Travel Tips

Send Photo to a Friend

part 1

"Are you from Romania?"
"Yes, I am, born and raised in Bucharest"
"How's it, Romania?"
"Well..."
This is the way I started many chats over the internet. Some of them end up, after a few minutes, some others last for hours, and eventually, few of them end up with a handshake in Romania. Yet when I first met Pedro, one spring morning at about 2:00 AM, he was kind of upset on Romania - as a whole. He was once in Hungary and wanted to also come here. Yet - although that, legally, he might have done that, paying for the visa at the border, some good-for-nothing custom officers that were probably expecting some bribe, determined him to go back to Budapest. Life is weird, and the customs service on an airport will never be the same with the customs service in a railway station, due to the fact that the people working for the last one are used to the local merchandise traffic (and therefore they're rough with travellers, although that one could assume that there are people that have nothing to do with the smuggling business also...). Anyway, it took me some time to make Pedro change his mind about this country, and some months later, when he came sent me an e-mail saying that he went to the embassy in Lisbon and got the visa, I felt good, just knowing that one more desillussioned folk about the stupid formalities and stuff, gave Romania a second chance.
After some days spent in an ecological camp - where I learnt everything about veggy food (and God, the average Romanian likes meat for a meal, not God knows what boiled weed, and I am so very happy to lie among the average Romanians!!!), I headed to Cluj, where I was to meet Pedro and his girlfriend. On the way I stopped in Brasov to buy some salami and I ate it all wolfed it down in no time, soon after I got into the train to Cluj, while the other people in the compartment were looking at me with compassion and pity in their eyes. When she saw me with the heavy backpack and with that hungry desperation on my face, a poor woman offered me some bread and cheese, yet I refused. She probably thought that I was just another John Doe, a hippie wanderer, with no house, no money, no family and no nothing in this world. It was a mostly embarrassing moment, when, two hours later, my mobile phone rang, making everyone in the compartment rise their eyes in the very hot summer afternoon. It was Pedro, asking me if everything was OK. "Yes, man, I'll wait for you on the platform, I'll be there when the IC 21 from Budapest arrives". The compassionate look and the smile those poor people had offered me until that moment however did not change. Because the Balkans are an area of contradictions. Nobody is astonished or stunned about anything. Only the children look with interest at the limo that passes by the ancient horse-pulled carriages. People go on with their life without noticing - or without seeming that they notice - weird happenings. Anyway, why would they care? Life is hard enough anyway.

So, I got to Cluj station some hours later, in a terrible heat (God, I prefer the winter!), and I waited on the benches that lay on the platform where that damn international train was supposed to arrive, for more than 1 hours, as - you figured - it was late. However it was an useful hour, as I thought of the places where we could camp. I remembered that, on the small hill just across the river from the city, there was a wide park, just good for spending the night.
"Oh, man, the train was crowded like hell!" were the first words that Pedro said, after the usual greetings and handshakes. All they needed first was an ATM. An easy to do task. Then here it came, the bad news:
"We've been travelling for 3 days, from Lisbon... Could we sleep in a hostel, just for tonight?". "Yes, sure, no problem", my prompt answer came, yet I was thinking differently. Sleeping in a hostel could mean many things to many people, yet to me it means only one thing: spending useless money. However that was it, after half an hour of wandering around, we eventually found the street where the youth hostel was, and a piece of good - for me - news. Romanians had to pay half the price as the foreigners. This used to be a habitual thing some years ago, now only a few accomodation companies apply this rule, yet it was damn welcome for me, and damn bad for my friends. As the wise men say: "No good news comes alone, there's the bad one waiting around the corner, to mess things up". After we had a shower, and we ate something, there was this lousy French guy, hanging around on the youth hostel halls, and annoying us to death with all silly stories and questions. I think that, as tired as they were, my friends said "let's go and visit the city", not out of curiosity and interest, but out of the need of getting rid of that man. We hang around on the streets of Cluj, then we found a terrace in the central square, and we sat down for a beer, looking at the beautiful St. Michael Church, built during a whole century (accomplished around 1350, in gothic style), and the Mattyas Corvin's statue lying in front of it. Then we headed back and sneaked into our room, praying God that the French man would not see us. Our prayers were heard up there, so - soon after that - we were sleeping.
In the morning, everybody was awaken by my alarm watch, and they cursed it, I am sure, and I cursed it also, but we had to wake up, for there was this train (that departed Cluj so damn early, at 10.35 AM, can you believe that!?) that we were supposed to catch. So, gulp some snack, people, and rush to the station, just to stop in horror in front of it. For who was there, with a dum smile on his face? There we saw what all of us were to call forever and ever "The French Man". He was so pleased to inform us that the train was departing Cluj 1 hour later, so that we "had a chance to get to know each other better". All gods in heaven were obviously busy when we prayed to see him die of a heart attack or something, and we saw no witch there, to pay her put a spell on him so that he turns into a worm or something. So, he he just grabbed Pedro by the arm and pulled us to the closest store "to buy a snack and something to drink".

