July 27, 2007

 The Pack Up

 

Friday evening, disassembling the bikes … while removing Mary’s right pedal I notice a crack in the socket of her crank arm;  the socket is nearly fractured.

 

Stress, fatigue, failure – we’re there:  I can visualize the possible implications on a steep climb, possibly in traffic – metal fatigue would result in catastrophic failure; the entire drive chain and pedal would still clipped to the shoe …

July 28, 2007

 The Flight

We are tired but excited...

 

July 29, 2007

 

Bucharest Airport

 

We have arrived.  I have a chance to use my Romanian for the first time:  I ask numerous people in airport uniforms “unde este autobuz sapte-opt-trei?’ (“where is bus 7-8-3?”);  they give a vague wave towards our rendezvous point.  At the terminal doors a small Dacia pulls curb side, picks up some passengers, and then reverses the entire length of the terminal at top speed – Mary says, “We are going to bike among these drivers?”

 

Stefan from Villa 11 pulls up.  We set off on a white knuckle drive into the city.  “There are some things you Canucks should know about Romania.  Dogs:  if a wild dog comes at you, never stop moving;  taxis: don’t take them, they’ll cheat you or worse;  Passport police: if someone on the street asks you for your passport …” etc. etc.

 

Bucharest

 

Villa 11 … Emir shows us to our second floor room:  it is tiny, the doors aren’t square, there are no locks, our window opens onto a makeshift scaffolding made of scrap lumber – “Don’t ask about locks, there are no locks, and there has never been a theft.”  We are starting to have doubts about our choice of accommodation.  Emir is from Pakistan and has been in Romania for a few months;  he looks incredibly bored, doesn’t look you in the eye and avoids any attempt at conversation – why is he here, I wonder?

 

In the courtyard I start assembling Mary’s bike;  chairs wobble on three legs, the side table sways; the sun is so hot pieces of metal can’t be handled without taking them into the shade.  Mary steps out for moral support;  she is in her bare feet.  “I wouildn’t walk on that grate,”  says one of the Villa’s sons, “the drain runs underneath it.”

 

Radu and Mihaela call for us at 5:00 pm – they are a bit “surprised” at the street where we are staying;  so are we, to be honest.  What can I say?  It sounded good on the internet: Villa 11 picked us up from the airport, it’s close to the train station, and we can store our bicycle cases for four weeks.  And it’s clean.

 

Radu and Mihaela take us on a walking tour of the older part of Bucharest.  Lots of buildings have the ornamentation of the late 1800’s – arches, columns, baroque curly-cues, moulded figurines soaring above the street;  some are in good shape, but more have been neglected.  Radu explains that, following the collapse of communism, rights of ownership to confiscated buildings aren’t clear cut;  until property rights can be established no one will invest money.

 

Casinos are on every corner.  “I don’t know where they have come from,” says Radu, “they weren’t here six months ago.”  I don’t like casinos – I think their benefits are false economy.  Their advertisements appeal to the basest of instincts;  it all gives an impression of big money changing hands in back rooms.

 

We sit on the patio of the Carul cu Bere (“The Beer Wagon”) for a pleasant supper.  Up the street from us is the Stavropoleos Church, a tiny stone church.  Two nuns draped in black are inside the porch engaged in a vigorous conversation;  we gaze in wonder at the painted interior and the delicate stonework outside – the church is a gem nestled in the bustle of a city.  Bucharest used to be the “city of churches”, Radu explains – there was one church for each day of the year.

 

We walk back to the car through a park.  Everybody is outside to get some fresh air.  The intense heat wave of the past week has left hardly any patches of grass.  Dust is everywhere, dust and litter …

 

 

July 30, 2007

 

The Harbor for lunch …  the outdoor patio has a perimeter of nozzles that spray a fine mist every few minutes to cool things down.  Lunch is veal liver deglazed with balsamic vinegar and duck with cabbage cooked in fat:  both are delicious.

