Transylvania Part 3 – Beyond the Revenge
I wrote this a long time ago, about my trip to Transylvania, but never posted it. There's probably a good reason why . . .
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I learned something about myself . . . I have tremendous difficulty distinguishing between ‘gay’ and ‘European’. My ‘gaydar’ was going off all the time in Transylvania and needed to be recalibrated to ‘Europe.’ Men are a lot more touchy-feely there. It’s kind of weird. America is such a homophobic culture, but, thankfully, people have the choice to be open about their sexuality. In Romania there is no real homophobia, because, as far as I can tell, there are no openly gay people there. I imagine it’s like it was in the olden days. Not until recently did people identify themselves as ‘gay.’ Back then, men who had gay proclivities married a woman, and sort of buggered on the side. It wasn’t really a ‘lifestyle’ thing. Romania seemed to be that way. Maybe I’m wrong.
Speaking of which, the night before I left Romania, I was nearly convinced I was being hit on by Tommy. I spent an extra three days in Romania after the symposium was over (due to a scheduling flub more than anything else), and for two of those nights, Tommy showed me around. The first night, he took me out to a bar (which will be a later story), but for the second night, hours before I was to leave for my flight (which will also be a later story), Tommy took me up to his family’s land on the woody hill outside the town. As we were walking along the path to Tommy’s bungalow, he was pointing out his family’s land. He showed me his family’s strawberry patch, grape vines, cherry trees and pointed out the boundaries of the land. It was actually pretty beautiful. “How long has your family had this land?” I asked. He had trouble understanding. “We always had it,” he answered, as if I asked the stupidest question in the world. Forgiving my stupidity, he further explained, “for thousands of years. This has always been my family’s land.”
We reached the family bungalow. It was a little wooden shack with a beautiful view of the town. We went inside and he pointed out three gigantic wooden barrels. “Wine,” he said. “We will drink some.” He removed the bung from the bung-hole (this is real terminology, people) and inserted a rubber tube into the hole, putting the other end in his mouth and sucking. He siphoned the wine like someone would siphon gas from a car, and once the wine was flowing, he grabbed two filthy cups and poured some for us. I was kind of getting weird vibes from him the entire time, but by this point I was more used to the culture, and just accounted for it as ‘European.’ “He’s just being nice,” I thought to myself. “Taking me into the woods, all alone, to share some wine on his family’s bungalow overlooking the town. Nothing wrong with that.”
“I will build a fire,” he said, grabbing a hatchet from the bungalow and going outside. “It will be very nice.”
I followed him outside and soon a ‘very nice’ fire was burning.
“Ooof. I am hot,” he told me, and took off his shirt. “I have American music on my telephone,” he said. He started playing Rihanna.
“Wow,” I thought to myself, “this is getting really gay . . .”
The sun was setting. “Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked me. “What? I, uhh, no. Not at the moment.” I immediately kicked myself, thinking that I should have said that I did. My gaydar was going off the charts. Tommy smiled. “You know what mistake people make in beginning of a relationship?” he asked, “you need to fuck on the first date or is no good.” That line of macho bullshit reminded me of the US, but the feeling that he was hitting on me did not dissipate. When guys hit on me in the US (and it does happen occasionally), I’m fine with it. In fact, it’s flattering, even though I don’t have any similar feelings. But here, in Romania, all alone with a young man who, by the look of the flab on his exposed chest and stomach, easily outweighed me by a hundred pounds, without anyone else in hearing distance – not knowing how to get back to the town, not knowing the language and not being able to get back to my hotel without his help – I suddenly got a little frightened. Moreover, what if he thought this was a first date? (Plus, I noticed, he still had the hatchet . . .)
