Transylvania

Sunday, May 18, 2008

My trip to Romania got off to an inauspicious start. I arrived at the Newark airport over two hours early and was past security and in my departure area with about two hours to spare. I purposefully packed everything into a carry-on bag and a camcorder bag because I had a transfer in Dusseldorf and didn't want anything to be lost or smashed, but my bag was three times the weight limit (and, according to the customs lady, too large anyway), so my bag had to be checked. Nothing I could do. So, I checked it in, and if my camcorder, or my boss's laptop was damaged as the assorted workmen of the three airports threw my bag around like a sack of potatoes, I left it to the fates to decide if it was lost or damaged. I kept my camcorder bag, which contained a brand new, professional camcorder, which my boss, Alex, received in the mail right before my journey . . . at least that would be safe . . .

At Newark, I decided to kill some time by going to the only restaurant that was in the area – a Sam Adams Lounge. I ordered a chicken sandwich and a lager. I drink beer about twice a year (I actually can't stand the stuff), but for some reason beyond me, decided to order a tall glass. I was going to Germany, then transferring to Hungary and driving to Romania. The heart of beer country. The idea of going to some American joint and ordering a beer right before my flight hit me on an ironic level. I need to work on curtailing this aspect to my personality . . .

Sitting in my seat on the waiting station, I was called by the intercom to the check-in desk shortly before the flight was to call passengers to board. Apparently, I was supposed to go straight up to the desk and get a new ticket, but (even though this was explained to me) I didn't do it because I didn't understand. So, with a few minutes until the plane boarded, I was called by intercom to arrive at the desk. I went to the desk and they said to me (in a thick accent that I didn't understand, but assumed to be Welsh) that because I didn't 'check-in' I was to be given the last seat available on the flight. The woman said, "I'm sorry, but it's going to be a 'metal' seat." She handed me my new ticket. I was confused. Why was I being given a 'metal seat'? What did that even mean? Was there a seat made of cold, rusted metal on the side of the plane for the last person that signed in? Why would any company do this? I stood at the desk and asked, "what does this mean?" There were four ladies at the desk, but they all ignored me. I stood there for another minute and repeated, "what does this mean? 'Metal Seat?'" Finally, one of the ladies looked my way. "What?" she said. "What does that mean? A 'metal seat.' What does that mean?" The woman (who was African-American and obviously not Welsh) explained. "She didn't say 'metal.' She said, 'middle.'"

"Ohhh," I replied. This was not a good start . . . If I couldn't understand someone who could technically speak English, how was I supposed to get by in Romania?

I got in the plane and sat in my middle seat. Not only was it between two people, but it was between two people who also happened to be in the aisle. In other words, I was the person as far from the windows of the plane as possible. It was okay. The people sitting next to me didn't' say a word to me (I prefer this) and there was not a single screaming baby on the plane. In the 8 hour flight, I probably got two to three hours of sleep, before I rushed to my connecting flight in Dusseldorf to Budapest.

It was kind of weird. The flight, much like the one from Newark to Dusseldorf, was in two languages. In fact, it was in the exact two languages as the previous flight – German and English. I wonder how the Hungarians on the flight felt about this – flying to their own nation and not hearing their language on the flight. Not my problem, I suppose . . .

I had time to kill when I arrived in Budapest. The guy who would be driving me to Romania would not be arriving for another few hours. I've heard a lot of talk about the 'Americanization' or the 'Capitalization' of the world and how bad it is, but let me tell you – when you're travelling to another country, totally exhausted, alone and unable to speak the language, you're damn thankful that everyone in the airport speaks English and that there are places to buy a coca-cola.

After a couple of groggy hours in the Budapest airport, the guy that was to drive me to Romania arrived from his flight and we went off in a rental car (a Fiat!) to Romania. The roads of Eastern Europe are exactly as I remembered them from ten years ago – terrifying. They are rickety, windy, one-lane roads with no speed limit. If you were stuck behind a car or truck you didn't think went fast enough, you could overtake them by going into oncoming traffic. There were a couple of times we were almost clipped by mac trucks . . . Fun!

Transylvania's an interesting place. The area is beautiful, with green, rolling hills, and there is lots and lots of open land. The towns themselves, though, are literally crumbling apart. I'm pretty sure there hasn't been a new building built in the last fifty years. Everything is dusty and in some places, if you touch a wall, it will literally crumble in loose concrete chunks. Everyone here is nice enough, and most people speak at least three languages – Romanian (which, I found out, is closely related to Italian), Hungarian (which is closely related to nothing), and (thankfully) English. Some of the younger people speak English fluently. I've gotten by, so far, knowing about three words of Hungarian. "Yes," "good" and "thank you."

Here are some other things I've noticed about this place – People don't smoke as much here as I thought they would. I'd say I see people smoking more in New York than Romania on any given day. Storks are common here and they build nests of about six feet in diameter on top of telephone polls. They make a weird clicking noise that sounds like a party-favor. The frogs here sound like ducks. I hear quacking at the nearby pond and there's nothing there but frogs (which, when we first arrived, a young man was firing at with an air rifle. This was seriously the first thing I saw when I got out of the car . . .). There are tons of stray dogs. Nobody owns dogs as indoor pets, and they would probably be kicked or shot if they were to enter a house. They are outdoor animals. There are stray cats too. And chickens. Lots of chickens on the side of the road. There might be a few stray people too . . . This is definitely not a wealthy area.

The town is made up of Christians and Gypsies. I think the groups keep pretty separate, but I didn't see any ill-will expressed from one group to the other. The Gypsies are exactly as you'd imagine them to be. The women wear bright, flowery muumuus with red babushkas. One of the men I saw was wearing a fancy top-hat with a wife-beater and had a salt-and-pepper handlebar moustache. He was driving his family on a horse-driven hay cart. This is a fairly common sight here. At parties (I've gone to two so far), Gypsies are hired as entertainment. A family of male Gypsies play the fiddle, bass and accordion, led by an old, snaggle-toothed man. A boy, no older than ten, was also in the band. They were excellent.

Every meal – breakfast, lunch and dinner – is served with a shot glass and a small bottle of slivovitz. I think if I stay here much longer, I'll get sick of the stuff . . .

Everything here is fresh. I am pretty sure there is no grocery store in town. The eggs come straight from the family's chickens. The chickens come from the family's eggs. In the afternoon, I walked outside the house, and two freshly-skinned lambs were lying on the table. Blood was literally dripping from the table's cracks and onto the ground. Later that night, we had lamb for dinner, served on that very same table . . . it was actually pretty tasty . . .

I guess that's it for now. So far, as far as I know, I have encountered no vampires . . .