And, under our angry eyes, he just bought the last bottle of acid free mineral water (I don't have to mention that my Portuguese friends drank no sparkling water, so I had to walk for 10 minutes or so looking for another shop selling such a product, as - although that is largely bottled in Romania, it is meant mainly for export, people in Romania like "real" things, sparkling water, spicy food, extremely sweet cookies and so on... Anyway, eventually, after a hell-like hour spent with The French Man, the train - thank You, God - arrived. "Hey, my friends, don't hurry, I asked at the information office and this train is to stay here for at least half an hour, they are attaching some wagons to it!". That would sound perfectly normal and a good advice, but not in the situation that followed, as, immediately after telling us not to hurry, the next thing he did was to run desperately after the train, as if that was the last train on Earth, and he was going to miss it. And we prayed to God, and promissed to go to church ever Sunday, and to give all we had to the poor, but please, God, don't let that man have his seat reservation in the same compartment with us, please!!! And our prayer was heard this time again... he went somewhere in the front of the train (he might have gone even to Hell, as far as I am concerned), while we had our seats somewhere in wagon #8. The French Man was to remain forever in our memories as one of the two living legends of the trip. But about the second one - a bit later.
A nice trip in a very nice sunny day followed, as the train crosses some mountain ranges that, though they're not very high and therefore covered up by forests, have a picturesque image of their own, with the small houses spread amongst the trees and on the few meadows close to some rivers... Actually there are about four or five such railway routes in Romania, The best known is the one going from Bucharest to Brasov (however that has lost much due to the fact that it involves mountain resorts, tourists, and therefore a scenery that is not traditional or natural, but modern-like. Then there is the beautiful one crossing the Oriental Carpathians, from Transylvania to Moldavia, from Miercurea Ciuc to Bacau, where the train seems to slow down not to interfere with the natural harmony and peaceful places, and the peasants still look at the modest-looking train like at a wonder, as people used to do while watching Lumiere's first footage depicting a steam locomotive... Then there is the Salva - Viseu railway, connecting to "the civilized world" one of the most remote areas of Romania, Maramures. I think taht if one wants to go and see the real Romanians, the traditional people that work the land, raise cattle, live as the seasons rule (some of them still have to stay isollated from the outside world for a few days or even weeks a year, due to the heavy snow), he/she should go and follow one of these two routes, although the trains used here are not pretty or comfy.

But, to return to the sunny day, the train ride ended in one of the sometimes best known and fancy mountain resort in Romania, Vatra Dornei. It is a spalocated in a beautiful-looking valley, that I had crossed many times before, as a consequence of the fact that it lies at the bottom of two mountain ranges: Calimani (there is a beautiful camping trip from Vatra Dornei / Dornisoara to Toplitza, on the other side of the mountain, southwards, for 2-3 days), steep, impressive, massive, and Suhard (hilly-like, a bit over 1900 m.alt., yet depicting some of the most picturesque views, with shepfolds spread on all the pastures, with people mowing the hay and raising it on sticks to dry it, like they used to do 1000 or 100 years ago, neverminding the big and madding crowd outside their small communities. Anyway, from Vatra Dornei we started trekking on a road that was to lead us among the forests and mountain ridges, to Targu Neamt, a town where we were to meet some friends with a car. Yet Targu Neamt was some 130 km. away and it was already 2.00 PM, so "come on, people, please have mercy and stop, and give us a ride!". Yet it was Sunday, and all cars were packed with people coming back from God knows where and heading again to the same destination. So, after a short ride in a small car, after cutting 10 or 15 km. from the list, and after an hour or so of walking on an asphalted road (and I would have preferred to climb some mountains, instead of that), the phrase changed to "Come on, you people, take us the hell from here!"... Then bus arrived, and after that we got lucky again, as we got a ride in a small van, filled with all the dust in the world. Yet that is what makes a trip, a dusty van, a local's handshake, a "picnic" in the middle of the night when one has lost the path in the woods and does not know whether he will ever get to see a human face again or not... So, after we reached Izvorul Muntelui artificial lake, and as evening was falling, we walked for a few more kilometers and stopped close to a village, on some meadows at the beginning of the forest, and camped. And I learnt from my friends that in Spain it is forbidden to hitch-hike... Geez louise, what kind of life is that, no hitching, no fun!... After a quick snack, we set up the tents and - when we were trying to go to sleep - the phone rang and - when they learnt that we're still some 40 km. from Targu Neamt, with no sure chance of getting early in the morning there (as none of us was willing to pay for a bus), my friends decided to come to us with the car. So, at about midnight, when the small village was at sleep, there were three fools on the meadow with some flashlights trying to point to the road and show their friends the way, stirring all the dogs in the households and making the otherwise peaceful valley to bustle about and shake like in the worst nightmare. I think that whatever evil ever is to happen to me will be a direct consequence of that happening.
After a night where we laughed more than we slept, we woke up and, under the curious looks of the locals, we stack in the car the huge backapcks and hit the road.