 

We have been twenty four hours in Bucharest.  Our impression so far … it’s hard for any city to leave a favourable impression in a sweltering heat wave.  The route from Villa 11 to the older part of the city passes through worn neighbourhoods;  well maintained buildings are outnumbered by their crumbling cousins.  Bucharest’s streets were never designed for parking; as recently as 20 years ago (prior to the revolution) there were hardly any cars on the streets.  Now everybody parks everywhere without restrictions, even on the sidewalks.

 

Our room at Villa 11 was brutally hot last night (we were debating comparisons with Agra, Athens, and Costa Rica).  The walls are paper-thin:  a group of French students who have been working in villages for a month returned in full spirits.  One of them leaned her backpack against our door (which doesn’t have a lock):  I pushed it shut for modesty’s sake;  it leaned against the door again:  “C’est occupé!” I insisted.  Off they went to the dormitory, the showers, the kitchen … there wasn’t a breathe of air;  the city sounded link an angry circus of car horns, howling dogs, crying babies and hyperactive students. 

 

Breakfast had a feeling of “sharp elbows” around the table this morning;  the place has the feel of a puppy mill.  Some of the younger kids staying here say it’s a lot better than what they saw in Bulgaria.

 

By the time the bikes are assembled Villa 11 is all but deserted.  As I’m putting away my tools the Villa’s daughter gives Emir a surreptitious kiss that sounds more than platonic – maybe there’s more than one reason to hang around. 

 

Radu brought us lamp oil for our cooking stove yesterday – Mary mistook it for water this morning and almost swallowed it. 

 

Our plan:  we have purchased train tickets for tomorrow.  We walked to Gare du Nord (a bit grim), found the right platform, and discussed our “onboarding” strategy.  I had my second chance to try my Romanian, this time with a pencil and paper for backup;  the ticket lady was very patient and helpful.  We will travel to Pitesti (“pee-tesht”), about 100 km west of Bucharest.  From there we will cycle to Curtea de Arges and then north over the Transfagaras Highway.  It is an aggressive concept (Radu: “The people at work said, ‘Are they crazy?’”). 

 

Outside the station I rummage through a sidewalk cooler for two bottles of non-carbonated water.  The vendor says, “Apa plata.”  I’m confused;  she repeats “apa plata” and points to the bottle – ahhh, “flat water”: my vocabulary has just increased.

 

Tomorrow the heat is supposed to break.

 

Grilled Café, evening … where to go for supper?  We are limited because of the walking distance to our room and we won’t risk a taxi … we finally settled on this place.  It has been long and hot walking the streets of Bucharest looking for a bookstore.  The one we finally found (“Humanitas”) we had walked past 3 times;  a very helpful clerk helped us find the tiniest English-Romanian dictionary they carry (we left ours home in the confusion of the packup).

 

We paid a serendipitous visit  to the Athenaeum, Bucharest’s beautiful concert hall; it has marble columns, spiral staircases, coffered ceilings – ver-ry elegant.  Unfortunately for us there are no concerts scheduled until September, so Mary had to sing at centre stage.

 

I just knocked over a waiter’s drink while handing a pen to Mary, who is sitting behind me at an internet laptop. 

 

We are sharing our table with two young women (or, they are sharing their table with us?)  What do they think of Romania joining the European Union?  One of the young women feels the integration will be positive: the setting of standards will ensure everyone will be treated the same, in time. 

 

She works as a freelance consultant  in the area of presentation coaching and “messaging”.  I suggest the president of Romania might use some presentation coaching.  A few weeks ago a journalist was trying to interview him with her cell phone – the president angrily grabbed it from her saying she would get it back on Monday; once in the car with his wife, he disparagingly talked down the journalist, calling her (among other things) a “gypsy” (factually and politically incorrect), unaware that the cell phone was still active.  The young woman said a lot of Romanians agreed with the president, that the journalist was being very aggressive and deserved what she got.

 

 

July 31, 2007

 

 

Last night I slept on the floor to try and keep things cool –  there was not a breath of air in the room.  “Villa 11” is fast becoming “Villain 11”.

