Trip Report – Romania 2007

August 20, 2007 to August 26, 2007 (Page 4)

© Mary Deorksen updated October 2007 (email contact)

August 20, 2007

Café breakfast … we’re trying for a four-minute boiled egg this morning.

The wedding reception at the hotel went on until four in the morning (ask us how we know). The hotel itself was very good, very modern, very clean – why then was I slapping myself throughout the night?

It’s a beautiful, bright day to make distance and my stomach is fine – I’m suspecting the two raw hot peppers that were served with the ciorba the night before at Casa Buburuzan.

Our waiter (the same as last night) is very helpful and enthusiastic. When we told him we are Canadian he immediately mentioned the Montreal Olympics and the young Romanian gymnast who received perfect 10’s.

He just came out to confirm “Nu trei minut, nu cinci minut – patru!” (“not three minutes, not five minutes – four!”). We like this guy. The restaurant is out of butter – I run next door to the alimentare to buy a half pound for our eggs. It is 65% butterfat, whereas the butter packets in some restaurants has been 85% - in Canada the percentage is not on the label.

Soft boiled eggs, toast, butter, jam, coffee – “cum casa de mai mama” or something like that (“just like Mom’s”). The first cup of coffee (“Romanian”) is far better than the second (“American”). Our waiter starts playing Henry Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle: the “O” is harder in doamna than in domnul – a couple of weeks with him and I might become intelligible!

“Heidi” brand chocolate is excellent. We got some last night at one of the few modern grocery stores we have seen. Usually groceries are carried in small, one-room stores with basic but limited selections. It is a pleasure to walk into a well-lit store with aisles – it is a first reminder of home.

It’s time to brush the teeth and hit the road; the other patrons are having their morning beer and cigarette before heading off to start their work week.

Piatru Neamt

Lunch in a beer garden: small grilled sausages and french fries washed down with good Romanian beer (all Romanian beer is good; my preferences are Ursus, Silva, and then Ciuc). It is a hot day in which we rode 10 km farther than we should have before a lunch break, and we still have 30 km to go.

At Cracaoni we stopped at the top of a long climb for a drink in the shade of a tree; I insisted on putting sun lotion on Mary (“I don’t need it”; “Yes you do”; “I hate the stuff”; “I don’t care, I’m putting some on”; etc); a woman was listening across the fence and laughing silently – she understood our conversation perfectly without having a word of English.

A few meters down the road we bought some warm water from a warm fridge. An older gentleman beetled over to start a conversation - he was a mechanical engineer and had spent a month at Seneca College (“Seneca University”) in Toronto. To what purpose I’m not sure since he spoke only Romanian and Russian - he was probably a good party supporter under the communist regime, but nobody will ever know that for certain. Why will we never know? Because of a building in Bucharest.

The story goes like this.

Romania’s revolution was the last and most dramatic among the fall of the communist regimes in 1989. It was sparked in Timisoara when crowds gathered to prevent the internal exile of a Reformat pastor, Laszlo Tokes (he was an outspoken critic of many of Ceausescu’s policies). Octavian, a young friend of ours, was in the square in Timisoara that night. He was five years old and returning from a weekend with his parents; there were red flares in the air – he asked his mother what they were. The family hurried home, out of the action.

The climax of the revolution came a few days later in Bucharest when Ceausescu gave a speech televised live from the balcony of the Communist Party Headquarters; eight minutes into the speech the crowds started to chant “Ti-mi-soar-a!”. Ceausescu faltered, unsure of what to do, and before the broadcast could be terminated the entire country knew his days were numbered. He and his (apparently despicable) wife fled Bucharest, were eventually captured in Targoviste, tried before a kangaroo court, and summarily shot on Christmas Day, 1989. (The details of the politics behind the revolution are murky: the roles of the army, the communist party, Hungary, Russia, and America are all speculative.)

