Looking at the soot in Europe's most polluted city
Fly to Bucharest and take a highly polluting Trabant (East German classic) car northeast through the mountains to the town itself. It is worth a look at for itself, a gem of Eastern Europe, where the buildings are grim grey blocks of concrete, the sky is full of grey clouds (more on that later) and the people themselves are grey, grim, and often desperate, 
Romania is one of those former Soviet satellites that are now finding a new identity for themselves. However, in Romania's case, the new identity is not so different from the old one. The country is still desperately poor, riddled with corruption, and retains a police state mentality that has made it a natural ally for the US in its wars on terror.
That said, we are not interested in the secret prisons and holding camps of Romania, nor even the famous orphanages that used to sell babies to would-be mothers in the West. We are content instead to visit instead a rather ordinary town that could be anywhere in the world where industry is the national priority. Which is just about everywhere. Its sole claim to fame is as Europe's most polluted city.
Whether it really deserves that title, is hard to say. However, Copsa Mica's case rests on its two factories, a carbon factory, which (until 1993) used to produce black stuff for tires, and another, a metal smelter, which continues today to belch out lead, cadmium and other notoriously poisonous metals.
When the carbon factory was running at full strength (during the twilight years of Soviet communism) the wheezing machinery released a ton of soot over the already rather grey (in the manner of the Soviets) little town every hour. Famously, the sheep in the surrounding fields were dyed black. And although the last shift was a dozen years ago, and efforts have been made to clean up the town, everywhere the sooty stains are still visible.
It was under Nicolae Ceausescu (a dictator so reviled that in the aftermath of the Romanian revolution he was executed) that the strategy was devised of situating industry in remote rural communities so as to concentrate pollution in a few small areas, leaving the rest of the country relatively pristine. A bit like the US and European companies that locate their plants in the developing world. The strategy has some advantages, as can be seen when walking through the beautiful Carpathian mountains (where Dracula once roamed) although it was clearly unfortunate for Copsa Mica. It was designated as one of these pollution centers despite being geographically totally unsuitable to the task. But that's the “command economy” for you.
Anyway, in line with the strategy (of small areas of high pollution), the factories had short smokestacks to stop the pollution from spreading over a large area, and local farmers were permitted to sell their toxic produce only to local workers. These people were already being poisoned by the local air and drinking water, and the government paid them a small bonus by way of acknowledgement of the risk.
Additionally, as in much of the West, pollution statistics were state secrets. Yet the reality of both farm animals and people getting peculiar diseases and dropping dead was difficult to hide. In 1989, the National Salvation Front toppled Ceausescu, introduced a market economy and promised to save the environment too. The carbon factory was shut down in 1993, and the lead and zinc-smelting factory was smartened up. International industrial safety experts from the UN came to put in new filters and emissions monitors. Money was even set aside to ameliorate some of the environmental damage, including some tree planting in the city and district.
Nonetheless, the two factories had helped put Romania on the political map—albeit only as an environmental black spot. And, in fact, Copsa Mica remains extremely polluted. The new Greek management of the metal smelting factory cite economic necessity as justification for continuing to release toxins through the air. The town continues to have the highest infant mortality rate in Europe, as well as many cases of lead poisoning, reduced lung function, and neurobehavioral symptoms among everyone else.
What's more, the city residents are increasingly poor, as the few environmental improvements there have been resulted in the loss of some 4,000 jobs. Even if in the long-term the factories poisoned the people, in the short-term, they fed them. Many now look back at their previous hazardous trades affectionately.
Copsa Mica is, in this way, typical not only of Romania, but of environmental politics in general. The politicians claim to be involved in a delicate balancing act between protecting jobs and protecting the environment (while, naturally, failing to do either). The preferred solution in Romania, as elsewhere, is to continue polluting the environment while advising the “more advanced” nations, that if they want it to stop—they will have to pay.
Romania relies on its Dracula legend for most of its tourists, with sinister looking castles such as those built by the country's most famous son, Vlad the Impaler (he who used to impale his victims on stakes of wood) well-preserved and regularly attracting film crews. Recently it has also become popular as a kind of “vanished America” location for blockbusters like Cold Mountain. But my favorite scene comes from a much older and simpler film, indeed a silent one, Nosferatu, A Symphony of Horror, featuring Max Schreck in his hideous makeup. This shows a long column of hunched-over citizens staggering down the cobbled main street of an old half-timbered town carrying coffins, just two to a casket, and all in their drab Sunday best. Actually, the town was Bremen, in Germany, and as we've seen, Costa Mica is entirely concrete. But it somehow still conveys both the Romanian spirit and the tragedy.
Most of the poisons mentioned are cumulative, so a short stay should be okay. But go easy on the local food and the local water. And maybe try not to breathe too much while you're at it.