Trip Report – Romania 2007 July 27, 2007 to August 5, 2007 (Page 1) © Mary Deorksen updated September 2007 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’s “Systemization” program, under which entire neighbourhoods were evicted and everything bulldozed. New concrete apartment blocks were erected, and former house owners became tenants of the state. “Systemization” was universally despised; even Ceausescu’s son defied orders to raze neighbourhoods. Apparently one of the sparks that ignited the 1989 revolution was the order to “systemize” some of the ancient Hungarian neighbourhoods of Timisoara. 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’s “Systemization” program, under which entire neighbourhoods were evicted and everything bulldozed. New concrete apartment blocks were erected, and former house owners became tenants of the state. “Systemization” was universally despised; even Ceausescu’s son defied orders to raze neighbourhoods. Apparently one of the sparks that ignited the 1989 revolution was the order to “systemize” some of the ancient Hungarian neighbourhoods of Timisoara. August 7, 2007 I can no longer deny it – a head cold has me firmly in its grip, with a nose that runs perpetually and a cough that is firmly lodged midway in my bronchial passage: curses. I blame it on the hallways of Agnita – the decades of cigarette smoke clinging to the hallway walls could have been peeled with a knife. We didn’t even bother eating before leaving Agnita, we were so depressed by the place – every colour seemed to be grey. The fellow on the morning shift offered Mary somebody else’s passport when checking out. In a village bar we stopped for coffee – the TV was tuned into Romanian soaps, and there was an ashtray on every table. Mary asked about the washroom and was directed to the public facility, an outhouse; she got to practice supporting herself on her hands. Riding through the countryside, it is hard to see how these small country towns will benefit from the great leap forward into the EU – they have no visible industry and no expertise in a service-based economy. From a distance the villages look wonderfully pastoral with church spires and clay-tiled roofs nestled in valleys among the hills; up close they start and end with the roofs and everything below in need of repair (except for the Digi satellite TV dishes on every house). The shepherd in the rain walking with his flock looks happier than the townsfolk – he at least has purpose. In the meantime, the cars of tourists (mostly German) speed by on the two-hour run from Sibiu to Sighisoara, along with the shiny black Audis and BMWs with Sibiu plates, and the heavy trucks, the Dacias, the local bicycles and the horses … Sighisoara “Visually archaic even by Romanian standards”: my favourite quote about Sighisoara … An old woman in the street asked us if we want a “camera particular”; she saw us coming out of a pension (it was full) and walked us past the expensive hotels. Indicating we should wait she entered a closed gate and found “Doamna” (the lady of the house); “Doamna” showed us a room upstairs (everything was spotless and nothing matched), the toilet downstairs (via the external stairway), the shower (past the dining room); she ensured very carefully that we understood the price (80 lei per night) and emphasized that we should wipe our feet before climbing the stairs (she keeps a very clean house). It’s interesting how much history is defined in terms of Vlad Tepes: here is the house in which he was born, there is the tower in which he was imprisoned, his son was stabbed here, and that is his tomb … I don’t know whether this is because this period of Romanian history is unambiguous or whether it is catering to the tourist trade. It’s ironic that “Dracula” was virtually unknown in Romania prior to the revolution. However, the laws of supply and demand will prevail: tourists want Dracula and Romania has responded. There was even a plan to build a DraculaLand theme park in Sighisoara, which proves that bad taste knows no limits. August 8, 2007 Lunch … We booked train tickets to Baia Mare this morning – I’m surprised we can manage the trip without a connection but won’t complain. We reconnoitred the approach across the tracks and discussed the technique for getting all our gear on board: we will have about three minutes to manage the transaction. Returning from the train station we stop at a 1937 basilica in which every square inch of the interior is painted with icons, all fresh and all gilt – it makes one wonder what a huge basilica like Saint Sophia would have been like in its glory. I am truly glad we made the effort to learn some rudimentary Romanian: a table of American women sitting next to us at breakfast was a contrast in cultural crossover. We couldn’t help overhearing their conversation – they appeared to be a film crew working on a documentary of the rehabilitation of Sighisoara. The director was commenting, “Think of it from their perspective, from the perspective of the man in the ditch.” All agree, of course; one of them will have a revised script ready for review by tomorrow morning. Another wants to know which breakfast items are milk-free – the poor waiter (a high school student) doesn’t understand and the tone takes a harder edge. Not one of the crew have bothered learning a single word of Romania (not even cafea for heaven’s sake!) and somehow feel the service staff should automatically be fluent in English – “think of it from their perspective” indeed. Hotel Sighisoara We split up for the afternoon. I climbed to the church on the hill, the highest point in Sighisoara; it is a gothic, 15th century church that is surprisingly bright inside. The original frescoes were plastered over in 1771; where the plaster has been removed there are gouges in the frescoes from the original application of the plaster. There are triptychs from various altars which one can walk up to without hindrance. I have never been a big fan of medieval art, but the detail of the expressions is a testament to the skill of the anonymous artists. Just below the church is a school of music; from an open window I heard a solo violin – a live instrument resonants with a presence that cannot be captured in a recording. Inside, behind every door there was the growl of bowed strings; I opened a door more or less at random and sat on the first chair along the side wall while the master teacher practiced a piece. He is Romanian, lives in Switzerland, and returns each summer for sentimental reasons to teach. I asked if he played any local music; “You mean gypsy music?”