But the real point of this story is an incongruous building across the street from where Ceausescu gave his speech; when you sit in Piata Revolutiei facing the former Communist Party Headquarters, it is to the left. You will immediately recognize it as an architectural oxymoron: it has an old-world, two story brick façade with an ugly new glass curtain-wall building rising from within it.

At the time of the revolution the building was intact. A few nights after Ceausescu’s execution, a fire mysteriously consumed the entire contents before help could arrive - it was where the secret files of informers were stored. The result is a collective and often convenient amnesia of those who had been co-opted by the communist secret police.

Is this good or bad? Purists will argue that a “truth and reconciliation” process is needed to purge demons of the past, that former collaborators should not benefit under the new democracy. On the other, there are estimates that perhaps one-in-four citizens had been compromised by the regime; publicly exposing the extent of such collaboration would be wrenching. Poland was going through this exact process during our trip: siblings, spouses and best-of-friends discovered that those whom they had trusted had in fact betrayed them. I pass no judgement here – we all do what we must.

In any case, our mechanical engineer’s secrets (if any) are safely beyond scrutiny, and it was time to start the last run of the day to Bicaz.

Bicaz

Late afternoon in the pension next to the train station – we have been told by locals that Hotel Bicaz is closed, but the pension is more than adequate. Our laundry is strung on a line at the front of the balcony (we’re in keeping with the rest of the country). The road from Piatra Neamt to Bicaz is almost awful – the surface is pebbly asphalt and traffic is heavy. The road was rough on the tires, the bikes, and everything on the bikes – by the time we arrived we were well shaken.

The pension owner speaks excellent English. She says they basically have two-and-a-half months of business during summer and then two weeks at Christmas – otherwise it’s local dining and the occasional party.

In Moldavia we saw the first fair- and red-headed Romanians on our trip; in Voronet monastery, the depiction of Stephen the Great shows him as red-headed, so there must be some long-standing genetic influences here.

August 21, 2007

Waiting for breakfast in Bicaz – the staff are all sitting in the back room smoking cigarettes and having their morning gabfest – ah, there’s the sound of the espresso machine!

Clouds covered the hills this morning when we woke – that’s not good news since we have to climb another pass today, not as high as Prislop, but high enough at 1,200 meters for cold to be a factor.

We are getting tired of seeing the same menu day after day: the same 5 soups, the same 7 grilled meats, the same accompaniments, the same desserts (of which only ice cream is available) – the menus may as well have been literally photocopied from one place to the next. Mind you, what do you see on every Canadian small town restaurant menu? Hamburger, hot dog, french fires, club sandwich (and cod-tongues in Newfoundland). Last night’s supper started with ciorba de burta (tripe soup), which was a pleasant surprise; ironically the tripe comes frozen from America – it’s too much trouble to clean properly when home butchered.

Yesterday we passed a road crew cleaning up some roadside rubbish – they had put together a small pile and were burning it, plastic bottles and all.

Lacu Rosu

Late lunch at a good restaurant – we actually had to think when we saw the menu.

When leaving this morning I was looking for a place to buy postcards and cruised through about a meter of badly broken glass (Mary saw it from behind). We cruised at a casual pace, enjoying the morning air. A young man walking on the shoulder started to jog alongside; we chatted for a bit and then started to accelerate – he kept pace. “Forte! ” I said (“strong”) and he nodded; at 17 km/hr he was breathing heavily; at 20 km/hr he dropped off.

It was a good road. We left yesterday’s pebbled surface behind and stopped for a photo-op at our first sight of sheer limestone cliffs. After a few shots we pulled away to a blow-out – my rear tire was done in. A roadside repair: find the hole in the tire, examine it for glass shards, patch it with a couple of strips of duct tape, replace the inner tube (note to self: patch later), roll again … no doubt the glass chards were the cause of my failure.

The Cheile Bicazulu (Bicaz gorge) is rightly acclaimed as a world wonder; in places (the Neck of Hell) the gorge is so narrow that the road has been undercut into the limestone cliffs. The effect is dramatic – as high as you look on either side there are sheer limestone cliffs hundreds of meters overhead.

