prices.   

Later that day I went exploring, and from a known pick-up point outside one of the larger luxury hotels an attractive boy immediately responded to my appreciative glance, eagerly joining me in a taxi back to the flat. As with the first lad I met in Lisbon, he turned out to be a regular for the week, and a most useful fixer. However, no sooner had he departed with plenty of money, new clothes and promises to bring back other boys to the flat than the doorbell rang. It turned out to be the girls that JDT had taken a shine to; they must have formed the impression that he wanted to see them again. It was a narrow escape, and after he’d spent twenty minutes or so “teaching” them English, they had to be shown the door with clear instructions from JDT that they shouldn’t come back: the message was received and understood and luckily that was the last we saw of them. Although I suspect JDT had a minor regret or two, this was more than made up for by the fun we had that week.    

Several delightful boys were brought to visit us, and some I encountered on the street. It was the latter who were usually happy to stay the night, although most seemed to have achieved a level of independence to the extent they did not pretend a huge affection which they did not feel. On one occasion our mischievous fixer arrived with rather a beautiful companion whom JDT immediately took into his room. Master Fixer was smirking away, and told me that my friend was in for a big shock as it was “not a boy”. In the event, JDT was delighted at the discovery, and Master Fixer’s joke fell rather flat.   

There was one rather sophisticated, freckled lad. He had tolerable English, was dressed like an English prep school boy and had a sort of self-assurance to match. He told us he’d been “at it” for some time; he knew many men in the city and produced an appointments diary for his next visit to us. As there were only a couple of days left and we were uncertain of our movements, we said we’d let him know through Master Fixer.   

Somehow, JDT and I found time to explore the city together, checking for example whether the swimming pools were of any interest – they weren’t. We trolled the main station too, which proved disappointing as a pick-up place, though JDT thought he’d hit it lucky when he gestured to a pretty boy of about thirteen to follow him, which he did. It then became apparent to me, as a spectator, that the boy was not alone, and that the man with him was probably his father, as he called out his name, along with a sharp question in Romanian: “Vlad, what are you doing?” I quickly apprised JDT of this situation and we both beat a hasty retreat.   

I spent an interesting few hours one afternoon visiting Ceaușescu’s huge palace and hearing stories and opinions from local people. It is hard to imagine a national leader more universally reviled by his own people.^[2]   

Meanwhile, Bogdan had not been forgotten and we arranged to meet twice in different parts of the city. In a sense it was pleasant to meet an ordinary boy and be able to chat about his life in Bucharest. It could be argued that the more unfortunate lads who found themselves living rough weren’t any less ordinary, but communication with most of them was far less easy, and of course sexual contact with most of them was assumed. One or two clearly didn’t have a clue about the sex and it wouldn’t have seemed right, but they were very responsive to affection in the form of hugs and kisses.   

I felt certain that Bogdan was aware of my attraction towards him, and that he was curious about it. He certainly didn’t find it strange or off-putting, and of course I did nothing to intimidate him. For our third, and probably last, meeting he was keen that I should visit him in his home. He assured me that his father would be out, and that we would have some time alone together. 

 

When I arrived, dad had clearly changed his plans, understandably keen to know who this curious British man who was interested in his son was. Bogdan stood behind his father as I entered their apartment and gave me a somewhat exasperated, apologetic glance. The next hour was not at all awkward however, and I felt I’d passed some sort of test, especially as his son seemed so relaxed and happy in my company. Had I been staying longer in the city, I’m sure there would have been no problem seeing Bogdan alone.   

When the time came to go, we exchanged full addresses and telephone numbers, and there was a brief correspondence as well as an exchange of Christmas cards. This was rudely cut short by events in March 1994, and I still bemoan the sudden ending of a promising friendship. Just before leaving him, I decided to give him ten dollars – a paltry sum for me, but a fortune in Romania at that time. Bogdan’s father did not want his son to accept the money at first, but it didn’t take too much persuasion for him to change his mind. 

JDT and I agreed that things were becoming out of hand in the apartment, and we had no way of knowing how much of our activity had been clocked by the neighbours, or if we might suddenly get a knock on the door from a disgruntled older brother – or worse. So we left a day early and stayed the final night in a good hotel, before catching the mid-morning flight back to Heathrow. It had been a remarkably successful few days, and a trip we would have been able to repeat, as it took some time before the country would be spoiled by the do-gooders and sensational documentary-makers.

^[1] JDT was a fairly new but already “firm” friend of Nicholson and a former schoolmaster at Harrow, the famous English public school (p. 224).

^[2] Nicolae Ceaușescu, dictatorial Romanian Communist Party leader since 1965 and President of Romania from 1974, had been overthrown and executed in December 1989, less than four years earlier, ushering in a relatively lawless period of several years in which the country was newly open to foreign travel but the new authorities had more urgent things to do than implement the American global crusade against sex with youngsters; hence the appeal of Romania to Stephen and his like-minded friends.