Growing up in Bucharest in the 1970s, when a concrete fence, a few parked cars, and a group of friends were all we needed.
By Ovi Catanescu
The Owl Never Forgets.
At first glance, Străduța was just another small street in Bucharest.
Its official name was Professor Daniel Barcianu Street, in the Popa Nan–Piața Traian neighborhood, near Turturelelor Street and Professor Moise Nicoară Street.
It was a quiet residential street, lined with well-maintained old houses and elegant villas, some with beautiful architecture. Mature trees provided shade, and the greenery gave the whole place a charm of its own.
Very few houses had garages, so most cars were parked along the street.
My friend Corso, who lived there, remembers that until around 1968, both his street and neighboring Moise Nicoară Street were dead ends. Cars rarely entered, and very few residents even owned one.
Then construction began on several apartment buildings, and the streets were opened to through traffic.
But for us, the most important transformation had nothing to do with urban planning.
To everyone else, it was just a street.
To us, it was Străduța — Our Little Street.
Most of the memories I have from that place date back to my high school years, between 1970 and 1973.
When I started ninth grade, I found myself in a class of boys from several different elementary schools around Bucharest. Many came from Schools No. 39 and No. 88. Others came from schools I had barely heard of.
Two of my new classmates, Corso and Andy, would become central characters in the story of Străduța.
Corso lived right on the street, and Andy lived nearby.
Corso still remembers our very first day of high school. He sat next to Andy, whom he already knew from the neighborhood, while my friend Mihai Conțiu and I sat together at the desk directly in front of them.
Mihai and I had both attended School No. 88.
After classes, we would go home, change out of our school uniforms, and head over to Străduța to meet Corso and Andy.
Our gathering place was in front of the house where Gabiu and the Jianu sisters, Daniela and Viorica, lived.
The house had a concrete fence facing the street, not particularly tall. For some of us, it served as a bench. The rest simply leaned against it.
Little by little, our group grew.
Other boys and girls from the neighborhood began joining us. I remember two more sisters, Anca and Doina Mazilu, and boys like Bebe, Aluna — who had a little mole on his cheek — Bocioagă, and many others whose names, unfortunately, time has erased from my memory.
Bebe had been Andy's deskmate until eighth grade.
We met almost every day.
And what did we do?
Most of the time, absolutely nothing extraordinary.
We talked about everything and nothing. We teased one another, told jokes, and laughed until our sides hurt.
For us, just being together was enough.
Our conversations revolved around music, movies, concerts, books, theater, and whatever else seemed important to us at the time.
School was rarely mentioned unless something particularly funny had happened involving a teacher or another student.
Sometimes we played soccer.
But soccer on Străduța was nothing like soccer on a proper field.
We didn't have goalposts.
Instead, two entrance gates belonging to houses diagonally across from one another became our goals.
There was just one small complication.
The parked cars.
To score, you had to dribble not only around the opposing players but also around the automobiles.
Occasionally, in the excitement of chasing the ball, one of us would even climb over a parked car to get there faster.
I don't remember ever having a referee.
And, as far as I recall, there weren't any fouls either.
Probably because nobody had time to argue.
We were too busy laughing.
As the years went by, more friends from high school and other circles joined us.
Străduța became the place to be.
It was where plans were made for parties, dates, outings, and all kinds of adventures.
Nearby stood the Turturele Cultural Center, which had a gymnasium used for sports, performances, and various other activities.
The cultural center became an extension of our playground.
We practically considered ourselves part of the establishment, participating in whatever activities happened to fit our nearly nonstop schedule of having fun.
Sometimes ten or fifteen of us would leave together and head to the Doina Children's Movie Theater to watch cartoons.
We were already teenagers.
But apparently, nobody had told us we were supposed to have outgrown cartoons.
The Future Karate Masters
One of my favorite memories involves Corso.
One day, the two of us spotted an announcement advertising karate classes at the cultural center.
Without telling the rest of our friends, we decided to sign up.
We probably imagined ourselves becoming formidable martial artists.
At the very least, we were curious.
On the day of our first lesson, we arrived early, excited to discover what awaited us.
We wandered around the hallways of the Turturele Cultural Center, trying to figure out where the class would take place.
Eventually, we approached a cleaning lady who was busy working in the hallway and asked where the karate class was being held.
She answered, but somehow we still ended up waiting around, uncertain what to do next.
Then, after a while, her powerful voice echoed through the entire building:
"HEY! WHERE ARE YOU GUYS WHO WANT TO DO KARATE?"
Every head in the hallway seemed to turn.
There we were.
Two aspiring martial artists who had been hoping to keep their new adventure a secret.
Now we had to stand up and identify ourselves in front of everyone.
It was mortifying.
Before learning a single karate move, we had already received our first lesson.
How to become the center of attention when the last thing you want is to be noticed.
Corso and the Dance
Another unforgettable incident took place at the same cultural center.
One evening, a dance had been organized in the gymnasium for girls from an all-girls school in Bucharest.
Naturally, when we heard about it, we somehow managed to find ourselves there.
I don't remember whether there was a live band or whether the music came from a tape recorder.
But I do remember the music starting and everyone being encouraged to dance.
Most of the girls were sitting in chairs arranged along the walls of the gym, probably waiting for the boys to invite them onto the dance floor.
And then Corso made his move.
Now, you have to understand something about Corso.
He was at least as shy as I was.
Which made what happened next even more extraordinary.
He clasped his hands behind his back and, with the solemn expression of a man about to make a momentous decision, approached the row of seated girls.
He stopped in front of the first one.
Looked at her carefully.
Then moved to the next.
And the next.
Hands still behind his back, he proceeded down the entire row, stopping in front of each girl and examining her for a few moments.
He looked less like a teenager choosing a dance partner and more like an inspector conducting a very serious evaluation.
We watched in disbelief.
Then we started laughing.
And laughing.
Corso continued his inspection, completely undisturbed.
Finally, after examining every single girl, he reached the end of the row.
And what did he do?
Did he invite one of them to dance?
Of course not.
He simply turned around and walked back to our group.
Inspection completed. No selection made.
We absolutely lost it.
To someone else, perhaps, the whole thing wouldn't have seemed particularly remarkable.
But we knew Corso.
And the sight of our shy friend walking along an entire row of girls, hands clasped behind his back, studying each one with the seriousness of a government official, was simply unforgettable.
More than fifty years later, I can still see him doing it.
And it still makes me laugh.
Our Little Street
Străduța had no clubs, no cafés, and nothing specifically designed to entertain teenagers.
It had a concrete fence, a couple of entrance gates that doubled as soccer goals, parked cars that served as obstacles, the nearby Turturele Cultural Center, and a group of boys and girls who met almost every day.
We didn't have cell phones.
We didn't text one another.
We didn't need to announce that we were coming.
We simply showed up.
And almost always, someone was already there.
More than fifty years have passed.
Some of us left Bucharest. Others left Romania altogether.
Our lives took us in different directions, and our memories aren't always identical.
Sometimes one of us remembers something vividly that another has completely forgotten.
Perhaps that's precisely why these stories are worth telling.
For a few years of our adolescence, Străduța was the center of our universe.
And somehow, after more than half a century, we still find our way back there.
If only in our memories.
This story was reconstructed from my own memories, with additional recollections and corrections from friends who shared those years with me. My thanks to Corso and Andy for helping preserve a little piece of our youth.
The Owl Never Forgets.