Pedalling was fine until we started the climb out of the gorge and hit the switchbacks – the grade in the centre of the road might have been manageable, but on the inside edges where we had to ride (very heavy traffic in both directions) the grade on the right-hand turns was 30% or I’ll eat my shirt. I managed to pedal one of these monsters standing up but we walked up the rest of them – the morning’s boiled eggs were long gone. While walking, Mary noticed a nicely groomed lady driving a Passat casually open her car window and throw out a small bag of garbage: to litter or not to litter …

Lunch was fabulous – I think they have a real chef here. It’s interesting to see a different class of Romanian clientele – these folks are very cosmopolitan and would be comfortable in any high end restaurant anywhere.

I’m keeping a good eye on certain delicate items drying on my pannier to make sure no one steals them …

Gheorgheni

The ride up the pass form Lacu Rosu was a good, steady, slow climb, the kind where you ask yourself “Am I enjoying myself? Is this why I work for 12 months of the year?” and to which you reply “Yes!”

We sat at the top of the pass and gazed down, one valley drawing the eye to the next and beyond to the city of Gheorgheni, golden in the setting sun (“We followed his gaze and we thought / That maybe we saw / A spire of gold!”), and beyond that to a range of mountains as a distant backdrop; the horses in the meadow, the lady selling honey at a stand - I must be getting accustomed to Romania: our first week I would have taken a photo of her eating supper standing outside her makeshift lean-to, and by now it seems commonplace.

The descent was slow and beautiful through evergreen hills in the evening sun. We have enjoyed seeing how Romanian families drive to the country and picnic together; now if only they wouldn’t litter.

I have a theory about the roads: whenever we hit a city the roads deteriorate: Borsa and Gara Humorului both had concrete slabs that were pitted with age (our most-hated surface); Targu Neamt had gravel pebbles washed over the surface; in Gheorgheni the asphalt layers are worn into potholes up to 8 inches deep; city bridges have deep tire ruts (relatively smooth) and edges that roll like the ocean; in some cities the manhole covers have become sink holes. My theory is that road maintenance is a municipal responsibility, and the cities don’t spend their budget on roads.

Hotel Mures dining room: soup, salad, and fruit salad for dessert – I’m stuffed and I haven’t even had an entrée. We were actually looking for Hotel Szilagyi (per: the Rough Guide) when we rolled into town, but two middle-aged citizens re-directed us to Hotel Rubin (which was full), and now to Hotel Mures (over-priced but adequate).

My water bottle is shameful; I brought it up to the room to clean – the algae peeled off in slabs.

August 22, 2007

Hotel Mures, waiting for breakfast …

When entering the “Neck of Hell” yesterday we were held up by construction – a worker at the roadside spoke no Romanian, only Hungarian; it was a reminder that we were heading back into Transylvania, into Szekely land which was a stronghold of Hungarian culture and sentiment.

Present-day Romania did not exist as a national entity until after the first world war when the Austro-Hungarian empire was broken up. For centuries Transylvania was a Hungarian province. Strong ethnic prejudices were at play: as of 1540 (after a peasant’s revolt) ethnic Romanians were not even considered “people” – they were merely tolerated by the Magyars, Germans and Szekelies. These ethnic tensions are still present; apparently there has been a noticeable diminishment of both Hungarian and German culture in recent years.

Our breakfast was spent conversing with a French/German group of 4 touring by car. Their top three pet peeves: piped-in music in restaurants (I hate Euro-techno-dance music!) , poor signage on the roads, and no smiles in the service industry.

Road signage has not been a problem for us, but street signs have been difficult. Streets are oftene named after individuals using both first and last names – Romanian names are not short, and as a result the lettering has been next to impossible to read.