 

We arrived at the train platform a half hour early – lo and behold, our train was there, and it was brand spanking new!  We asked a conductor about our bikes;   he looked at our tickets and waved us forward to the first class car:  no go, it had stairs to make life difficult.  Not a problem;  he walked us back to the second class cars where there was lots of room by the doors.  A young Dutch-Romanian couple sat across from us:  he was here to have dental work done (much cheaper than in Holland);  they were visiting her family. 

 

A couple of men tried to get off the train just as the doors were closing;  the conductor would not open the doors for them.  An argument ensued:  “You won’t be my friend anymore!”  The Romanian woman explained that these guys were probably going through the train with the intention of making a “snatch-and-grab” and then jumping off just as the train was leaving;  now they would have to get off at the next station and return to Bucharest.  The woman warns us against tipping small, friendly boys opening doors – they will be reconnoitring for their families a block away, noting how much money you have and where it is kept. 

 

From the moving train we see a small herd of cows.  When the young woman first went to Holland, she had been surprised that cows were left out at night – in Romania only the head would left in the morning, everything else having been slaughtered. 

 

People are digging potatoes in the field by hand – we are told they might earn one euro a day.

 

The Dutchman never utters a syllable when they take a taxi in Bucharest:  apparently there are two prices here – one for Romanians and one for tourists, and if he speaks they get charged the foreigners’ fare.

 

The tulip festival in Ottawa was mentioned: Holland sends over tulips each year in gratitude for Canadian hospitality during the second world war.  As we are leaving, the young woman opens her bag, tears open a bag of tulip bulbs, and offers us a handful as a present – we take two for luck.

 

Pitesti

 

Sitting at the outdoor courtyard of a local hotel for lunch after walking from the station ...  Pitesti train station is another world altogether – there is no platform to speak of, the concrete is crumbling, and grass is growing in the cracks:  Gare du Nord didn’t look half bad in comparison.  Lunch is omelette, beef stroganoff, salad, coffee, and ice cream – the “nota da plata” is 51 lei, or about $25 Canadian.   

 

We are about to reset the trip odometer and start pedalling – drum bun!

 

Curtea de Arges

 

Confarg Hotel – supper time …

 

We made it – our first day cycling in Romania!  We walked the rest of the way through Pitesti, probably about 10 km in total, just to avoid riding the city traffic.  The road took getting used to – the pavement is rough but we stayed close to the painted white line on the shoulder, occasionally running onto the shoulder when we heard a large truck overtaking us.  One honk means “warning”, two means “shoulder”, and three means “friendly”. 

 

We weren’t the slowest traffic on the highway – gypsies with horse-drawn carts idled along, as brown and dusty as anything we saw in India.  I didn’t have the nerve to stop for a photo – their eyes were as sharp as knives and did not invite close inspection.  

 

I notice that when people look at us, they focus a lot more on Mary than on me.  A group of village kids spied us and started coming down a side street, one with a stick in his hand; we accelerated and outpacde them.  By the time we reached the end of the village, they were coming at us again, except there were more of them.

 

So far wild dogs aren’t a problem – most just skulk away, but one or two bark and give chase. 

 

An old lady bent over double with osteoporosis and gathering firewood is a scene straight out of Dickens.  There is no soft-focus sentimentality here;  life must be as hard as nails for her.  According to the couple on the train, a pensioner receives perhaps 250 euros a month.  What’s worse, I wonder, having lots of money with nothing to buy, or lots to buy and no money?

 

I swear we asked for an ice cube – why is there a scoop of ice cream floating in Mary’s Campari?

 

 

August 1, 2007

 

Pensiunea Ruxi … writing on the veranda, debating what to wear, and watching wild dogs shelter from the rain.  Ruxi is immaculately clean, run by the most accommodating and pleasing of families.  Breakfast with “Brainiacs” is served at a table in front of the TV. 

 

The rain is far better that the heat wave of last week;  from the plane we had seen the scorched fields, and yesterday the streams we rode over were dry; even the Arges River was no more than a stagnant pool below a dam.