. It wasn’t what I meant. One of our disappointments has been music; we have heard little of the folk music we had read about. However, he had been polite and I didn’t want to monopolize his time. Sighisoara has two famous native sons: Vlad Tepes (whom everybody knows of) and Hermann Oberth, one of the fathers of space flight. I believe (but am not certain) that he developed the mathematical formulae to calculate the quantity of fuel required for a rocket to reach orbit – it is apparently a very complicated integral equation which balances the thrust produced by the engines with the ever-diminishing quantity of fuel. Back at the main plaza I ordered an apa plata; did the young woman speak English (“yes, of course”); how has Sighisoara changed (“in what way do you mean?”). There has been a lot of work done in the citadel, particularly for sewers and gas (all badly needed) – as a result much of the cobblestone has been torn up and is yet to be re-laid (people have read on the internet that the citadel has been torn down). A lot of this work is financed with European Union money. She studies economics and when she graduates will have lots of job opportunities in Bucharest (much dirtier than Sighisoara where they clean the streets every night). Are there business opportunities in Sighisoara? Yes (gesturing at the buildings in the citadel) there are hotels all around and they are completely full during spring and summer. Casa cu Cerb “The House with the Stag” - I have to write down the name so I don’t forget it. This is by far the best restaurant we have seen so far: roast venison and pork with dumplings, both in excellent sauces. In his Book of Snobs, the Duke of Bedford states that, when inviting someone to dinner, always serve a homemade sauce. On most menus, sauces have been listed as separate menu items; here they are prepared to match the specific dish – full marks. August 9, 2007 After our stay at “Doamna’s” and our train ride, we headed straight for the most expensive hotel in town … Doamna let us down with a poor, over-priced breakfast, and then conveniently did not want to give 20 lei change when we paid her. Mary sorted that out fairly quickly; we agreed that we had not enjoyed our stay in her house – next time we will know better when deciding on a room. At a little alimentare (store) on the way to the station we bought some lunch supplies for the train ride, including “salami Canadian” - how could we resist? Men in fluorescent overalls were sweeping up the cobblestone streets with brooms made of twigs. The train: we were in position on the correct platform when the train rolled into the station. Mary got up first, I passed her the panniers, then one bike, then the other, then myself and the train started rolling. We soon realized (i.e. were told) that we were in the wrong car: we were in a first class car with second class tickets. The train conductors were sympathetic – how far were we going? Baia Mare: “Baia Mare, oh-h” and they raised their eyebrows, widened their eyes – I could tell from the fast winks how things were going. Come into the compartment and sit down; with a weary sigh the conductor opened the flap of his leather satchel, pulled out pad of paper. a pencil, and a table of distances; the cost of two first class tickets, plus two bicycles as baggage at 20 kg each was scratched out: 125 lei. “Let me consult with Doamna,” and we all walked down to the other end of the car where Mary was getting increasingly nervous. “I don’t think we have much choice.” We were motioned into a first class compartment; the “fee” for the tickets was exchanged. And the bicycles? Not a problem, said the conductor, and pointed to the luggage racks. The luggage racks were only 12 inches wide and were on either side of the compartment – I didn’t see how this could work. “Nu problem.” I confess I was sceptical but rolled in a bike and hoisted it overhead – the wheels reached rim-to-rim, but the handle bars twisted. Nu problem: down came the curtain rod and off came the curtain; the conductor lashed the front wheel to the luggage rack with the curtain. In a matter of minutes both bikes were “riding high”. “Everything will be taken care of in ten minutes after a call to Bucharest,” he said and we were assured of our own private compartment all the way to Baia Mare. The second stop after leaving Sighisoara is Copsa Mica – Mary and I gasped at the sight of buildings that are black skeletons and the blighted earth. Copsa Mica is another of Ceausescu’s legacies. He had one economic strategy, and that was the promotion of heavy industry. Massive factories were established with no thought of environmental consequences; entire villages were uprooted to work in the factories. The only mitigating factor in his favour is that the industrialization was concentrated in specific towns, sparing the broader countryside. Apparently Copsa Mica is the most polluted spot in Romania: life expectancy is 9 years lower than the national average. The villages seemed to improve when moving north – from the train they appeared to be more well kept and the farms looked more prosperous. I’m not unhappy to have bypassed Cluj – we didn’t need another city right now and already the air up here is fresher. When approaching Baia Mare I asked the couple in the next compartment on which side we would exit from the train. I admit the question was mangled beyond belief. The fellow shook his head in total bewilderment of my Romanian. They were a young couple from Oregon travelling on their honeymoon to Sighet, and did not speak a word of Romanian – mind you, their glow was the universal language of romance. I hope their trip went well. Baia Mare Hotel Mare dining room for supper … The “systemization” apartment blocks in Baia Mare are almost visually appealing: the architects incorporated traditional clay roofing tiles as part of the facade to very good effect. The restaurant menu looks good, even interesting, but my meal is served cool, like an airline meal that has not been not heated properly – I wonder if these plates are pre-arranged and frozen? The restaurant chairs are high-backed and draped with satin cloth – they look like wedding dresses. So far every restaurant, whether fancy or common, has had exactly the same stainless steel salt-pepper-vinegar-oil holder. Our room is very modern and includes a shower with wall-mounted nozzles that give a pin-prick massage; at 100 lei a night it is a bargain. We even have real bottom sheets that tuck in; the blanket in the comforter cover is synthetic. Bedding in Romania has been a surprise to us: the bottom sheets are laid on top of mattresses and not tucked in; there are no mattress covers. After tossing and turning trying to get to sleep through the barking of a pack of dogs, one can wake up on a bare, unpadded mattress. August 10, 2007 Sunday morning with a forecast for showers. We are done with cities for a while now – it will be day after day in the saddle from here on, thank heavens. Why