Where to? First, to the market place in Targu Neamt, and then to the old monateries in Northern Moladvia, built under the rule of Stephen the Great, and with very interesting frescos and cute locations, spread all over the foothills and valleys from this northern area. After this so touristic-like trip (and I hate the usual touristic routes, yet sometimes there are compromises to be made), we headed to what was to remain forever in my friend's diary. At 21.58 we were getting into a mostly crowded train in Gura Humorului, heading Sibiu, via Cluj, after a basically 8 hours trip. Nothing new under the sun, if the train was not one of the popular night ones, called "accelerate" (quite fast, yet cheap, therefore full of people". So we went into a compartment - we had what my friends very happily had called "seats reservations" before seeing the train - and found there all seats taken by some locals. Poor people, old people, women going to visit their children, sick people. In a word, not the kind of people one goes to and say "yo, man, will ya get the hell out of my seat, or I smack ya bloody face!". Eventually they made place for us. And here it comes, the second legend of this trip, apart from the Franch Man. There was in that dimly lighted wagon an old man whose face I will never forget. It was an old man that was for sure over 90, he bought a bottle of the cheapest beer and offered us all a sip. If one had met him in the Bucharest underground, he/she would have labelled him immediately as "stupid dirty ol' begging dude". It is impossible to describe the life stories that ol' dude kept on telling the whole night, starting with WW2 and ending with the argument he had had with his son-in-law just a few days ago. But the greatest thing in the world is to see a barely deaf old man - that was, for sure, born together with the dinosaurs and will life forever, I can bet - cheering over a beer with total strangers. It's stunning to see such things while we all complain about little issues, about the way our hair looks or the fact that the neighbours are playing music too loudly. Then, we just got off the train like nothing had happened, like everything had been nothing but a good nap in a night train sleeping wagon crossing half Romania, from the Northern Moldavian monasteries to the medieval city of Sibiu. And life went on, walking through a heavy and steady rain that seemed to bring the end of the world that only the ol' dude could survive. And we started to visit museums and to shoot pictures. But nothing would ever compare to this experience. People shoot pictures because either they are not able to remember what they've experienced in their lives, or they are afraid that they would forget the good times. But the real memories refer to what one can still remeber 1 day, 1 year or 1 century after that moment. It's easy to have a picture of a place: "Me in front of Louvre, Me climbing Cerro Torre, Me close to Taj Mahal, Me - drunk at Sighisoara Festival, Me with dad at John Doe's birthday". But the difficult task is to remeber something that isn't depicted in that picture. A wind blow, a f...... storm that messed up one's holidays, a mosquito that kept one awake three nights in a row, a cheering moment, a nice melody, a glass of cold and all natural juice on a hot summer day, a stranger's smile in a cold waiting room. Those are things that make up real life.

I might have tons of photos of the mountains, showing up that I hiked almost all Romanian main peaks, but I will never have a picture - because that's a souvenir that noone and nothing will erase from my memory - of the moment when, during another trip, while in Suhard Mountains, the shepherd saw us walking in a heavy rain, invited us to the shepfold and offerred us a warm fire, all kinds of natural fresh milk products and a delicious lamb soup. And no picture in the world will ever depict either the happiness and joy on his face while making us comfy in his poor wooden cabin, or the so simple and honest handshake with which we left half an hour later, while the man was telling us: "Come back any time, you are always welcome, you're like my children!". That is one of the most important moments in my life.
Yet the trip went on. Sibiu. Medieval city called Cibinum, set up in the 12th century. The stairs' passage. The cut and so medieval - like central square, with the so typical gothic church. Brukenthal Museum, with some of the nices paintings in Romania. The liars' bridge with its neverending legend (that he who lies and crosses the bridge will make the bridge collapse (Oh, God, and I crossed it!!!). And pictures, pictures, as many pictures as the rain drops making us soak and go to the station to get into the local train to Medias. And then Medias city, with a quick visit, between two trains. Like all my life until now...between two trains, hehe. Medias, once a flourishing roman community, located at a major cross roads, then a medieval town with nice towers (in one of which Vlad the Impaler was emprisoned by Mattyas Corvin in 1476) and a wonderful evangelic church, lives now upon the almost bankrupted glass factory and the old times memories. Then - another slow train, another looking back and the hope that this trip would never end (although our tired bodies asked for rest through all cells). And there we arrived, with the sunset, in Sighisoara. The most famous of the medieval towns in Romania, Sighisoara has its well-deserved place in the touristic guides, yet there are other places to consider as well when trying to set up a medieval tour of Transylvania (places, like Rupea, Biertan, Viscri, that are not as frequented as this by tourists and therefore, preserve better the old times flagrance, without the XXth century nice wrapping and glamours).
Apart from other sites in Romania, the communists had mercy with this place, and built their ugly-looking new blocks of flats and factories outside the fortress, far from it (thing that did not happen in Hunedoara, for instance, where the famous and so picturesque medieval castle where Mattyas Corvin lived and ruled over Transylvania, is nowadays surrounded by the metallurgical factory, with the modern, polluting and ugly-like-hell chimneys). Sighisoara became what it is today during the 14th century, when it also became a "free town", with lots of craftsmen and trademen. These people organized the place to suit their needs, they built lots of towers, one for each craftsmanship, they built churches, old houses that are still very well preserved (actually Sighisoara is still one of the best preserved still inhabited fortresses in Europe).

