Romania, so far... (unproofread)

Romania,

Will-nilly, I dicided to leave Budapest, and go, well, somewhere else. I’d heard about a new bus company that was really cheap and apparently quite good, operating out of Budapest. One visit to orangeways.com and I had the astonishing realization that I could get into Romania, (only one destination is offered, the previously unheard of Cluj-Napoca) for 2900 forints. At 160 forints to the dollar that makes the 7 hour bus trip around $18. I was little dubious, but was ready to put up with almost anything.

How wrong could I be.

Orangeways is by far, and without doubt the absolute best coach/bus company I have ever had contact with, or even heard of. For my $18 I got a leather seat, free coffee (and good stuff it was too), a stewardess, the ability to recline my seat backwards 300% of what a normal airplane seat will do, TVs with dubbed movies dubbed into Magyar, and express border service (Orangeways has worked out a deal with every boarder they cross for expedited service). Truly amazing. If this company had service over more of Europe, I’d buy a season ticket. Unfortunately, they only have around a dozen lines that radiate from Budapest.

He trip to the bus was a little sketchy, I had to take the over-ground tram (which run in concentric circle around the center of Pest) to the third metro line (the metro lines radiate from the centre of Pest) and out to the stadium at Nagati (or something). The bus was waiting, the smartly uniformed staff attentive, the stewardess was surprised that I didn’t speak Hungarian (as I was the only one on the bus that didn’t), but marked my name off the lit and ushered me in. The website had had a virtual coach where seats could be reserved, so I proceeded to my pre-ordained position and ate the pastries I had brought aboard. The bus left precisely on time and got caught in traffic leaving the city.

After this the trip was fast and smooth, the coffee was often and good, and the other guests on the bus were quite pretty. Each seat had a headphones jack built into it, which played the cd the driver was listening to, the radio, or the TV’s audio. They gave out headphones, free of charge (though I already had some good ones, so I passed on these). The movies were the sequel to XXX and “Love, actually” which I was expecting to truly despise, but found (probably through the effect of the landscape, and 3 cups of espresso) to tug rather hard at the heart strings.

Cluj Napoca is the capital of Transylvania, and in the central-north-west of the country.
As we left Hungary and entered Transylvania, the flatlands broke into rolling hills, which in turn amplified into sharp mountains. The decent, through beautiful forested mountains, bedraggled villages, and sharp hairpin bends (taken very aggresivly by our driver), was an absolute dream. I was capitaved entirely. I felt as though I was undergoing an epiphany. The bus was powerful, and the driver was not very patient, and thus apt to overtake anything at all in front of him. On one such occasion, we shot around some truck, and I’m not sure if the driver had previously realized on not, but part way through overtaking, while parrellel to the truck, we both took a hard, blind left turn. So knows who might have been behind that corner. I think the driver had assumed the road was straighter for longer, or maybe he had seen further ahead on the right, but I was a little terrified.

Eventually we pull into Cluj-Napoca (pronounced Cloog-Napoka) at around 23:00, which is 11pm for everyone who has no idea what military time means. I had left in a hurry, and though I had a boking for the hostel, I had no idea how to get there, and a vague memory for the name of the street. “how hard could it be?” I started walking in the obvious direction of town. One thing after another, I got the address from a saved file on my computer, asked some locals, who asked some other locals, non of whom spoke any English at all, and I was pointed toward the center of town with the best they could do for directions in English. “Big church, Turn Left”. I was stoked. What more could i ask for, and as it turns out, these directions were just about the most perfect imaginable. I get to the church, mak my left turn and stumble into the unmarked hostel building. I wander around, I go upstairs, I try one door. It’s locked, I wander onto the balcony, nothing, I walk the other way on the balcony…a light. I found it. The clock strikes midnight. After for lengthy dealings with Gabriel, the dorky guy on duty that night (and as it turns out, probably the brother of the owner/manager), I get in some much needed sleep.