does every restaurant have to play easy-listening pop music? Last night some bar seven floors down played European dance music until all hours of the morning – there ought to be a law … Pensiunea Limpedea Lunch time just outside Baia Sprie – it has been a steady climb out of Baia Mare and we are just about to hit the pass. We are sitting at a picnic table in the shade of tall trees and mounting foothills – it is a beautiful setting that would be worth an overnight stop (tel: 07 45 311 162). The household puppies let Mary have her puppy fix. Ocna Sugatag We climbed Pasul Gutai (Gutai Pass) almost immediately after lunch – 12 km at 7%. A small canteen at the top served mititei or grilled, skinned meat sausages that had a very strange, sponge-like texture – I won’t say what they reminded me of; we would have liked to have avoided them. We could see Cresta Cocosului (the “Cockscomb”), a serrated limestone outcrop that is a national reserve; they are attempting to develop an agrotourism industry in the area. However, the turnoff road looks as bad as the cow path from Avrig – we continue on the paved highway. Coming down the other side of the pass was like entering another world – it was impossible to stop at every photo op: haystacks, carved wooden gates, impossible vistas with purple mountains as a hazy backdrop. The wooden gates are exceptional – every part of them have been hand carved with docrative patterns. The turnoff from the main road towards Ocna Sugatag was a shock – the surface was pebbled asphalt and the grades rivalled the Transfagaras. This is the first road on which I notice a factual (but minor) difference with the Dimap Road atlas (scale 1:250,000). Supper: pizza by the public pool … we’re listening to Ancuta Anghel and Vasile Barani: it’s good up-tempo Romanian pop-jazz … Hotel Silva, night … the electrical outlet is in the wall right behind the middle of the bed head; the lamp cords won’t reach from the end tables, so the bedside lamps are perched on the bed posts. We have yet to be given a face cloth in any of our rooms. Lying in bed, I have the sensation of a nerve tingling in my upper right leg; in a matter of minutes all my inner thigh muscles have seized into a powerful cramp. Thankfully Mary is still awake to massage some Myoflex into the muscle; it takes a couple of minutes before I can attempt to stand … August 11, 2007 It’s amazing what a difference a good breakfast makes for a good day of riding, and breakfast at Hotel Silva wasn’t very good. A good coffee, a bag of paprika chips and a fabulous peach from an alimentare in Budesti helped set things on the right path. We spent a fair amount of the morning in the village of Budesti with the intention of seeing its wooden church (it was locked). One of our disappointments so far in the Maramures is that the churches are locked. Ten years ago asking for the key may have been a viable alternative but today too many tourists are coming to the area for this to be realistic. In Calinesti we finally saw a church that was open – the door was actually open. The church was under construction – well, not actually under construction, but under adornment: a young artist was painting icons and murals on the church walls. It was better than seeing a church that was completed – here we had a living work in progress. Some murals finished, some were half-sketched on the walls, some walls needed plaster to cover the cracks, and little pots of paints with all their various pigments sat in the usual organized mess of an artist. How did the artist decide which subject to place in which spot on the church wall, I wondered. “Ah!” he said, and thumbed through a book which was an artist’s guide for painting an orthodox church. There on one page was a numbered diagram of all the positions on the wall, each number corresponding to a particular saint. I asked his name but he demurred – churches are painted anonymously, he explained, and we left it at that. The road from Calinesti to Barsana is a beautiful climb via the village of Valeni, where the road descends in the longest, steepest hill I ever seen. The hill was being resurfaced with Euro money; resurfacing is definitely needed on these roads – some are more pebble than asphalt and the rolling resistance increases by at least two gears. In Barsana we stopped to look at another (locked) church. The stop was not totally without merit: we discovered Heidi chocolate bars – Mary will ride happier now. On the ride up a side valley, Mary burst ahead at a furious pace (she usually rides behind me). A local called out to a middle-aged man on his bike, probably goading him about being outpaced. He and I both tried to catch up but couldn’t quite manage it – she must have had Shakira playing … Botiza I am now sitting is the back garden gazebo waiting for Mary while our hostess prepares supper – it is a beautiful setting on a beautiful evening – we have another good day under our belts. With little more than a half-hour’s notice our hostess has prepared a superb bowl of mamaliga cu branza (polenta with cheese) – it is mouth-watering. There are little shortbreads with chocolate filling for dessert. August 12, 2007 Sunday morning in the gazebo – Mary is getting dressed and I’m getting coffee. It appears that our hosts live in separate, wooden houses along the periphery of the yard, and the main house is reserved for tourists. The house is extremely well built; the interior stairs and balustrade are real marble (architecturally, this is a bit of over-kill; the house itself is basically middle-class). When I came down the marble stairs this morning, a young boy sitting on the couch and watching television said, “It looks like there could be some rain today.” This is unusual – it is not often that we have been casually addressed in English. His name is Den, he is 13 years old and is with his parents here on vacation. His English is very, very good, and he seeks us out to practice his conversation; we don’t mind – he is pleasant company. Our objective today is to get inside a church, specifically the wooden church in the village of Poienile Izei in the next valley; its “nightmarish” scenes of Hell have been noted in a number of reports as well as our Rough Guide. Our hostess says that we can go directly up the road rather than taking the long way on our bikes. On the map this is the cross country route – it could be an adventure. Afternoon snack on the pensiunea terrace ... The Rough Guide describes the road to Poienile Izei as “execrable”’, whereas the village sign merely lists it as “drum calamitat”. Either way, I wouldn’t drive a car over it. We walked the 8 kilometres. The walk was gorgeous – the views reminded Mary of pictures from a children’s story – rolling meadows, forests, hay stacks, houses in the distance. In