A long long time ago (well, not quite since Mihai entered stately the citadel of Alba Iulia!) in Cluj, there was a street named Sunset (note, not “Of the Setting Sun”, but plain Sunset). I always liked the name of the street; it seemed somehow odd, peculiar, strange, poetic, “thought-provoking”. I did like the name, though not the street. Well, there wasn't anything to like at all. A street of complete absence, flooded in absence. That is, once you got there, you were sure not to run into anyone (maybe a housewife wrapped in a dressing gown, passing by to a next-door housewife wrapped in her own dressing gown, or, season-depending, wrapped in a cloak; and that would be all). From the courtyards you'd get barked at by solitary mongrels eager to beat the air. Not quite totally surprisingly (but considering the starting point, to be sure) this street took you towards the sunset. Not even after I learnt that my wife once lived in this street (as tenant), back when she was not yet (my wife, that is), but when she was a student.
What on earth could you be looking for in this street? No-thing. Nothing at all. There were no shops, not even a tavern, as for firms, back then, nothing of the kind. (“Back then” = 30-40 years ago, I beg your pardon, that would be some 1,500 days; imagine that! 36,000 hours! In minutes? Scores.) Hence, what could you be looking for in this street? Kins (not me), babes (none), architectural exquisiteness (not a chance), the shade of the trees on the sidewalk (any of the former, and the sidewalk was rather scarce)... what else? Or, if mandatory (for instance if you were postman, policeman or bailiff – again not me), or simply moonstruck (like me). Let me disambiguate:
This street was so uncommon that, quite often, I went by (and, to be honest, back then I was tierce my age today) solely to stroll from dawn towards sunset or from sunset towards sunrise. That did not matter at all.

Ages ago (not when Michael the Brave entered Alba-Iulia, not that long ago!), there was a street in Cluj called Sunset Street (note: not Sunset Boulevard, Sunset Street). I have always been fond of its name, since it had a strange, poetic, out-of-the-way ring to it. It invited reflection. I liked the name, but not the street. There wasn’t much to like, either. A street beset by absences. Overrun by absences. If you ever wandered about, you were sure to cross nobody (maybe some housewife in her dressing gown, dropping by another housewife in her dressing gown or her union suit, according to seasonal dictates; that was pretty much it). Some yard dog would bark at you, feigning dedication to canine purpose. Oddly enough (depending on the direction you were headed, of course), the street lead towards… sunset. No, not even after learning that this was the street where there lived (as a tenant) my wife, before being (my wife), in her undergraduate years.
What could have possessed you to roam this street!?! Nothing. Not a thing. No stores in sight, no watering holes to be found, and private enterprise was inconceivable back then (“Back then,” that’s, well, 30 or 40 years ago, close to 1.500 days ago; can you imagine that? 36.000 hours! Minutes? A clockful of them.) Again: what drove you to come on this street? Relatives (not in my case), dames (never saw any), wonders of human architecture (not a chance!), the shade of trees extending over the sidewalk (there weren’t any trees, and not much of a sidewalk, for that matter)… What, then? Well, a duty call (for instance, if you were a mailman, policeman or bailiff – again, not my case) or wanderlust (my case). Let me explain:
This street was so much a-part from others, that I have often, often visited it (and, to be sure, I had only 1/3 of my age today), only to walk from Orient to sunset, or from sunset to sunrise. It mattered little.

In times past (hey, hey, not quite during King Mihai’s entrance in Alba-Iulia!), there was a street in Cluj called Dusk (mind you: Dusk Street not Dusk’s Street). I have always liked this street name, I found it strange, peculiar, eerie, poetic, “thought provoking”. I liked the name, but not the street. There wasn’t much to like about it. A street full of absences. Overwhelmed by absences. That is, should you happen to pass by, you could be sure you wouldn’t run into anyone (maybe some housewife in a dressing gown going next door to another housewife wearing her own dressing gown or, according to season, a negligee; not much else). From some courtyard a dog would bark at you just for the heck of it. To top it all (naturally, depending on which end you were coming from) the street led towards... dusk. Not even after I learned that my wife had lived there (in lodging), while she wasn’t (my wife), but she was a student.
What the heck could one do on this street!?! No-thing. Nothing. No shops, no pubs, and as for companies, at the time, no way. (“At the time” = about 30-40 years ago, excuse me, that is about 1,500 days ago, can you imagine that? 36,000 hours! Minutes? Loads.) So: what could one do on this street? Relatives (not my case), chicks (haven’t seen any), architectural beauties (none whatsoever), the shade of trees on the sidewalk (there weren’t any, and there wasn’t even much of a sidewalk for that matter)... then, what? Either you had to (for instance you were a postman, a policeman or a bailiff – again not my case), or you were just wandering (this was my case). That is, I’ll try to explain:
So different was this street that many times, many times, I passed by (and, honestly, I had about a third of my age today) only to walk from dawn towards dusk or from dusk towards dawn. It didn’t matter at all.