Miercurea-Ciuc

Evening , supper in the Fenyo Hotel … sometimes when someone is trying to send a message, you have to listen …

The morning started with a perfect ride – a slight downhill grade, moderate traffic, an asphalt surface laid over the original concrete highway (except the asphalt was laid about 12 inches short of the edge of the concrete, which made for a narrow road). After 10 km we started a gradual climb, and kept climbing with an impromptu stop at the Izvoru monastery. We both thought we had seen enough of monasteries, but this setting is so tranquil amidst the low mountains and without masses of tourists we could have stayed here quite happily (no, there is no accomodation).

We climbed a bit more to the village of Izvoru Muresului (where there is lots of accommodation) when, surprise! we started a long downhill coast: we were over the pass of the day just when we were psychologically preparing ourselves for a tough climb. It was a disappointment – we were looking forward to our last climb.

The villages on the other side of the pass had no places to stop for a bite to eat so we just kept riding – that was okay, we were within 20 km of Miercurea-Ciuc and making good time.

Fs-st, fs-st, fs-st – this is not a good sound, and my rear tire was making it. The tire was flat, with a puncture in the same spot as yesterday – the rip in my tire had worsened, no doubt aggravated by the washboard surface of the road. We changed the flat under the mid-day sun, and this time applied three layers of duct tape inside and two layers outside (I should have bought the good, heavy-duty version), and then limped the last leg into town. More than the tire was deflated – our spirits were deflated; there is no way we can risk a final 100 km run to Brasov tomorrow with a faulty tire … it has been over 1,000 km of the toughest riding we have ever done, and it would have been good to go out with a bang instead of a whimper, but it’s been fun, Sweetie, and we have seen things we never imagined along the way …

After supper we returned to out 6^th floor room to settle in. There was not much to do except watch some kids throwing snowballs 6 floors below behind a stadium where they just cleaned the rink (Miercurea-Ciuc apparently has a very good hockey team). “Would you like to go out for a walk?”

In the park opposite the hotel we sat on a bench watching the late evening strollers: young lovers, old friends, ancient couples, pre-pubescent girls practicing looking sexy; and then walked further to the pedestrian promenade where we found a patio table with only street noise to contemplate Romania under a first-quarter moon.

“How would you rate Romania?” Germany was the gold standard. A rating of six out of ten was our common assessment – we were not in a generous frame of mind. The rating was not entirely fair: cities, restaurants and accomodations were on our mind at the time; some aspects of the infrastructure were excellent (financials and cell phone coverage); people, countryside and scenery approached nine out of ten; and the ride itself was exactly what we had come for – we had come to Romania for a challenge and it did not let us down. In that sense, the overall experience was a ten out of ten.

We decided the highlights were the pensions and home stays, and the Sunday morning service at Botiza. Shortcomings: as Mary says, the service industry lacks quaintness, – all the dining rooms look like banquet halls: they are missing the touch of intimacy that transforms the common to the special.

Of course, Romania today is only part of the picture; to have context it is important to recognize what it has come from.

Dacias: Dacias are a good analogy for Romania. They are still the most common cars on the road. These communist-era cars are “cheap to buy but expensive to run” in the words of the kids at Villa 11 in Bucharest. The kids keep a sharp eye out when walking to school for tools left on the street by Dacia owners working on their cars the night before. When a Dacia starts to move you’re never sure which car part you are going to hear. It was not uncommon to pass a family slouched inside a Dacia with Father under the hood, the cover of the carburetor removed and a cracked distributor cap in his hand; the bored passengers always looked away from the road. I’m sure Dacias trunks hold the equivalent of a spare parts catalogue.

New Dacia models, on the other hand, are a shining contrast – they are smart, reliable, efficient, and affordable. They were originally intended to be marketed to emerging markets (i.e. third world), but have proved a runaway hit at home.

Unfortunately, old Dacias do not simply transform themselves into new Dacias; so it is with the rest of the country: the often-neglected cannot simply reinvent itself as the brand-new.

As our middle-aged cyclist in Gara Humorului said, Romania is a country in transition, and transitions take time.