the village we followed a group of women to the church, all dressed in freshly laundered white blouses, skirts and black shoes (the one on the left is wearing heels). They have their heads covered with kerchiefs – we had thought of a blouse to cover Mary’s arms, but had never considered a head covering. We had walked here to see the old wooden church built in the 1400’s, but it was locked (again!), so instead we attended the service in the “new” basilica built in the 1700’s. Here we were uncertain what to do and made a few false starts entering the church, not wanting to offend. Eventually we were helped upstairs to the gallery where the choir was singing and the teenagers hung out. The adolescent boys on one side of the gallery were goofy; the young girls opposite looked like little ladies-in-waiting lounging at the railing and watching the activity below; the hormones were bouncing off the walls – it was a good thing the choir was in the middle. Watching the service was like observing a community in motion. People arrived throughout the service, standing in reverence before entering and then greeting neighbours inside – it had a more casual aspect than what we are accustomed to seeing. Women (with their heads covered) sat at the rear of the church and the men (bareheaded) sat at the front. The men’s hats were neatly stacked at the end of the benches on which rugs had been thrown for comfort. The priest conducted the service at the altar with his back to the congregation. There were no musical instruments; in the purest of voices the choir leader would softly sing the opening note to each section of the choir just as the priest was finishing his intonation, and the choir would all sing on cue when the priest finished. The service alternated back and forth continuously between priest and choir for more than an hour. For the blessing of the bread and wine the entire congregation came forward, placing their right hands on the shoulder of the person in front of them. After the service we waited at the front door; the priest hardly took notice of us – he looked like a politician tending his flock. We asked the doorkeeper if we could see the small wooden church – “Da,” he said and he motioned for us to come. We waited while he went for the key (and a shot of palinca). The inside of the church was very dark and we could barely pick out the frescoes on the wall. He pointed out Adam and Eve, and in the porch we saw the famous scenes of hell – the glutton being ploughed open, the church snoozer tormented by a fiendish fiddler, the careless woman who had singed the priest’s cloth being flat-ironed, the church farter being inflated with bellows, the sodomite being split with an axe-head … below, a pope was being led into the jaws of a demonic hell. We may see no other church interiors in the Maramures but it will not matter, we have seen the church of Poienile Izei. Evening, sitting on the front porch … The afternoon was spent in Botiza in search of another open church which we did not find – the churches are locked after service. The wooden church in Botiza was originally built in a village some 30 km distant, possibly Visue de Jos, from which it was moved; they must have disassembled it, moved it in horse drawn carts like those we see on the side of the road today and then reassembled it. The wood all fits perfectly – there was no chinking that I could see. We did however find the craft shop of Victoria Berbecaru, a local teacher and weaver. It was she who had directed us yesterday to our excellent pension. We purchased one of her carpets which tells a local Christmas story, which (if I understood correctly) goes as follows: There are three shepherds: Moldavian, Transylvanian, and Wallachian. The Moldavian shepherd is younger and more beautiful but poorer than the others; the Transylvanian and Wallachian shepherd plot to kill the Moldavian but the Moldavian’s sheep overhears the plot and warns his master. The Moldavian ignores the warning and is killed and then there is some bit about the Moldavian’s sheep causing a flute to be played that I didn’t quite understand. When the Moldavian’s mother comes looking for him she is told he has gone to marry a foreign princess; finally there is a falling star that is indicative of a man who has died. All this in a carpet of one-by-two feet. Victoria also gives us the names of two artists who have recorded local music: Ionut Sidau and Angela Buciu. Mary asks our hostess for the recipe of the (mouth-watering) shortbread cookies she served last night. She obliges; there is one ingredient we can’t make out; our hostess goes to her kitchen and returns with a jar of pure, white pork lard … Supper tonight was stupendous (as all our hostess’ meals have been) – apples kept falling onto the roof of the gazebo with a bang. There is something about eating soup with pork meatballs (ciorba perisoara) and french fries cooked in pork fat while two pigs are grunting in the sty 15 feet away – we are loving those pigs more and more with each bite. Dessert was German pancakes filled with homemade jam and folded in quarters. It’s enough to make one’s teeth water … August 13, 2007 Monday morning in the gazebo. I have not removed myself once from this table without being totally overfed and satiated – this morning it was homemade veal schnitzel, deep fried pork fat, sliced tomatoes, cheese, bread, creamy butter, homemade jam, a pot of coffee and a jug of warm milk – our hostess is preparing us for a good day on the road. Last night I realized I could smell again – I was trying to place an odour which I recognized as the untouched glass of palinca on my night stand. There are no street lights in Botiza; it is a comforting to wake to the clip-clop sound of Monday morning traffic. Apparently 2007 is the first year in which more than half of the world’s population will live in cities: for better or for worse? If you lived in Botiza, you could live with self-sufficiency (more or less) in a beautiful setting; if you lived in Agnita on the dusty Transylvanian plateau … I hope the Maramures can maintain its lifestyle and traditions while developing an agro tourism economy – there is excellent value for the money and prices are extremely competitive. The region must change, as all regions must, but there are ways of life that can be kept. The glide down from Botiza was possibly the loveliest stretch of road we have seen so far in Romania – the hills, the fields, the husbands with their pitchforks and scythes, the wives with their rakes, both going out to tend their patch of pasture. Den’s family gave us a cheery honk as they drove past, Den hanging out the window and waving wildly. From Bogdan Voda the road took on a utilitarian aspect with heavier traffic – the shoulder was a jagged edge again. Stacks