Bucharest is a city in constant turmoil. The only certainty is that there will be nothing to do. Tia and I went to an exhibition of Rene Magritte's home snapshots today. It was pretty much as expected - Magritte and his mates larking about in a bunch of blurry snaps from the 1930s. The fact that some of the shots look like his later paintings, as in the one where he pretends to paint his wife, only added to the overwhelming sense of inevitable tedium.
On the plus side, the exhibition was just over the road from the 'Anthony Frost' English Language Bookshop, so I was able to rummage through their collection of McSweeneys and snaffle some graphs.
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