As I was thinking of possible escape routes, Tommy’s mom and sister came up the hill. Tommy quickly put on his shirt and we got ready for dinner. He seemed a little embarrassed. For dinner, we had fire-grilled pig’s fat. Basically, it was like bacon, only a hundred times thicker, and with no actual muscle in it. Also included were raw onions that they just plucked from the ground. The mood had changed with his family there, and I was no longer in a worried state. I began to think about what he asked me. He was a younger guy at about 18 or 19. Maybe he asked me if I had a girlfriend because he needed advice, and he simply doesn’t know me well enough not to ask me. After dinner, his mom and sister left, and I asked him if he had a girl. “I am just in a break-up,” he said. “The father, he is a priest.” “Oh, that’s rough,” I told him. “Yes. But the father is not the reason. He and I just broke up.” “You mean, ‘she and I’,” I absent-mindedly corrected him. Then I finally realized it – in this case, my gaydar probably wasn’t malfunctioning. Tommy probably just needed to share –with a stranger from a land that is possibly more tolerant than his.
I learned a couple of things about myself. First, though I think of myself as a socially conscious liberal, I am possibly more homophobic than I thought I was. Second, though I always imagined myself exceedingly empathetic to the problems of others, a kind soul in a sea of selfish brutes, I found myself surprisingly indifferent to his troubles. “I, uhhh, am sure somebody else will come along,” I told him, brushing him off like so many people have done to me in the past. Then, I changed the subject, telling him that I needed to get back to my hotel soon . . .
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Transylvania Part 2 -- the Revenge!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I'm still in Romania. It's still an interesting place. I'm still exhausted, but I'm trying to get the interesting things down before I sleep them out of my system. Here a smattering of the aforementioned interesting things . . .
- There are many, many peasants in Romania. I'm not talking 'poor people,' and I'm not talking 'pheasants' (though there are wild pheasants running around too). These people are straight-out-of-the-history-books peasants. They are exact replicas of the extras you see in movies such as 'Frankenstein,' 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' ("I'm not dead yet!"), and 'Henry V.' They are people of the land, using the exact same tools and wearing the exact same type of clothes as their ancestors did a thousand years ago. I see some herding cattle across the street with a stick with a leather tail attached to the end. People with homemade pitchforks gather fresh hay and put them in horse-drawn carts. The most fascinating thing to see, though, is that they use actual scythes to reap grass on the side of the road. Honest-to-god Grim Reaper scythes. These tools have been around, unchanged, for thousands of years. The only difference that I can guess between these peasants and their great-great-great- great- great- great- great-grandfathers is that the newer models probably own cell phones . . .
- Speaking of cell phones, Romanian people REALLY like to use them. I know we Americans get a bad rap for being a 'rude' people (and maybe we are), but our cell phone etiquette puts theirs to shame (or at least should). Here are the cell phone rules for Romanians, as far as I can tell: 1. Your cell phone must have the most annoying ring-tone you can find and must be set to the highest possible volume. 2. Your cell phone must always be on. Always! Turning your phone off or setting it to vibrate will result in an immediate and agonizing death. 3. If your cell phone rings, you MUST pick it up, regardless of the situation. There are NO exceptions. On the first day of the educational symposium I was helping to film, schoolchildren were brought in to hear the stories of actual Holocaust survivors. During this three hour event, cell phones were going off left and right – and not from the students. From the teachers! One teacher excused himself from the room about six times, as his cell phone blared a techno beat with someone in a heavy accent screaming "HALLO? HALLO? HALLO?" It only got worse on subsequent days where there were only adults in the room. Every single symposium participant whose cell phone went off answered the phone. Most people quickly got up from their chairs and ran out of the room, putting the phone to their ears as they reached the door, and throughout the four day event, only one of participants looked guilty (she pulled the cell phone out of her purse, answered it, and very quietly, from her chair, whispered something to the effect of "I can't answer my phone right now . . ."). One of the helpers of the event, a Romanian kid of about 19 named Tommy, went with me and another American, Adam, to film a Holocaust survivor giving a tour of the city, talking about how things changed since the 1930s (Most of the tour went like this – "This house used to belong to the Long family. They were bakers. They had five children. They all died in Auschwitz. That house belonged to the Fried family. They made jewelry. I went to school with their daughter. They all died in Auschwitz . . . " (There were a few survivors, but not many . . .)). Anyway, Tommy had an expensive, shoulder-mounted video camera (the one I transported from the states), and whenever his phone rang, he would throw his camera off his shoulder and grab his cell phone, regardless of the fact that the survivor was in the middle of an interview. The American who was with me, one of Tommy's bosses, yelled at him. "Tommy, what the hell are you doing?!? Get off your damn cell phone!" Tommy would respond, "I cannot do this!" and looked at Adam like he asked him to castrate himself . . .