of rough cut wood are stacked in people’s yards – flitch cuts, good thick square cuts for posts, slabs all properly stacked with spacers and covered from the elements. Most new homes are built of concrete cinder blocks and covered with stucco; the preferred design is to have Romanesque arches on the second floor balconies (three arches-by-two). Some wooden homes are still being built but the craftsmanship of dovetail joints may slowly disappear. Where did Italian drivers learn to drive and why is every third licence plate Italian? Husqvarna and Stihl are in stiff competition here for the chainsaw market – based on roadside billboards I give Husqvarna the edge. Borsa Evening on the terrace of a restaurant of which I don’t even know the name. We are definitely the oldest patrons of this establishment. We checked into the best room in Borsa in “the bright new hotel Mihali” – at least it’s better than Agnita. “New” must be a relative term – the hotel may be new but the building has its own vintage. The toilet flushes as long as you lift the lid off the flush box; the hot water coughs up air pockets no matter how long it is run. While unpacking after the ride Mary realized that she has left her medication behind – small panic; check and recheck the bags. We try phoning Botiza (no answer). Think: what are the alternatives? Mary calls the pharmacist in Canada (the time difference plays in our favour). Missing the pills won’t be life threatening (we hope); she gets the prescription details. We order a bottle of wine and consider the chunks of deep-fried pork fat we had for breakfast. The pizza we ordered for supper is very good (cooked in a wood oven); Mary holds back on the salami on account of her pills. Romanian pizza is never baked with tomato sauce: if you order tomato sauce (basically ketchup), it is served on the side. We checked out a pharmacy after supper – the pharmacist does not recognize any of the prescriptions and none are stock. We will have to go to the spital (hospital) in the morning and hope we can communicate – ah well, it will be a story. The setting of our hotel has tremendous potential with a stunning view (from the back) of one of the Rodna mountains (no snow cover though) – if only they cleaned up the garbage and litter along the river bank below. I went down to check on the bikes (which were locked to the stairwell) and saw that the front door of the hotel was locked with a keyed deadbolt; if there was a fire we could not get out. I decided not to tell Mary. In the middle of the night the mountain outside our window disappeared in a thick cloud and rain started. August 14, 2007 Hotel Mihali bar waiting for morning coffee – 7 or 8 locals are here for their morning chat; there is cold pizza from last night for a bite to eat, the standard piped-in music is Romanian traditional-pop. We have seen real beggars in Borsa for the first time, sitting on the sidewalk and exposing their deformities – we haven’t seen this since India … After breakfast Mary negotiated the spital; the walk through the corridors was even more depressing than Agnita – the aimless patients reminded her of an asylum. It turns out the hospital Dispensary issues oxygen tanks and the like, not prescriptions. She managed to find a doctor who spoke halting English; the doctor looked at Mary’s prescriptions with some alarm: “You have TB?” The blood pressure medication Mary takes is what they use here for tuberculosis. She came away with a prescription which can be taken if things get out of control. Prislop Pass We are at the summit of the second-highest pass on our route with a pack of hard core hikers involved in a 5-day competition, a couple of families with kids, and a bored barman; clothes are draped everywhere to be dried out by the wood stove. From here there are wide vistas looking back to the Maramures and ahead to Bucovina, or there would be if everything wasn’t enveloped in a fog as thick as pea soup. I turn down the volume of the amplifier at the bar – one of the hikers gives me a thumbs-up; the barman comes in from the back and puts it back to full volume – he wins. Do we stay or do we go? For the last 5 km of the climb cars could barely see us in the cloud cover. Right now we can hardly see the lights of cars at the end of a very small parking lot. At least we have our freeze dried meals – they don’t serve food here. The thumbs-up hiker has drawn some “spiritual” pictures for us and offered his red LED light for the ride down. Carlibaba Supper – we made it down but it wasn’t easy. With every light in our arsenal facing backwards (including our headlamps) we started the descent; the fog changed to rain and the wind sharpened; within a couple of kilometres we were below the cloud cover and all seemed clear with beautiful vistas down mountain valleys – “just like Canada,” as Jeroen would say. We did not realize was how much Mary had been chilled on the climb to Prislop; her fingertips started going numb just when the road turned rough with an inch of pebbles coating the asphalt surface like marbles. We were coming down no faster than we had climbed (11 km/hr). Mary’s fingertips turned purple, her rings started to slip off her fingers, she couldn’t change her gears, we were stopping every 6 or 7 km for her to warm her hands; at the roadside she almost fell asleep when warming her hands on my cheeks – that’s one of the signs of hypothermia … Fortunately Carlibaba (“and the 40 thieves”) has a new hotel on the outskirts (Hotel Maryo and Ema) – a hot shower and a good meal have helped set things right. Coming down from Prislop there were massive piles of logs that had been skidded down through the woods and stacked by the side of the road; every settlement had the roughneck air of a frontier town. August 15, 2007 Watching sports television, waiting for the weather forecast and the restaurant to open (it was supposed to open an hour ago). We are reading the script of Dacia 1300: My Generation at night; it is a sobering and often depressing view of life under communism and the transition to capitalism – in many ways it gives a perspective to what we have been seeing. I’m glad we waited until now to read it. Breakfast … we’re just getting our third coffee to take to the room; there was no weather forecast but the sun is shining – we may finally get a full day of sun. Last night was the first meal at which we did not leave a tip – our waitress managed to ignore us for so long that I had to get up and ask for the nota da plata. This morning’s service, on the other hand, has been brisk. As we were preparing our bikes outside to leave, an Englishwoman called a greeting from a balcony. She was there on a horse riding tour. The Austrian cavalry used to breed horses in this area, and somewhere in these hills there are 300 