Bucharest lives in a state of permanent rush. At any hour, you see people running after buses, crossing on red lights, honking impatiently. Everyone believes that moving faster will somehow earn them time. And yet, time dissolves just the same, no matter the speed. No one arrives earlier.

It’s a kind of ritualized agitation, repeated day after day. Parents rushing to drop off their kids at school, office workers with eyes glued to their phones, drivers lunging into every inch of free asphalt. The city moves in spasms, but the destinations remain just as far away.

The truth is that rushing isn’t about efficiency—it’s about anxiety. People are afraid of being left behind, of losing their place, their chance, their opportunity. That’s why they accelerate even when they know they’ll stop two intersections later. On the subway, in traffic, at the counter, the energy is the same: a mix of impatience and helplessness.

Sometimes, rushing is just a performance. You see it in people sprinting toward an already packed elevator, in those forcing their way into a tram even though another one arrives a minute later. The city has no patience, not even with its own logic. It makes it exhausting, but strangely alive.

In a way, Bucharest has learned to live off the illusion of speed. Everything must be “now,” “fast,” “urgent.” But beneath this surface lies a bitter realization: motion doesn’t mean progress, only consumption. The same roads, the same bottlenecks, the same traffic lights.

And yet, the paradox has its poetry. The collective rush becomes a shared language. We recognize each other through the same quickened breathing, the same compulsive glance at the watch, the same frustration when the light refuses to change. The city breathes to the rhythm of haste.

What hurts most is that in all this running, we stop seeing. We no longer notice the buildings we pass every day, the people walking beside us, the small chance encounters. Rush erases the details. And with them, it erases the joy of living in a vibrant city.

At the end of the day, when you take stock, you realize you haven’t gained anything. You ran, you honked, you crossed in haste. And you arrived exactly on time—just like everyone else. Because in Bucharest, rushing is only a way of living, never a solution.

And yet, perhaps one day the city will learn to breathe differently. To allow a few more seconds between traffic lights, a few words exchanged between strangers, a few honks left unused. Perhaps one day we’ll discover that the true victory isn’t arriving sooner, but arriving differently.

Also recommended How to survive Bucharest traffic – a practical guide for expats