- Romanian radio is interesting. It seems like every station plays a random mix of Romanian and American music. The American music is a hodgepodge of songs that, for the most part, I haven't heard of in years. It's almost like we sold them wholesale to countries like Romania . . . I heard both Eddie Murphy's one-hit-wonder "Party All the Time" and Patrick Swayze's one-hit-wonder "She's Like the Wind" on the same day. I heard "Ice Ice Baby" and "What Is Love (Baby Don't Hurt Me)." I heard Abba and, what I think were the first few bars of an Elvis song, but the channel got changed. I obviously don't understand what the radio DJs are saying, but in what I assume to be a preview of the music played, he mentioned Britney Spears and Kenny Loggins in the same sentence. It's kind of funny how in the US, songs by Britney Spears and Kenny Loggins would be on totally separate radio stations (both of which I most likely would stay away from . . . ), but I think in Romania, there are absolutely no difference between a techno song, a rap song and an oldie. They're all just "American."
- It was sunny and pleasant every single day I was here (except for today), and thunderstormed every single night. The power went off in the town three nights in a row . . .
- One of those nights, Adam and I had the car we were using stolen. By Tommy. Here is the story: We had just finished the second to last day of the symposium, which was totally draining. Adam, Tommy and I decided to go to a restaurant and have some food before going back to the house and passing out for our 7:00 wake up the next morning. This was actually the first time I would be eating out since I have been here, and was looking forward to eating something new. At the restaurant, we met up with Daniel, the historian and curator of the museum, and a group of Israelis who were attending the seminar. We joined them for dinner. During the course of the meal, some of the Israelis mentioned that they never got to tour the museum and were leaving the next day. Daniel obliged them by giving them a tour after hours. So, Daniel and a group of Israelis got up and headed into his car for the tour. Tommy mentioned that he needed to get something from Adam's rental car's trunk and went with them. As we continued eating with the remaining Israelis, Adam looked out the window and said, "Is that my car?" I looked out the window too, and saw his blue Fiat leaving the lot. Tommy was a (more-or-less) trusted employee and we knew where he lived, so we weren't terribly worried. Plus, we had another group of guests to stay with, so we both kept calm. I assumed it was some kind of misunderstanding, and that, perhaps, they had taken that car instead of Daniel's. We finished our dinner and the rest of the Israelis left. We went to the lot and looked around. Both Adam and Daniel's cars were gone. The sun was setting and black clouds were forming overhead. We waited a few minutes outside the restaurant, but it soon started absolutely pouring, and we were forced back in. The power went out and the light from the bolts of lightning showed that the parking lot was becoming a lake. By this point, Adam was frantically calling Tommy and Daniel, but because of the storm, the phones weren't working (I know this because Tommy and Daniel are Romanians and would have picked up their phones no matter what if Adam had gotten through). Finally, after about 45 minutes of non-stop dialing, Adam got through to Daniel. "Daniel, what the hell happened? Tommy took my car and we have no way of getting home. Get back here now, and bring Tommy!" He hung up. We waited another half hour in darkness. Nobody showed up. Adam began to call again, and eventually got through. "Daniel, where are you? You're still at the museum! Get back here! NOW!" A short time later, Daniel and Tommy drove to the restaurant parking lot. It was still pouring. I got up to run into the car, but Adam stopped me. "For making us wait, they're going to have to come in and get us," he said. Daniel came in, sopping wet. "Where's Tommy?" Adam asked, angrily. "He will be picking you up now in your car," replied Daniel. "I now have to drop the Israelis at the hotel." And he ran off. He jumped into his car and drove off. Tommy followed him in Adam's rental. "What the fuck?!?" Adam cried. He tried to frantically call again, and eventually got through. Forty-five minutes later, they were back. I wondered what kind of excuse Tommy had for what just happened. The only thing he said was, "Daniel's car got stuck in the mud." I still have no idea what went on . . .