 

The monastery of Curtea de Arges lived up to its reputation.  Unfortunately it was covered with scaffolding, so we really could not appreciate the exuberant ornamentation of its exterior.  It was constructed in the early 1500’s under the direction of the architect Manole.  To keep him from repeating his masterpiece, his patron had the scaffolding removed while Manole was on the roof.  Legend has it that Manole fashioned a pair of wings from shingles and attempted (unsuccessfully) to glide down to earth;  a spring immediately flowed from the spot where he crashed (“Manole’s well”).  Fair is fair:  legend also has it that Manole bricked up his wife inside the walls in the belief that a ghost was necessary to keep the building from falling down.   

 

It is striking how much religion is a part of the everyday life of Romanians – we have seen it in the young men who pause on the sidewalk to cross themselves in front of a basilica, at the miniature roadside shrines, and in the devotion of the crowds at the monastery. 

 

Leaving the monastery we lit candles for those who were dear to us …

 

Aref

 

The road today was a steady climb in the rain – the surface was rough but traffic was considerate.

 

The nondescript village of Aref was our first encounter with Romania’s most infamous son.  It is impossible to visit or write about Romania, and specifically Transylvania, without mentioning Vlad Tepes (Vlad III, “the Impaler”).  To make only a passing reference to him and his most grotesque acts would be gratuitous;  the man and his times deserve more than that.  A summary appended to this report attempts to provide historical context to the man known as “Dracula”.

 

In the village we asked an old lady leading a cow down the street where we could find a camera;  she directed us up a steep, stony road to the “casa mare” or “big house” – halfway up we turned around (the road was more rock than stone);  out came the old lady, this time without the cow – she walked us up the hill;  “Geta! Geta!” she called – Geta appeared from the rear of the house;  was a room available, how much, etc. etc., all punctuated by mutual language misunderstandings and followed by a room inspection. 

 

Vasile and Geta fed us a late lunch of ciorba (sour soup), a plate of smoked sausage,  a tomato and cucumber salad, a plate of cakes, all with a shot of cerise liqueur (“Noroc!”) – it is hard to put in words this open-hearted welcome from people who live with a fraction of the amenities we think of as necessities.

 

We raced to Catetei Poienari (Castle Poienari) before the 5:00 pm closing time (per the Rough Guide).   The castle was one of the planned highlights of the trip.  When choosing a route, its draw was magnetic, and in time we realized this was a site we did not want to miss:  Catetei Poienari  is the castle of Vlad Tepes.

 

Poienari was built sometime around 1459, during Vlad Tepes’ second time in power.  He invited his boyars (nobles) to an Easter feast at his palace and arrested all of them on the spot.  The weak and feeble he impaled immediately;  the rest he marched to Aref.  From there they toiled building Poienari, carrying rubble to the top of this steep peak.  They worked until the clothes fell off their backs, and then they worked naked;  those who survived the ordeal were impaled.  At a stroke, Vlad had removed the hostile, entrenched nobility and replaced them with men loyal to himself.  He was also exacting revenge – these same boyars had killed his father and buried his oldest brother alive some ten years earlier.

 

By 1462, Turkish armies had pushed Vlad back to this stronghold.  The villagers of Aref helped him escape by shodding horses’ hooves backwards and accompanying him across the mountains.  (Some suggest the route was along the present-day Transfagaras highway, but I think this impossible;  it was more likely he went west across the mountains and then up the Olt river valley).  As a reward for their loyalty, Vlad awarded the village four mountains and a number of sheepfolds;  this was supposedly written on a rabbit skin.

 

The first wife of Vlad was not as lucky.  Legend has it that when she saw the fires of the Turkish army, she threw herself from the ramparts, declaring she would “rather have my flesh rot and be eaten by the fish of the Arges than be captured by the Turks.”  Now there’s a woman with spunk.

 

As to our own invasion, we raced up the 1,400  steps and found the place deserted.  There was no gate:  we were free to wander for as long as we wished.  The castle is situated on a steep peak around which the Arges River loops on three sides – it is a strong defensive position and is surprisingly small.  But the views – what views!  It is hard to imagine a more compelling setting for the true castle of “Dracula”.