I get some food in me (and some milk, which I felt for the rest of the day) , and wander around town. I’m a little un-impressed and disheartened to read (as I only did after arriving) that Cluj is really not particularly attractive, and is probably the most expensive place to live in the country, due to the student population (it has the biggest College there, Babes somethingorother) and the largest technology presence in the country.

The rest of my time in Cluj is spent fannying about, feeling lost and sorry for myself, unmotivated, and such. I should have approached the city and my stay there differently, but the highlights where…

-The Botanical Gardens, the biggest in Eastern Europe, with a very nice lookout tower at the top which affords a great view of the city.

-The Rotai restaurant, which was incredibly hard to find, but had some much needed Traditional Romanian food. I had the Sarmoles, which are little meat and rice sausages, wrapped in vine leaves, or cabbage leaves, then boiled. This was served with a little salad, and polenta. Quite nice.

-Watching the football with the bummies on the bench across from a café (Euro2008, Germany against Portugal, Germany winning).

-The perfectly symmetrical pair of building either side of the street that I was staying on

-The very friendly staff at the hostel, which was brand new, and giving my input to the future of the hostel

I could have gotten stuck in Cluj, which would have messed with my mood even more. I really don’t know what was going on, but I wasn’t in a good headspace. Lazy and apathetic. Whatever. Maybe it was the directionlessness, maybe the fact that I was in the middle of the country, and there was good stuff to the north, and to the couth, but I was in the middle, and if I was going to see the Maramures, and the “Transylvanian Alps” (the fortress at Sighesoara particularily) then I was going to have to make a messy route of it. And I didn’t speak the language, and felt a little lonely. I dunno.

After 3 nights in Cluj, I managed to escape, and walked across town in the blazing heat, with backpacks that really ought to be lighter, to the bus station. I had tentatively booked into a Pension in Vadu Izei, in the Maramures (pronounced Ma-ra-Moo-ReSH). The busses were quite disorganized, and non of them looked a tenth the quality of Orangeways, but I was fine with that, as the 7 hour bus ride north to Sighetu Marmatei (always shortened to Sighet) would cost me 30 Ron, or about $13. This bus smelt bad, was hot as hell as it waited in the yard, and was by my watch, about 30 minutes late starting. This was definitely not a tourist bus. I am positive no-one else spoke anything other than Romanian on the bus, but was quietly happy about this, as it seems everywhere I go, Americans are around the corner, waiting to lung out and make me feel really embarrassed for being there. Maybe it’s that I want to be the only one, and thus special, or maybe it’s that I don’t want to be lumped into a group, or maybe it’s that I want a more immersive experience, or maybe I just really hate most Americans…)

The bus got pretty full, which I was surprised about, but it kept pace, and managed to get us through the truly amazing (every better than the scenery seen on the Orangeways bus) surrounding. Romania, particularly the northern villages in the Maramures, are truly amazing. I love them. Steep mountains, windy roads, ram shackled houses and farms. Horses, towing carts, laden with hay, with people dozing in it! For real. Old men on 40 year old bikes. Wrinkly, incredibly wrinkly old women. Chickens, bulls, cows, pigs…and cherries. It must be cheery season here. The number of cherry stalls set up on the side of the road is unfathomable.

The bus passes through Vadu Izei, but I’m too shy to run up to the front of the bus, leaving my belongings (such as passport) next to the (obviously much poorer than i) guy sitting next to me, and try to persuade the driver to let me off. So I get of at the next stop, a good 5 miles past Vadu Izei village. I say fuckit, and start walking. After about half an hour, I stick my thumb out, and see if I can hitch a ride. No-one stops. I keep walking till I find the first pensiune (pension…not sure why there are two names for them) after about 45 minutes of walking back towards Vadu Izei, but the lady speak no English at all, and her husband, well, speaks no English at all. I could have stayed, and worked out the details through expression and sign language, but knew there were many more, so I decided to walk further on. The next one bore an uncanny resemblance to the one the managed at the hostel in Cluj had phoned for me, and bore most of the same name, but I’m still not sure if they are the same or not. After a little negotiation on price (them telling me how low it was, and me accepting), I dropped my bag off and ate some dinner. Home made Sarmoles, and some cheap from-a-tin chicken soup, bread and probably homemade fluffy cake. Rad. I attempted to wash my dishes but the hosts laughed at me, and I submitted after not being able to locate the dish-soap. A great shower and a little time with your good selves afterwards. No wireless within range, predictably, so this will have to wait till I next have some sort of connections.