stallions, mares and foals from that stable. From Carlibaba the road continued to descend to the intersection with the main highway at Iacobeni. A trout festival was underway in Ciocanesti but we didn’t stop – we had too much distance to make. On the outskirts of Iacobeni we bought some ham and bread at a small alimentare for lunch. The owner punched the prices into a hand calculator and showed us the bill: 34 lei! It was an immense rip-off but we didn’t have much choice – there were no restaurants and we needed to eat. Mary handed over the 34 lei and the owner laughed – the price was really 3.4 lei; we had found an honest citizen! She gave 6 chicklets for the 0.6 lei of change – this is the standard method of handling amounts less than one leu. Romania recently converted its currency. The conversion basically removed four trailing zeroes from currency denominations. Prices are still sometimes quoted in the older denomination or sometimes both old and new. The official currency is still the "Leu", with the plural "Lei". "Leu" means "Lion". The name comes from the old Dutch Thaler that used to circulate in the region in the 17th century. The Dutch Thaler depicted a lion; hence its Dutch name was "leeuwendaler". It remained in Romania just as a "leeuwen = leu". The "daler...thaler...dollar" jumped across the pond (this courtesy of Radu). The lady hacked off a chunk of ham on the counter top with a dull knife; we sat at a table with our bread, water and ham and munched on slivers which I trimmed off with my much-sharper knife. Iacobeni is the start of the climb up Pasul Mestecanis; all the way to the top I had heartburn, something I absolutely never suffer from. The descent from the pass was stop and start all the way; only single lanes of traffic were open because of construction. It was the first road construction we saw in which the actual foundation was being properly excavated (as opposed to a simple resurfacing). The traffic was controlled with lights at either end of the single-lane passages; sometimes drivers obeyed these, and other times it was obvious the two lights weren’t synchronized properly. At a LukOil service station in Campulung Moldovenesc we got a delicious pre-made sandwich to share. The LukOil and Petrom service stations have been superb everywhere. They are modern, clean, and friendly. They are not as good as Canadian service stations, they are better. There is some irony here: LukOil is (I believe) Russian, part of the oil monopoly controlled by businesses with close links to the Kremlin. The climb between Campulung Moldovenesc and Vatra Moldevitei is not listed as a pass on our map (“Curmatura Boului”), but at 1040 meters it is only 50 meters lower than the first pass of the day. I’m not sure what criteria geographers and cartographers use to define a “pass”, but it looked like a pass, it felt like a pass; anyone who rides it gets credit in my books. This stretch of road is the best we have seen so far in Romania (“just like Canada,” says Mary). Vatra Moldovitie Sitting at the picnic table of our pension (Vila Crizantema) – what a difference a day of sunshine makes: we made 77 tough kilometres today including two passes. Romanians sure know how to make soup – we have not yet been served a poor soup, and tonight’s homemade is superb: a light broth, a small touch of tomato, and a slight hint of tarragon. Our objective in choosing this route was to see the painted monasteries of Bucovina (part of Moldavia), which have been designated World Heritage sites. The monasteries were built during the reign of Stefan cel Mare (Stephen the Great) and his successors. Stephen was the cousin of Vlad Tepes and was caught up in the same struggle to push back the Turkish onslaught into Europe. The interiors of Orthodox basilicas are (based on our limited observations) covered with paintings of icons; what makes the painted monasteries unique is that they were also completely painted on the exteriors. These paintings were a combination of biblical scenes and frame-by-frame “cartoons” of the lives of particular saints – they were intended (I believe) as comic-book-type renditions of scripture for the illiterate masses. Before supper we walked down the road to the monastery of Moldovita – it was an inspiring sight. The best paintings are about three quarters up the wall; those at head level have been suffered from weather and vandalism – graffiti (often from the 1800’s) has been scratched into their surfaces. The paintings on the north face have been entirely obliterated by weather, but the south-facing wall is intact – it features the great preoccupation of the age, the siege of Constantinople, here depicted with some wishful revisionist history. There was one more candle to light today – Aunt Trix has died; the news from home was more than a week old. We will return tomorrow morning at 8:00 am before the throng arrives. An Italian couple staying here explain that the Italian (and Spanish) licence plates we see belong to expatriate Romanians working abroad and returning home for vacation; they claim Italian drivers are very good. A text message on the cell phone tonight simply reads “You OK?” It is from Radu, our “guardian angel” – it is a comfort to know he is watching out for us. August 16, 2007 Sitting in the breakfast room with a delicious European breakfast including a full pot of coffee and a delightful homemade jam of the tiniest raspberries … Mary is ill. She had the first indications at breakfast and returned from the monastery to our room; when I came back I found her tucked in bed … We bought two painted eggs from our pension for 4 lei each; the woman who paints them says it takes her about a day to complete an egg. Sucevita Today’s ride should have been a breeze – 40 km with one pass. Instead it took forever – Mary rode on an empty stomach with a growing fever under a blazing sun. Part way up the pass she lay down in the shade by the side of the road for 20 minutes – it is the first place we have stopped on the trip without litter. The pass (Pasul Ciumarna) was one of those “false promise” passes – you reach a spot with a switchback where the road starts to descend and you think you’ve reached the top; two turns later you realize you have another couple of hundred meters to climb. At washed out sections the road was reduced to a single lane; trucks pre-empted the lane and forced Mary to walk. Two slathering dogs, vicious enough to shred a wolf, strained at their chains to get at her – I’m glad the chains held. I had my closest call yet today: a transport truck beside me was being overtaken by a passing car – it was a matter of a hand’s breadth … Sucevita is in danger of being a victim of its own success; the office of Popasul Turistic Bucovina was not open to tell us they did not have a