 

(Aside:  it is interesting to note that a 1970 communist-era tourist guide describes Poienari as “known to the locals as the castle of Vlad Tepes”, whereas current descriptions are more definitive:  Poienari is the “true” castle of Vlad Tepes.  Is the recent certainty is because of scholarship or marketing?)

 

The best parts of a trip are the unexpected discoveries along the way …

 

Vasile cooked supper that night on an open fire in the back yard.  He gutted and cleaned the fish, spread a heavy layer of salt on a well-used pan and fried the fish on the bed salt, using his bare fingers on the red-hot cooking surface;  the crusted salt and skin was rinsed off in a pan of water.   While supper was being prepared Geta prepared peaches for canning and we got family trees sorted out;  Vasile chopped wood inside the chicken coop;  the pig scratched himself on the sty;  the sheep bleated. 

 

Conversation at supper was animated.  Our hosts ate with the thoroughness of people who have known hunger – our own plates were shameful in comparison.  Vasile is an excitable man who speaks and moves at double speed.  We discussed our route;  Vasile emphasized that the Olt River valley route was shorter;  I pointed out that it had a lot more traffic (“Da!” he said, “Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!”).  The Transfagaras highway is not a simple continuous incline;  Vasile drew an elevation profile that showed 10% grades at the start and 20% grades at the end. 

 

There were strange subject changes as a result of a total lack of understanding of each other’s language, but with such good-hearted and friendly hosts there was never any awkwardness or silence.  We spread my map sheet out on the dining table; Vasile attacked them with the enthusiasm of an old campaigner – he got more and more excited as he pieced together the sheets, extending the leaves of the table; Geta gazed longingly at the areas around Suceava in Bucovina – I doubt they had seen maps of Romania at such a detailed scale.

 

Tonight I suspect we sleep in their bed and they sleep on the pullout in front of the television.  Outside the nightly chorus of dogs is starting again.

 

August 2, 2007

 

Our first really good night’s sleep … It is a beautiful morning with roosters crowing and the sun rising on a pure blue sky.  When we first arrived yesterday we got a brief glimpse of “Gramps” (Vasile’s father?) – he was immediately shooed into his room and hasn’t been seen since.  His job is to stay out of the way.

 

All our food last night was home-grown, including the potatoes – delicious!  Breakfast is slices of smoked sausage, fried cheese, sliced tomato, and a bean salad (“good for stamina!”);  Vasile does the cooking – he is a retired provisions officer in the army.

 

The Transfagaras highway runs north from Aref straight up the heights of the Fagaras mountains, the highest range in Romania.  Its construction is one of the few mega-projects of Ceausescu that is not roundly criticized.  There are ironies in this:  the highway is open only half the year, and is not practical as a transportation conduit.  I expect criticisms of the project are muted by the sheer beauty of the drive:  the road can be breathtaking.

 

The impetus for the project came in 1968, after the invasion of Czechoslovakia by Russian troops to snuff out the “Prague Spring”.  Romania, alone among the Warsaw Pact countries, criticized the invasion.  Ceausescu feared a similar invasion;  Time magazine was asking its readers “Will Romania be next?”.  Radu was a kid on vacation at the time in Transylvania – his parents brought him back to Bucharest asap;  things were tense.  The Transfagaras was conceived as a way of moving troops urgently from the south into Transylvania.  Apparently the conditions under which it was built (by the army) bordered on appalling.

 

The highway climbs steeply past Poienari, then dips and climbs (but mostly climbs) among the trees along the shore of Lac Vidaru.  From the head of Lac Vidaru it starts an inexorable climb towards the tree line;  the gradient never eases and there are no downhills to ease tension on the legs.  There was no ego in our choice of gears – our objective was simply to survive.  If someone could have sold me a lower gear I would have bought it then and there.  Mary kept talking to help gauge her exertion level.