peter

Today was honestly one of the best I think I may have ever had. Well, I’ll retract that a little, but it was, honestly, completely captivating. The family I am staying with in Maramures is Greco-catholic, and they invited me to come to their church in Danesti, about 30 minutes drive away. They promised they would all be in traditional garb, and that I would have opportunities for photography. Ok, i am open to absolutely anything. I am instructed to get up early for breakfast at 8am. I get up a little after that, to find a place laid for me, fresh coffee, bread, jam, local (if not homemade) butter and cheese, a sort of salami-sausage, a hard boiled egg, and a tomato, cut into 6ths. This was great. (I sampled the cheese, even though I knew that if I had too much I’d have terrible gas all day). We all hopped in the car, and I was introduced to the second daughter of the family Yani. Gorgeous, in a totally different way to her sister Claudia, who was my translator and liaison for my first night here. Yani’s English was not quite as good as Claudia’s, but as the day wore on, it got better and better. We drove to the church, with traditional music playing (though it had a heavier, more synthy beat), the countryside was spectacular, and I was stoked about the fiddle style in the music. As we pulled up to the church, I saw plenty of people (though not all) in traditional costume, and was surprised (and somehow proud) to find out that my host was actually a priest as well as a farmer, father, and pension host. He took some berries off the tree in front of the car, similar berries to the ones I’d been shown in his garden before we’d left, but these ones where a deep purple colour, and held a good resemblance to blackberries, only they grew on big trees with totally different leaves, without thorns, and fruit was a little longer. We waited for the service, I took a couple pictures as discreetly as possible, and then I got bored, waiting for the Romanian language service to end. The church was packed, so I was in the doorway with at least 50 others listening from a distance. I wandered over to the berriy tree, took an few more, and lay down under a tree staring into the sky, watching the clouds drift by as the summer air wafts over me, and the Romanian service floated by. Very nice.

After this we were all taken for a walk down the street, and ended up at a huge table, set for a small army, and we treated to wave after wave of incredible home-made food. I always feel a little self-conscious, and very touristy if I wave my camera about, so there are no pictures of this feast, but let me sum it up. First we started with deli type platters of ornately arranged ham, sausage, some sort of egg and mushroom quiche-loaf, and these little pakora type fried balls of wonder. Then came soup, the same type as I’d had the night before (I guess it is a local dish after all, seems a little out of place, thin chicken soup with noodles a little thinker than angle hair and a couple carrots). Next came an chunk of lamb, on the bone, tender and succulent, flavor exploding out of it. Some of the best lamb I’ve ever had. On par (though very different) with Richard Henry’s full lamb roasts, which is, dear readers, saying a hell of a lot. Finally there where a few platters of cakes and the like.

Throughout the process, I made great friends with the people around me, learned a little Romanian, they learned a little English, we all drank local Plum(?) Brandy, then wine, then beer, all of which were local. I felt so absolutely welcomed. So at home. I felt entirely at home. It was wonderful. Really, really wonderful. I haven’t experienced hospitality of it’s like in such a long time that I’ve forgotten when it might have been.

“Narok”! I would say, to my buddy next to me, and he would reply with a half remembered and mis-pronounced “cheers!”, as we sipped out brandy, wine and beer.

I also managed to have a very intelligent conversation with a doctor of vetinary oncology (in Cluj) about America, the next president, communism in Romania, communism in maramures (it didn’t really reach into the absolute boonies, and the commies didn’t care).