room; Plai de Dor was grossly overpriced; Casa Lina took 15 minutes to decide whether they had a room for us (they didn’t); etc. We have finally settled into a village family’s pension (in the “green apple” room); there is no en-suite but everything is spotless as always. I just walked down to get a quick view of Sucevita monastery while Mary sleeps – it’s not a nap, it’s a sleep, and she is running a fever. Visiting these monasteries is a bit disconcerting. They are functioning monasteries, and as a tourist one is plainly intruding. At Vatra Moldovitie there was no smile from any of the nuns, and possibly some hostility. Yet these monasteries are advertised as tourist attractions and the nuns cater to the trade: they paint eggs and icons which they sell at their gift shop, they conduct tours for tour groups, etc. Then there is the question of form: is it profane to enter without crossing oneself, or, as a non-orthodox would crossing oneself be sacrilege; should the crossing action be in the Roman or Orthodox fashion? It would be too much to genuflect (one or three times, touching the ground with the hand or the head?) All these details make a monastery visit an “opportunity” … in the end I have decided to simply be what I am, a tourist, and to be as inoffensive as possible. Casa Lina for supper ... Mary has ordered plain, grilled chicken breast and mashed potatoes – it is really the potatoes she wants. I order stuffed mushrooms for an appetizer; a runner is sent from the kitchen to go buy ingredients. The potatoes come highly over-salted and remain untouched; the chicken will be wrapped for tomorrow’s ride. August 17, 2007 Casa Lina, waiting to place our breakfast order – they can manage only sequential processing here. Mary appears to have slept off her fever – she woke from her delirium in the middle of the night, just when the dog outside our window stopped barking. We’ll see how breakfast goes down. The paintings in the Sucevita monastery are being restored in painstaking detail. A young woman working under a bright light kneels in front of the harlequin-patterned wainscoting of the altar area; the surface has been cleaned from centuries’ accumulation of candle soot; she works with watercolours, the same as the paint that was originally used, and which can be rubbed off in case of a mistake; on a small palette she mixes her colour and then very carefully fills in the plaster where paint is missing – she does not cover the original paint. The work is slow and laborious. Higher on a wooden scaffolding a young man is restoring paintings of icons; the restoration will take years to complete. Romanian tourists ignore the “no photos” sign and flash away to their hearts’ content, some climbing the scaffolding. Again, on the exterior, graffiti from the 1800’s has been carefully scratched into the surface; eyes are often gouged on paintings within reach. It is hard to tell whether some faces have been intentionally removed: even those at the height of the roof have often faded beyond recognition – perhaps it was the paint or technique used by the original artists. The monasteries seem to be painted in a common sequence: the exteriors have a Tree of Jesse (a depiction of Jesus’ ancestors) and on the porch a fiery Last Judgement. The Last Judgement scenes are particularly graphic – there is no purgatory in the Orthodox religion. Within, the first room is covered with scenes of martyrs (lots of beheadings), the second is filled with those beyond reproach, and finally in the nave (?) the holy family is depicted in their various scenes. When turning to leave the nave, the patron of the monastery is depicted to the left of the door presenting the monastery to the glory of the Lord. The bill for coffee is more than half the cost of breakfast – it would be cheaper to drink beer. Humor Casa Buburuzan, evening, waiting for dinner, sipping cold beer and cold white wine (finally, a cold bottle of wine!). Mary is over whatever hit her (thankfully, we hope) and we had a good day for riding – our only issue was a shortage of cash. When we left Borsa we got distracted with the visit to the spital and forget to visit a money machine. So far in Romania we have operated on a cash-only basis. This has been a matter of caution (i.e. avoiding a stolen credit card number) and convenience (not all places accept credit cards). In 1989 the revolution literally changed Romania overnight from a communist to capitalist economy. There was no financial infrastructure in place – no banking system, no chequing system, no credit system. The country adopted a business model that was totally foreign to the population. In light of this start from nothing, Romania is quite well served by its banking system today – except there isn’t a banking machine along our present route and we are down to one day’s float. The day’s ride was through rolling hills that make for poor pictures and perfect riding – there were long glides past green and golden fields, steep climbs out of villages; it was a gentle day on gentle roads. We kept crossing paths today with a couple of young Polish guys; they have ridden from southern Poland and in three weeks have already done 1,500 km or about twice our distance – that’s okay, they were about half our age. Just before lunch, when climbing a hill outside Marginea (10% grade), my chain slipped off my granny gear. This has happened intermittently on the trip, but this time it jammeduHHHH solidly between the chain ring and the bike frame; I couldn’t free it. A couple of kids came along with a wrench and helped me pry it loose (I gave the older guy my last 5 lei note). I now had a mechanical “opportunity”: one of my links was badly twisted, causing my skewed chain to “jump off the rails”. This was an excuse to have a picnic in the shade of a tree, to unpack the tool kit at the bottom of my pannier, to use the two adjustable spanners I had packed (I meant to take only one). The metal was hot enough that I could twist the link back in line - so far so good. In the village of Patesti do Jos we finally saw a bank machine; it only dispensed 10 lei notes, so I am now travelling with a think wad at my waist. There was a long climb out of the village with steep switchbacks: the grade on some inner curves was at least 25%. A big transport was passing on Mary’s left as she made a sharp right hand turn; her tire slipped on the sheer edge of the asphalt and next thing she was flat on the road - fortunately Romanian truck drivers are very good … A plan … when planning this trip, we had a number of objectives to see and after the painted monasteries we will have seen them all. What to do from here? If there has been one disappointment with Romania it has been the absence of decadence – this is not a matter of affordability, it’s a matter