August 23, 2007

Hotel Fenyo breakfast room: my third coffee and I’m about to put in my second toast …

The change to Hungarian in this part of Transylvania is as abrupt as the change to French in Quebec – we are almost at a loss for language: Romanian is now the fallback language rather than English or French.

Restaurant San Gennaro for lunch … we are back on the pedestrian promenade having a late morning snack while waiting for the train. Tickets don’t go on sale until noon and the train doesn’t leave until 1:30; I asked for tickets for two people (no problem) and two bicycles (roll of the eyes: “ask the conductor”) – we shall just have to see what is involved with getting our bicycles to Brasov. The price of two second class tickets is about 36 lei; two first class tickets are about 200 lei – I think the ticket agent just doesn’t want to be bothered …

Fs-st, fs-st, fs-st – riding from the restaurant to the train station I knew my tire wouldn’t last so we walked the bikes instead. We purchased two second class tickets and waited for the Brasov train. “Biceclete?” I asked the conductor when the train pulled in; he motioned me to the last car; “Biceclete?” I asked conductor number 2 – he looked, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and I nodded (we later settled for the grand sum of 10 lei). We didn’t even have to lash the bikes to the luggage racks – we could stand them behind the last seats on the train.

A French family on the train had been driving through Romania for 12 days; they found traffic horrendous, with drivers taking ludicrous chances. I expect it may be safer on a bicycle for a foreigner than driving a car – Romanian drivers work in inches, and on a bike you can run onto the shoulder.

Touring Romania by car would be a completely different experience from cycling. In a car one would have mostly aggravations with limited attractions in towns and cities for compensation. On a bike one can enjoy the best parts of the country with minor inconveniences in urban centres – we vote for biking in Romania.

Brasov

Hotel Coroana: luxury or character, luxury or character, that was the decision; in the end … well, we have to get to the end first …

The walk from Brasov station to the centre of town seemed to go on forever even though it was less than 3 km (maybe the temperature of 37 degrees had something to do with it) . We stopped along the way and wolfed down some takeout Chinese food (unexpectedly, it was really good).

Then came the decision that Mary had been debating ever since Humor: do we go to the luxury Capitol (where we had a reservation) or to the Coroana, “the only place in town with real character” per the Rough Guide? It’s important to have standards, and it’s equally important to know when standards are adaptable. In the end we avoided the utterly predictable Capital and went for character. When I called the Capital to cancel our reservation, they didn’t have it anyway.

It’s time for sleep – we are both very tired.

August 24, 2007

Aro Palace hotel for breakfast … the Rough Guide suggests that sitting in the restaurant of our hotel (the Coroana) and watching the pedestrian traffic is a highlight of Brasov, but the window section of the old restaurant has been let out as store fronts and the modified dining room is now merely dingy.

We slept well last night – there were no dogs, no motor traffic, no Euro-techno-dance music, no roosters. The room is very comfortable – ceilings are at least 12 feet high, the furniture is wood (1950’s style), the bathroom is so large it echoes when you speak, and everything is faded, worn, and spotlessly clean.

When planning the trip, Brasov was our lowest priority among the “golden triangle” of Sibiu-Sighisoara-Brasov. It has become a pleasant finale. It is clean and modern; sitting on the Str. Republicii last night we could have been in Amsterdam or any German city.

Our criteria for choosing a restaurant had been simple: we wanted comfortable chairs and no techno music. We ordered a big pitcher of lemonade that hit the spot perfectly.

Mid-morning at the Vatra Ardealului pastry shop … the Rough Guide claims this place has the creamiest cakes in town, and there is only one way to find out.

I wandered into a church off the main square this morning – it was unusual in that the church itself was constructed at the back of a courtyard rather than directly on the square; also, the mural over the portal was a mosaic rather than a painting. Inside, a group of three women were kneeling before the priest; he wore purple robes and had draped a purple cloth over their heads. They bowed their heads while he prayed over them, presumably asking for some kind of blessing – it was not a moment for photos; I stood to the side as a silent witness. At the prayer’s conclusion the women each kissed the cloth and retired; the priest turned to a young couple standing at the side and motioned them behind the screened altar – they were just kids, really.