 

Above the tree line (always a high point) sheep were being herded to higher pastures – the shepherd played traffic cop to let cars weave through the herd.  Above us paragliders hung in mid-air like highflying kites.  The air turned chill, more and more cars honked encouragement; two unencumbered cyclists in full regalia came down in the other direction;  four bicycles passed us in our direction, but they were mounted on car racks.  Turning into the breeze on a switchback was almost a relief.

 

Mary’s rear derailleur would not shift onto her lowest gear.  The problem was one of adjustment – when I had replaced her crank arm during pack up, I hadn’t had a chance to fine tune the derailleur settings;  a “static” adjustment got her going.

 

At our final rest stop we splashed water over our heads at a waterfall to cool off.  A fellow came over to have his picture taken with us – he was plainly in admiration of us.  He held up the back end of Mary’s bike for me while I made adjustments.  He wanted to turn the upper limit screw;  I said no, “interior; ulterior” (pointing to the two limit screws);  I felt very proud of my linguistic and mechanical knowledge.   He and his girlfriend left and waited at a higher switchback and to take some “action” photos of our climb.

 

Splashing water may have been a mistake – the air got cooler with each meter we climbed and the sun dipped below the crest of the mountain.

 

The last five kilometres were the toughest.  Everything was slow motion by then – we had ridden more than 70 kilometres and had probably cumulatively climbed close to 2,000 meters.  The cars that passed us sounded as tired as we were.  At long last there was a building at the corner of a switchback – no, it wasn’t the tunnel, there was still another 300 meters left to ride.  There was no joy in those last meters.

 

The tunnel – it was cold and dark;  we walked out the far end into Transylvania, the “land beyond the forest”.

 

Balea Lac

 

We made it, but we could not have done more.

 

The rooms at Balea Lac are full but the dormitory has beds – tonight we sleep with 35 other souls, a first for us.  The mountain chill that gripped us in the tunnel never really let go until the warmth of a shower.

 

Vasile had a gorgeous photo of his first wife in a heroic pose on a rock outcrop with the Balea Lac lodge below;  he must have climbed hours for the vantage point  – I wish I had taken a copy of it.

 

To litter or not to litter, that is a discussion for another day …

 

 

August 3, 2007

 

Balea Lac cabana for breakfast … I’m glad the fat waiter isn’t serving us – he didn’t wash his hands in the washroom.

 

There’s no denying the universal appeal of Celine Dion – she was playing in our first taxi ride in Amsterdam and now she’s playing as breakfast accompaniment.

 

The paraglider we saw yesterday sought us out as we were leaving:  why did we decide to come to Romania?  It’s a question we get asked often, but he seemed to ask it with a negative edge such as, “Why in the world did you choose Romania?”

 

I have always wanted to ride the classic European switchbacks, and the north face of the Transfagaras is as classic as they come.  Seen from below, the switchbacks have more layers than an Italian wedding cake.  The descent was surprisingly taxing, braking and keeping a tight grip for control.  We stopped for photos and to look back “up there”, hardly believing where we had been there.  I doubt we could have done the climb from the north side:  we didn’t turn a pedal for 28 kilometres.

 

Late afternoon we met three Russian cyclists  –  they were planning to climb to the top that day but I don’t know how they could have made it:  the two fellows were incredibly skinny and the girl was bulging from every seam of her two-piece swimsuit.  Mind, they had already cycled from Russia …

 

Avrig

 

This is pork country:  supper tonight is roast pork Sibiu (chicken breast rolled with ham, deep fried and covered with cheese and mushrooms), pork with mushrooms (deep fried with mamaliga and coated with a tomato-mushroom sauce), roasted red pepper salad, gherkin salad, a bottle of Riesling, Ursus beer, and now the dessert menu …

 

Our motel is surprising:  the day has been hot but our room is cool, we are right by the highway yet it is quiet,  and our bikes have a room of their own.  We retire to our rooms with a cognac (Miorita) and (no) chocolate …

 

 

August 4, 2007

 

Morning on the veranda, the restaurant isn’t open yet, there’s mist in the foothills of the mountains and haze in the sky.