The Infamy pillar is no longer there, yet its place in the middle of the old square reminds one of the Damocle's sword that would have lied upon his head some 500 years ago for trespassing the heavenly rules. The clock tower, the 1654 wooden staircase that leads to the highschool and to the gothic flamboyant Monastery on the Hill (just imagine yourself going up some 200 stairs every morning to go to school!), the old cemetery, as well as the score 16-18th century houses, they all give the place a unique fragrance. But my friends were to discover these things the next day, as we were all dead tired and all that we could see before slipping in our sleeping bags, was the way to the camping place.
And the next day started like we were in the army service or something, as we woke up, cooked the fastest meal ever, grabbed our bags and headed to the fortress, which we had like 1 hour to visit (time which is not by far enough). Then we went to the train station and - tough decision. To see or not to see Bran Castle?! (the well known Dracula's Castle, yet poor ol' Vlad the Impaler only spent one night here, yet the travel agents never care about the truth as long as the tourists are so easy to fool). In vain I tried to explain to my friends that it is much more interesting to pay a visit to Peles Castle in Sinaia resort, a very complex and nice thing built by a King Charles the 1st in 1875-1883, each room being set up in a different style, the whole place being built not as a house for the king, but as a museum, with valuable paintings and sculptures and so on. Yet the big noise made by the tour operators was more than I could have born, so we headed to Bran to see that castle (which is nothing but a medieval border castle, built on the former border between Transylvania and Muntenia, two Romanian provinces), and therefore missed a few hours. Instead of that we would have better visited the fortress - much more interesting - in Rasnov, quite close to Bran actually...
After that we went back to Brasov, which we saw in two hours or so, as the medieval city is not that big (it only depicts a beautiful central square, an interesting City Hall Tower and The Black Church, a big building built in gothic style built within a century, between 1385 and 1477; there are also some nice ruins of the fortress that once lied here, as well as some towers...hehe, these medieval towns seem to be nothing but a bunch of towers, churches and squares... Then we went to the railway station - a very crowded and no-to-be-there-for-too-long place, as Brasov is a major railway crossing. Then we waved from the train to the people in Sinaia, and my friends agreed that we could have seen that nice resort, built and developed during the late 19th century, rather than Bran Castle, yet now it was too late for that. And, after a brief (when talking about train rides, a 2 and a half ride is surely brief), we were entering Bucharest North Station, in a humid and so very hot air of a late july 2000 A.D. day.

The next day we were to cross the city desperately, from the village museum (a place started by the sociologist Dimitrie Gusti and where they have brought traditional genuine houses from all over Romania), to Calea Victoriei (the fanciest and most picturesque avenue in town, beginning on the Dambovitza River quay, involving the great History Museum, the CEC building, the Royal Palace, the Romanian Athenaeum, to end up in Victoriei Square, where the Romanian Government sleeps every day instead of doing something useful for a change. I kept my friends running all over the city, as the next day they were to depart for Istanbul, and they wanted to hear or to see nothing in Bulgaria (due to the well-spread rumours about that place), while crossing it by train. So I made myself sure that they were to be tired enough to go to sleep in Russe and to wake up in Svilengrad, for the passport checking. Unluckily for them, they met this Australian in the couchette wagon that kept on nagging them, telling lots of pointless stories - like I do - so that they stayed awake thinking of adding another character to the Hall Of Fame of the trip, already involving The French Man and The Old Dude. Hopefully they didn't...