The Orthodox church appears to have much more ritual than the Catholic.

Hotel Coroana, late afternoon … Mary was right about this room – it is a blistering day and the room is big enough to come back to, relax, lie down for a nap and keep cool.

The Black Church is not particularly spectacular, but the Anatolian carpets inside are very good specimens; a security guard evicted a middle-aged woman who was surreptitiously taking photos, shouting “Out! Out! Out!”

A climb up the trail above the Black Tower gave a fine view from above of the old city and the concrete suburbs beyond. After a lunch rendezvous we decided Vatra Ardealului’s reputation might need a second confirmation. Arrangements were made in Bucharest and Ottawa for our return – now if only we can get our bikes on the train tomorrow …

Mary had an interesting observation: people find comfort in religion in times of adversity – perhaps the intensity of Romanian’s religious belief is a result of the centuries of suffering under foreign and domestic powers; will adherence waver with the coming of affluence as it has in western Europe?

Evening …

Our plan was to ride the gondola before supper to the top of the mountain overlooking Brasov, but we arrived 15 minutes after the last departure of 6:30 pm (the times in the Rough Guide are incorrect). Walking to the restaurant, we passed on old lady sitting on a doorstep with a handful of bouquets; you couldn’t really call them bouquets, they were miniature arrangements of tiny flowers wrapped with evergreen sprigs, all not much larger than your finger. She had been there all day and had not sold a thing; I took her photo and bought an arrangement – I wish I had paid her more money …

August 25, 2007

Aro Palace restaurant for breakfast, under time constraints to make it to the train station: we’re on the rollout.

We found our best restaurant yet last night: Restaurant-Café Faberge, located in a tiny square off Piata Stratului. The menu was inspired, the food preparation excellent (I would have preferred my duck pink, but that was a matter of ordering), and the wines worthy – both were from the Prahova valley (Podoga region?), served properly. These wines had the balance of flavour and acidity that are the foundation of a very good product: the sauvignon blanc was by Serve and the featesca neagra a 1999 special reserve by Halewood.

Our experience is that Romanian wines have at best been common and often poorly served; the predominant style of wine is semi-sweet, without the subtleties of bouquet, flavour and finish that make one sit up and take notice. In 1985, Hugh Johnson wrote: “Of the expanding wine country of the Black Sea and the Balkans, Romania might be thought to have the greatest potential for quality.” Last night we glimpsed what that potential might be; overall there is still much opportunity for improvement.

August 26, 2007

It has been an interesting 24 hours ...

Boarding the train in Brasov was our most exciting boarding yet. On the platform the conductor was explicit: “Nu biceclete!”; consternation was closely followed by the onset of panic. There was a random suggestion to try the first car on the train – we ran down the platform with the panniers; two men grabbed the bikes and raced behind us (I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure they weren’t absconding). We stuffed the bikes on the train, the panniers on the train, ourselves on the train, and the train started rolling. All that remained were the “formalities” with the conductor – assuming he didn’t kick us off at the next station.

I realize now that the main issue regarding bikes on Romanian trains is very simple: the trains have no luggage cars and no bicycle cars; the only place to put a bike is in the entrance of the passenger cars which blocks movement between them – hence, always try to get a bike in the front most or rearmost car of the train.

In our case the bikes were definitely blocking the passageway between cars. Before the conductor showed up I made an executive decision: I loosened the handlebars, turned them sideways, stood the bikes up vertically, and manoeuvred them both into the second class washroom – only the seat of my bike was sticking out. The conductor actually looked quite pleased with the arrangement. “Cat cost?” I asked; the conductor went through his pencil-and-paper luggage calculation: 40 lei. I didn’t have enough tens, so I passed him a 50. Too much! we settled for 20 lei.