 

Four guys are leaning against a pickup truck having a beer before work; a guy in a black track suit with white stripes and a red suitcase is waiting on the roadside for the bus; two girls with backpacks who hitched a ride just got dropped off; wild dogs are milling around, the bitch looking for food and her pup excitably following; a techno beat is pulsing out from the patio of the roadside bar … “cabanos” – we can’t find it in the dictionary but it’s on the menu between chicken livers and pork brains. 

 

There are about a dozen German bikers staying at the motel.  They are here for some serious off-road riding;  their machines are a comic contrast to our own bikes.

 

A truck is backing  into the parking lot with a load of flitch cuts of wood.  The guys in the pickup truck have a carboy of gasoline – their job is to refill the truck by siphoning gas from the carboy;  the guy on top smoking a cigarette is about to open the carboy – they are close enough to cause serious damage …

 

From Avrig we chose to avoid the main highway and went “cross country” to Cornatel, and cross country it was – the track would have been suitable for a tractor or a cow or a horse-drawn wagon (all of which we saw), and it was even manageable by bicycle (thank heavens it was not raining), but a car could not have had much suspension left after the 6 kilometres.  We probably got our best photos so far. 

 

The cowherd and his family got up from the shade of their tree as we approached;  “pot fotographie?” (“can I take your picture?”) – they smile and pose;  as we leave he asks if we would like some vin – his wife digs deep down in a plastic shopping bag to produce a bottle of at least two litres. 

 

A shepherd sitting on the hilltop came down with his dog – he has five of them;  we passed a boyfriend, girlfriend and her daughter on a bike;  two boys were driving a horse drawn wagon (Mary gave them chocolate);  there was the gypsy woman in Cornatel …

 

Mary’s hand is bothering her (it has never properly healed after her fall in Germany) …

 

From Cornatel to Sibiu was mostly a climb and all into the wind.  We are unaccustomed to paying this much attention to oncoming traffic – drivers use the centre line on blind curves as a centre guide for their cars.  We were halfway into Sibiu when the rain started – by the time we arrived the leather in my gloves was disintegrating.

 

Sibiu

 

Restaurant of Imparatul Romanilor … Vinul Cavalurului Pinot Noir 2006: this is the best Romanian wine we have tasted yet …

 

Our hotel is excellent, with prices accordingly.  The restaurant (where we are now seated) is the most ornate dining room we have been in years.  Pork brains are rather delicate.

 

Smoking is the most common vice of Romanians – young teenagers lounge languidly taking big exaggerated drags and try to look sophisticated while their parents stand around chatting with neighbours – it’s just the way it is.

 

 

August 5, 2007

 

The mic dejun (breakfast) dining room of the Imparatul Romanilor hotel:  more curly-cue wooden chairs painted white with blue plush upholstery, linen table clothes and chandeliers – this style of living could become quite acceptable …  An older breakfast patron dressed in a jacket and tie walks over to the stereo and mercifully turns down the volume completely (Celine Dion: theme song of Titanic);  a few minutes later a waiter turns it back up;  the patron walks over and turns it down again – the waiter is going to win.

 

Yesterday was sopping wet – Mary bought the smallest umbrella she could find.  We climbed to the top of the steeple of the Evangelical church, the tallest in Sibiu.  Two girls were attending – they were 17 and 18 years old, i.e. born just at the time of the revolution.  What was their opinion of it?  A giggle, a laugh, a shrug of the shoulders:  “Good, I guess.”  They of course never knew communism, but according to their parents the revolution has been good:  “Everyone had lots of money but there was nothing to buy.”  What about the European Union?  “We don’t know yet;  everyone says it will make us better off but it hasn’t done anything yet – it is too early to say.”  I asked what their ethnic origin was:  German, Hungarian, Szekely?  The older, dark-haired one replied “Roma”.  I should have pursued this:  did she mean “Roma” as in Romanian, or “Rroma” as in gypsy?  It may be worth a trip back to clarify …

 

Sibiu is Europe’s “Capital of Culture” this year.  Last night’s culture was a very loud Euro-techno beat concert in Piata Mare – a couple of husky, young, tight-clad, bleach-blond women were looking for a party on the far street corner during a break in the rain – I closed the window to get some sleep …

 

 

August 6, 2007

 

Breakfast in the hotel dining room .. today we roll – it’s a tossup whether the pavement will be wet or dry …

 

Walking past the Evangelical church yesterday en route to the market we saw our young girls standing at the entrance to the steeple.  I had my chance to ask my question:  was she “Roma” as in Romanian or “Rroma” as in gypsy?  Her eyes widened in shock at the suggestion of being a gypsy.