of availability. We can put up with a lot if there’s some sinful luxury to look forward to at the end; part way through the trip that we realized sinful luxury was not going to appear. In my prior research I had come across Miklosvar, a village some 30 km north and east of Brasov. A Hungarian count has reclaimed his family’s estate that was confiscated by the Communists and operates it as a high-end pension (along with, supposedly, a very good cellar). It was the closest thing to decadence that I knew of, and I had the foresight to write down the contact number. Why not try for Miklosvar? August 18, 2007 Breakfast to the sound of a road crew … When we arrived yesterday we had to wait a half hour for hot water to take a shower. This morning we realize why: the hot water tank is heated by a small wood stove welded to its base and the fire has to be kindled for each “batch” of hot water – now there’s a good idea for the cottage! The water quality in Romania has consistently been excellent. Mary notices this particularly when washing her hair – water everywhere has been very soft and there is no need for hair conditioner. Our room is on the main floor behind double doors with frosted glass; the double bed has a large bed head lined with books. A German encyclopaedia that is over a hundred years’ old is printed in gothic font and illustrated with incredibly detailed colour plates. Maintaining the “traditional” way of life is a of the bastion of French agricultural policy. In Romania the “traditional” way of life is not a tradition, it is a daily reality. Fields are scythed by hand, hay is hand-turned with two-tined forks to dry, hay is raked into rows with wooden rakes, it is stacked by hand onto wooden stakes to make those characteristic haystacks, and hauled for storage in horse-drawn carts, on top of which rides a teenage girl giggling into her cell phone … Evening, waiting for supper to arrive at 6:30 ... The waitress (who does not speak English) just enlisted my help to take the supper order for a Dutch couple who do not speak Romanian. Mary spends some time chatting with them – they are car camping and have been surprised at the “third world” nature of what they have seen (their words). The day was spent at Voronet, the last of the painted monasteries on our route. By now we are “monasteried” out – possibly we saved the best for last. Riding to the monastery we were overtaken in the midst of construction by a middle-aged Romanian cyclist who had pedalled hard to catch up. There were the usual questions (where from, did we bring our bikes, etc.). What did we think of Romania? It is a beautiful country, the people are beautiful, we don’t like the litter; ah, he explained, “Russi este Slav, Romani este Latino!” (“Russians are Slavs, Romanians are Latin!”), Romania is a country in transition, things will change – all this (more or less) in Romanian. The monastery of Voronet was built by Stefan cel Mare (Stephen the Great), cousin of Vlad Tepes. Once again we are back to that great period of Romanian history, when men had names like Mircea the Old, Mircea the Bad, Vlad the Impaler, Radu the Handsome, Stephen the Great, and (my favourite) Bogdan the One-Eyed. Stephen does not have the notoriety of his gruesome cousin, but to my mind he was more effective as a leader. His main concern was the same as that of all Europe – how to stop the relentless advance of the Turkish armies. He stopped at Voronet after being defeated by Mohammed II to consult with the hermit Daniil (Daniel): should he submit to Mohammed and pay tribute, or should he fight? The hermit replied that if he would fight he would win, and in return he should build a monastery at Voronet. Stephen managed to push Mohammed back across the Danube, and fulfilled his promise by building Voronet in the space of four months in 1488. In 1547 the Metropolitan Rosca decided to have the exterior of the monastery painted with biblical scenes. Thus started the fashion of the painted monasteries of Bucovina. In 1775, when northern Moldavia was annexed to the Austrian empire, the monasteries were closed and became derelict. It was not until 1991 that Voronet was re-established. If I had only one painted monastery to see I would choose Voronet, in large part due to the guide book written by one of the resident nuns, Elena Simionovici. It provides more that just an explanation of the icons; it explains how they are interpreted: “The contrast between the inner calm of the martyr and the hurt pride of the man in power … is overwhelming for those who stop in front of this icon and look at it.” She also alludes to the modern day dichotomy of the monasteries, referring to “the tourists, as well as the devotees, two distinct categories …”. The blue pigment used at Voronet was made with lapis lazuli; as the sky grew heavy we had the opportunity to see “Voronet blue” at its most intense. Voronet also has the greatest number of craft vendors outside. They will tell you that they have done all the embroidery themselves, but at Moldovita we saw a car delivering a pile of goods from its trunk. Riding home (with no panniers – what joy!) Mary took the lead in the damp, chill air, riding to beat the rain. There are lots of pensiunea being constructed here; many of them have placards advertising EU loans of 200,000 euros. Still waiting for supper … across the street, inside the Humor monastery, we can hear a nun beating a tattoo on a long stick while she circles the monastery. I have no idea what the symbolism is of this gesture – we have seen it a number of times. We just mapped out a route to Miklosvar, day by day. It would be five days’ hard riding, but we think we’re up for it … I called to make a reservation – “no room at the inn”, so to speak. Disappointment. We have decided we will still go for the long distance ride to Brasov, but it’s a bit of a let down not to be able to finish the trip in high style. The Rough Guide lists Casa Buburuzan as one of the highlights of Moldavia: “a standout … guests are served lavish traditional meals …” The Casa has certainly been adequate, but I don’t think it merits such unqualified praise; certainly the menu and meals have been good, but no better than average. Besides, it’s 8:30 pm and we still haven’t been fed – we should have ordered with the Dutch couple (who are long gone). Also, we just realized that the frosted windows in the double doors of our bedroom (which face the reception area) don’t leave a lot to the imagination … at least we’re not camping in a tent tonight. 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 6th 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” … (We realized later that the Lufthansa lounge at the airport would have been more comfortable.) 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