The Brasov-to-Bucharest route runs down the Prahova valley and onto the plains of Wallachia. Brasov had been hot: down here it was a furnace. We passed mile after mile of fields of scorched corn where every stalk was yellow and parched; the trees were so dusty they looked like they were wearing camouflage. Once again villages had an appearance of lethargic neglect. There is no joy for the villagers of Wallachia this year – it has been ravaged by the same weather system that turned Greece into a tinder box.

Bucharest train station actually looked good when we returned – it hadn’t changed, but we had.

Back at Villa 11, I was thankfully able to disassemble the bikes inside – the courtyard outside was broiling. I brought our luggage up to what I assumed was our room (the same as earlier) and found it locked. Locked! Obviously there have been some changes – there were now locks on the doors.

Dinner was close to the Athenaeum with Radu, Mihaela and Anna; we discussed the trip, the adventures, the impressions. Mihaela asks, “Will you come back to Romania?” We weren’t expecting that one … whenever we ride, we always say to each other, “We aren’t coming back this way again.” But then there is always Jeroen’s phrase, “this fickle mistress that is Romania.” Will we come back to Romania? It is a good question …

Our room in Villa 11 was a garret on the third floor, the hottest part of the house; it was so small we could barely turn around. If Bucharest was an furnace, the room was an oven and the air as still as a tomb; it was impossible to sleep. By 2:30 Mary had to get out – we went down to the street and walked half a block. Four guys in a Dacia with no shirts slowed into a rolling stop at an intersection and looked us over. “I’m not sure how safe this is” …

By 5:00 am our bikes and luggage were loaded in Stefan’s van for the trip to the airport. Stefan turned the ignition key: click-click-click. He opened the hood and pried the covers off of the battery cells: “The battery is dry,” he said and disappeared into the house. An aging neighbour shuffled laboriously down the street; she stopped opposite the van and turned to face it square on: “People should be sleeping at this hour and not fixing cars on the street!” (in Romanian) – we wholeheartedly agreed. Stefan returned with some battery fluid (why does he keep battery fluid in his house?) to administer to the parched cells; click-click-click. “I had not counted on this.” Our flight time was approaching. “Stefan, should we be calling maxi-taxi?” The neighbour’s harangue of invective increased. “What time is your flight?” I told him. “Be patient,” he said with the weary confidence of a man who knows his vehicle’s every failing, and ran down the street, through the halo of the street lights, and into the darkness beyond …

Lufthansa flight 3425

Homeward bound …

Epilogue

Friday night on the way to the cottage. It has been a month since we've been back. Mary tells of a radio filler she heard on FM 89.9 in Ottawa. Apparently there were reported sightings of Superman in Romania. The announcers have their fun and launch into a Romania theme. The tone turns nasty: "I mean, would you want to go to Romania?" The prattle is mean, insulting, and ignorant; it has no wit or intelligence. These people obviously know nothing of Romania or its people - I wager they can't place a pin within a thousand kilometers of it on a map. They stop just short of regulatory censure. To hear this almost makes one ashamed of being Canadian.

Freedom of thought is not a "right", it is a fact. A human being cannot be stopped from thinking - thinking defines us as what we are. Regimes that suppress freedom of expression also suppress freedom of thought. To survive under such a regime, does one train oneself not to think? Certainly there are Romanians who are incredulous, and whose worldly knowledge hasn't benefited from technology. But in all our travels we were never once subjected to ridicule or derision no matter how ridiculous our outfits were or how poor our language. "This fickle mistress that is Romania" deserves better.

Besides, the Superman sighting was real - we saw him: he was flying over the Fagaras mountains when we were climbing towards Balea Lac. We thought he was a paraglider, but the sheppard, the one who played traffic cop with the sheep, he knew better - I'll bet he was the one who reported the sighting.

"Would you want to go to Romania?" For the record, the answer is "yes", and if ever our travels take us there again we will look forward to it with unbounded delight.

Acknowledgements and Addendum