That's it for now. I'll probably write one more post about my Romanian trip, including my adventure riding a horse and a few other stories. Stay tuned!
I'm still in Romania. It's still an interesting place. I'm still exhausted, but I'm trying to get the interesting things down before I sleep them out of my system. Here a smattering of the aforementioned interesting things . . .
- There are many, many peasants in Romania. I'm not talking 'poor people,' and I'm not talking 'pheasants' (though there are wild pheasants running around too). These people are straight-out-of-the-history-books peasants. They are exact replicas of the extras you see in movies such as 'Frankenstein,' 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' ("I'm not dead yet!"), and 'Henry V.' They are people of the land, using the exact same tools and wearing the exact same type of clothes as their ancestors did a thousand years ago. I see some herding cattle across the street with a stick with a leather tail attached to the end. People with homemade pitchforks gather fresh hay and put them in horse-drawn carts. The most fascinating thing to see, though, is that they use actual scythes to reap grass on the side of the road. Honest-to-god Grim Reaper scythes. These tools have been around, unchanged, for thousands of years. The only difference that I can guess between these peasants and their great-great-great- great- great- great- great-grandfathers is that the newer models probably own cell phones . . .
- Speaking of cell phones, Romanian people REALLY like to use them. I know we Americans get a bad rap for being a 'rude' people (and maybe we are), but our cell phone etiquette puts theirs to shame (or at least should). Here are the cell phone rules for Romanians, as far as I can tell: 1. Your cell phone must have the most annoying ring-tone you can find and must be set to the highest possible volume. 2. Your cell phone must always be on. Always! Turning your phone off or setting it to vibrate will result in an immediate and agonizing death. 3. If your cell phone rings, you MUST pick it up, regardless of the situation. There are NO exceptions. On the first day of the educational symposium I was helping to film, schoolchildren were brought in to hear the stories of actual Holocaust survivors. During this three hour event, cell phones were going off left and right – and not from the students. From the teachers! One teacher excused himself from the room about six times, as his cell phone blared a techno beat with someone in a heavy accent screaming "HALLO? HALLO? HALLO?" It only got worse on subsequent days where there were only adults in the room. Every single symposium participant whose cell phone went off answered the phone. Most people quickly got up from their chairs and ran out of the room, putting the phone to their ears as they reached the door, and throughout the four day event, only one of participants looked guilty (she pulled the cell phone out of her purse, answered it, and very quietly, from her chair, whispered something to the effect of "I can't answer my phone right now . . ."). One of the helpers of the event, a Romanian kid of about 19 named Tommy, went with me and another American, Adam, to film a Holocaust survivor giving a tour of the city, talking about how things changed since the 1930s (Most of the tour went like this – "This house used to belong to the Long family. They were bakers. They had five children. They all died in Auschwitz. That house belonged to the Fried family. They made jewelry. I went to school with their daughter. They all died in Auschwitz . . . " (There were a few survivors, but not many . . .)). Anyway, Tommy had an expensive, shoulder-mounted video camera (the one I transported from the states), and whenever his phone rang, he would throw his camera off his shoulder and grab his cell phone, regardless of the fact that the survivor was in the middle of an interview. The American who was with me, one of Tommy's bosses, yelled at him. "Tommy, what the hell are you doing?!? Get off your damn cell phone!" Tommy would respond, "I cannot do this!" and looked at Adam like he asked him to castrate himself . . .