 

Sibiu was the focus of an uproar in 2003 when Florin Cioaba, a self-styled “king” of the Roma or gypsies, married off his 12 year-old daughter Ana-Maria.  She stormed out of the ceremony declaring she wanted nothing to do with it.  Romania was negotiating entry into the European Union at the time and the incident focused international attention on the protection of human rights in Romania;  Ana-Maria became an overnight cause celebre.  Florin Cioaba defended his decision to marry off his daughter – after all, who else would know better what was good for his daughter than her father?  The fact that the marriage had been pre-arranged five years earlier in exchange for 500 gold coins, an apartment and a second-hand car was a minor detail.  Ultimately Ana-Maria changed her mind and married 2 days later;  the following morning the family of the bridegroom proudly displayed the wedding sheets to prove the marriage had been consummated. 

 

What became of Ana-Maria, I wondered?  By tradition, she would have joined the household of her husband, helped with the cooking and cleaning, and borne children as and when required.  The girls however were circumspect:  there had been various radio reports but nobody really knew what had happened to her.

 

We saw the Passage of Stairs, the market, the Liar’s bridge – all standard fare of gorgeous lines and peeling paint.  The Brukenthal Museum was worth a couple of hours – the paintings of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had darkened (because of varnish?) whereas earlier works were incredibly vibrant and detailed;  the Brughel paintings were outstanding (it’s the first time I have seen a real one).

 

We made our way to Pivnita se Vinuri “Weinkeller” for supper – the rooms were tiny, made of flat red brick with vaulted ceilings and low arches;  it is the first dining room that had a feeling of intimacy and the best selection of Romanian wines we have discovered so far:  an expensive (by Romanian standards) Prince Stirby cabernet sauvignon was the first we have tasted that comes close to international standards.  It has the herbs and earth of a cabernet, although the aroma and finish were unexceptional.  Food is extremely good value here (my Transylvanian stew was excellent) – our food total (excluding wine) was 42 lei (about $20), including a dessert that combined the best qualities of a donut, a beavertail, and an éclair.

 

Agnita

 

A good day of cross-country riding although the wind came up and strengthened against us in the afternoon. 

 

A German cycling couple we met on our way out of Sibiu were just finishing their bike trip and gave us their cycling map of Romania.  It was of course published in Germany and had colour-coded routes for both touring and cross-country riding.

 

Literally dozens of horse-drawn carts passed us in the other direction all the way to Nocrich, where there appeared to be af market or fair underway.  A brightly dressed gypsy family was walking along the street – “pot fotographie?´I asked the husband.  The wife immediately demanded money (starting at 50 euros!);  by the time she was finished with me I had been talked out of all our chocolate and never did get a photo – next time Mary will handle negotiations. 

 

In Altina Mary outran a pack of dogs, blowing hard on her whistle all the way;  a group of Slovenian cyclists had earlier forewarned us about them – one of the women had a substantial dressing on her leg as proof of their encounter.  Apparently a Japanese tourist was killed in Bucharest last week by a dog that bit a vital artery in her thigh. 

 

Our hotel is straight out of the communist era – concrete, drab, with 18 steps to climb just to reach the entrance.  When we arrived the receptionist was sitting on the front balcony with her small son – there’s not much demand for rooms in Agnita.  She wanted to keep my passport but I refused – it was too much trouble for her to copy down the information on the standard form. 

 

The shower head in our room is multi-directional:  a cracked O-ring ensures water sprays in a 360 degree arc.  We don’t know yet if we have hot water.

 

The hotel was likely a result of Ceausescu