Tudor Ionescu, “Amurgul pierdut” (“The lost dusk”), published in „Tribuna” (issue 120, 1-15 September 2007)

Once upon a time (well, well, not quite the time of Prince Michael’s triumphant ride into Alba-Iulia!) there was a street in Cluj named Twilight (not Twilight Street, mind you, just ’Twilight ’). I always loved this street’s name; I thought it strange, uncommon, eerie, poetic, ‘thought-provoking.’ I liked the name, not the street. A street full of things absent. Overwhelmed by things absent. That is, if you happened upon it you could be sure you’d meet no one (perhaps, just a housewife in a house dress, passing by to meet another housewife in a house dress or, if the season allowed, in a long slip; that’s about it.) An odd dog would bark at you from a front yard just to keep itself busy. The funny thing is that (naturally, depending on which end you started from) the street would lead you towards…twilight. It didn’t even help learning that my wife when she wasn’t (my wife) used to live on this street (as a lodger), but then, she had been a student.

What the heck could one look for on that street !?! No-thing. Nothing. No stores, not a watering hole, as for businesses, at that time - perish the thought. (“At that time” - i.e. , beg your pardon, 30-40 years ago, that is about 1,500 days – can you imagine ? 36,000 hours ! Minutes ? A bunch.) Hence : what could one look for on that street ? Relatives (not my case), chicks (never seen one), architectural beauties (not a chance), trees’ shade over the sidewalk (no shade, and not much of a sidewalk either)…then what ? Either you were duty bound (for example, you were a mailman, a police officer or a court sheriff – again, neither was my case) or a nut (my case indeed). That is, let me try and explain:

So unlike any other was this street, that many, many times I went there (when I was, so help me, about one third my present age) just to walk from the sunrise end to twilight end, or from the twilight end to sunrise. It just didn’t matter.

Tudor Ionescu, “Twilight Lost.” Published in „Tribuna” (issue 120, 1-15 September 2007)

Some time ago (but not quite as long ago as when Prince Mihai* colonised Alba Iulia – ha ha!), there used to be a street in Cluj named Twilight (note: not "Twilight Street" - just "Twilight"). I always liked this street name; it struck me as odd, singular, strange, poetic, "thought-provoking". I liked the name, but not the street. There was barely anything at all to like about it. A street full of missing things. Brimming with missing things. What I mean is, from the moment you arrived there, you could be certain that you would not come across anybody (perhaps an occasional housewife in her dressing gown, as she passed by to another housewife dressed in her dressing gown, or according to the season, in her petticoat; that was about it). Every now and again from the courtyards you could hear the barking of a dog that wanted to be occupied with something. To crown it all (depending on the direction in which you were heading, of course), the street led to... twilight. It wasn't until afterwards that I discovered that my wife had lived on this street (as a tenant), before she was (my wife), but she was a student.
What, in heaven's name, could you hope to find on this street? Not a thing. Nothing. No shops, no bars, and as for businesses at that time, they were quite out of the question. ("At that time" = something like, ahem, 30-40 years ago, so that's around 1,500 days ago; can you imagine? 36,000 hours! And minutes? A lot.) So: what could you hope to find on this street? People (not in my case), courting couples (I didn't see any), architectural gems (no way), the shade of trees on the pavement (there weren't any; there wasn't all that much pavement either)... so, what? Either because you had to (for example, if you were a postman, a policeman or a bailiff - again, not in my case), or because you were mad (as in my case). So I'll try to explain: this street was so other-worldly that I went there many, many times (and I shudder to think that I was around a third of my age today) just to walk from the east towards the twilight, or from the twilight towards sunrise. It really didn't matter at all.


* Mihai Viteazul, or Michael the Brave, was the Wallachian Prince who marched into the Transylvanian capital of Alba Iulia in 1599, becoming ruler of the province and uniting the principalities of Wallachia and Transylvania.

Way back (wait, wait not exactly when Mihai was reigning down on to Alba Iulia!), there was a street in Cluj called “Sunset” (not “To the Sunset”, but simply “Sunset”). I always loved this kind of street name’ it sounded weird, unique, strange, poetic, getting you on thinking. I loved the street name not the street itself. There wasn’t much to like about it. A street crowded by absence. Overwhelmed by absence. I mean, you’d happen to pass by and you’d bet not one soul would come in sight ( or yeah… maybe the glimpse of a housewife in her robe, stopping by next door to another housewife wearing her own robe or, depending on the season, her camisole; that was all). From the backyards, you might hear a dog barking just to let you know it was there. Coincidentally (naturally, it depends on which way you were heading to) the street led to … the sunset.* Not even after I found out this was the street my wife lived on (rented) when she was not yet (my wife) but a student.*
So, what the heck could you be looking on this street!?!. No-thing. No shops, not even a bar- as for storefronts, during those times, no way. (“During those times” = that is, excuse me, 30-40 years ago, which is about 1500 days ago; can you imagine? 36,000 hours! Minutes? A whole bunch.) So: what would you possibly be looking for on this street? Relatives (not my case), girls (didn’t see any), architectural beauty (no way), shade of the trees lining the sidewalk (none, not even much sidewalk in sight)…then, what else? Either, by necessity (like for instance if you were a mailman, policeman or a officer of the court - again, not my case), or simply wondering aimlessly (my case). In other words, let me try to explain:
This street was so strangely different that often, many times I would go in that area (and honestly, I was then about 1/3 of my today’s age) just to be walking from the Levant to the sunset, or from sunset towards sunrise. It made no difference.

Tudor Ionescu, „Amurgul pierdut”, published in „Tribuna” (issue 120, 1-15 September 2007)