- Romanian radio is interesting. It seems like every station plays a random mix of Romanian and American music. The American music is a hodgepodge of songs that, for the most part, I haven't heard of in years. It's almost like we sold them wholesale to countries like Romania . . . I heard both Eddie Murphy's one-hit-wonder "Party All the Time" and Patrick Swayze's one-hit-wonder "She's Like the Wind" on the same day. I heard "Ice Ice Baby" and "What Is Love (Baby Don't Hurt Me)." I heard Abba and, what I think were the first few bars of an Elvis song, but the channel got changed. I obviously don't understand what the radio DJs are saying, but in what I assume to be a preview of the music played, he mentioned Britney Spears and Kenny Loggins in the same sentence. It's kind of funny how in the US, songs by Britney Spears and Kenny Loggins would be on totally separate radio stations (both of which I most likely would stay away from . . . ), but I think in Romania, there are absolutely no difference between a techno song, a rap song and an oldie. They're all just "American."
- It was sunny and pleasant every single day I was here (except for today), and thunderstormed every single night. The power went off in the town three nights in a row . . .
- One of those nights, Adam and I had the car we were using stolen. By Tommy. Here is the story: We had just finished the second to last day of the symposium, which was totally draining. Adam, Tommy and I decided to go to a restaurant and have some food before going back to the house and passing out for our 7:00 wake up the next morning. This was actually the first time I would be eating out since I have been here, and was looking forward to eating something new. At the restaurant, we met up with Daniel, the historian and curator of the museum, and a group of Israelis who were attending the seminar. We joined them for dinner. During the course of the meal, some of the Israelis mentioned that they never got to tour the museum and were leaving the next day. Daniel obliged them by giving them a tour after hours. So, Daniel and a group of Israelis got up and headed into his car for the tour. Tommy mentioned that he needed to get something from Adam's rental car's trunk and went with them. As we continued eating with the remaining Israelis, Adam looked out the window and said, "Is that my car?" I looked out the window too, and saw his blue Fiat leaving the lot. Tommy was a (more-or-less) trusted employee and we knew where he lived, so we weren't terribly worried. Plus, we had another group of guests to stay with, so we both kept calm. I assumed it was some kind of misunderstanding, and that, perhaps, they had taken that car instead of Daniel's. We finished our dinner and the rest of the Israelis left. We went to the lot and looked around. Both Adam and Daniel's cars were gone. The sun was setting and black clouds were forming overhead. We waited a few minutes outside the restaurant, but it soon started absolutely pouring, and we were forced back in. The power went out and the light from the bolts of lightning showed that the parking lot was becoming a lake. By this point, Adam was frantically calling Tommy and Daniel, but because of the storm, the phones weren't working (I know this because Tommy and Daniel are Romanians and would have picked up their phones no matter what if Adam had gotten through). Finally, after about 45 minutes of non-stop dialing, Adam got through to Daniel. "Daniel, what the hell happened? Tommy took my car and we have no way of getting home. Get back here now, and bring Tommy!" He hung up. We waited another half hour in darkness. Nobody showed up. Adam began to call again, and eventually got through. "Daniel, where are you? You're still at the museum! Get back here! NOW!" A short time later, Daniel and Tommy drove to the restaurant parking lot. It was still pouring. I got up to run into the car, but Adam stopped me. "For making us wait, they're going to have to come in and get us," he said. Daniel came in, sopping wet. "Where's Tommy?" Adam asked, angrily. "He will be picking you up now in your car," replied Daniel. "I now have to drop the Israelis at the hotel." And he ran off. He jumped into his car and drove off. Tommy followed him in Adam's rental. "What the fuck?!?" Adam cried. He tried to frantically call again, and eventually got through. Forty-five minutes later, they were back. I wondered what kind of excuse Tommy had for what just happened. The only thing he said was, "Daniel's car got stuck in the mud." I still have no idea what went on . . .
That's it for now. I'll probably write one more post about my Romanian trip, including my adventure riding a horse and a few other stories. Stay tuned!
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 . . .
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 . . .
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