All in all it was a great, wonderful experience, and I can say that living in the maramures, while it would require me to learn Romanian, would be entirely satisfying, other than the fact that I would somehow have to satisfy the 80% orthodox Christian population.

Word and phrases I’ve learned so far. (often spelt phonetically, here, for easy of pronunciation, for you, as you sing along)

“Moots-oo-Mesk” – thank you

“mashina” – car

“gari” – station

“autogari” – bus station

“narok!” – cheers!

“da/noo” Yes/no

“casa” house

“tren” train

“Copii” child

“adulti” adult

“poilitia” police

“biserica” church

“frati” family/sister/brother

“mama” mother

“tata” father

“camera” sleep

More, actually, that I can’t really think of of hand, and more still that I can read but not pronounce, but understand….boy, I really love Romania.

Transylvania

yes,
so i get of the bus, it's 23:00, in a little town in transylvania, romania, called Cluj-Napoca. I have the name of the hostel in my head, but no directions, i don't know the street it's on, and i don't have any romanian money (i do however, have Hungarian forints, British pounds sterling, euros, and dollars). I wander across the bridge, towards the railway station. nothing is in English. i fell very far from home, and completely absolutely amazing. THIS is what i came for, THIS is what i want. i wander around, pull out my laptop, onto which i had thankfully saved the address of the hostel. (but interestingly, Google maps does not ever have this city mapped out.

http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&q=cluj-napoca&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=52.240038,87.539063&ie=UTF8&ll=46.776306,23.60429&spn=0.044556,0.085487&z=14

so write the address down

Transylvania Hostel
Str. Iuliu Maniu Nr.26, Apt 12, Cluj-Napoca.

and start wandering around town. by now it's at least 23:30. I see a sign for Luliu something. i walk that way. after 10 minutes, i ask some old guy on the street. he speaks no English. he gestures, but nothing that resembles directions at all. He starts looking around, and shouts down the street to two paramedics getting out of an ambulance (i stopped near a small medical facility). After a lot of arguing, the very kind lady says, as best she can...

"big church. turn left"

i give them all hugs and go on my way. i find a big church, i turn left, the street is correct, and i walk into this crazy courtyard. everything is quiet. i see no signs for a hostel. i wander around, go upstairs, and look for doors that don't seem painted shut or boarded up. i see light through a window, it looks like a hostel. i knock on the window. it's exactly midnight.

peter

PS i've got more writing stashed away, and it'll come out eventually. i hope. and picture too. i hope...
but for now, it stopped raining, so i'm going to go outside and see this crazy place.

New York

New York.
I was expecting to not really like New York, but within a week, I knew the subway system pretty well, knew the various boroughs, and felt almost at home. I enjoyed being in it, seeing how much more complex everything was. How much mor grafitti there was everywhere. how used and worn everything seemed. Who would have thought i would have enjoed that? In my mind, New York was the most intimidating city I could imagine, and it was, when I started out, but by the time I had to leave, I felt almost totally at home. Another city added to the list of those in which I might live in the future, though not for very long. a year or two at most.

My first real day was spend simply walking around, getting lost and finding myself again, I stumbled through the east village, along Broadway to union square, then down through the lower east side, Chinatown, the other way again on bowery street, then through Soho to Downtown proper. I was looking for a cheap day backpack, but really wanted to find a $3 thrift store jobbie. To no avail, I ended up getting one in some downtown shop, cheap, and functional, but you know, made in China. As I was leaving the shop, directly facing the site of the old World Trade Center, I got a call from Roger. He just outright said it. “Kirk is dead, man”. I couldn’t believe it, I was sure he was screwing around, joking, because I was far away and had not way of checking is information. But no. It because evident that he had died, earlier in the morning, killed on his bike. I got off the phone with him, and then the phone kept ringing, and I kept phoning people I thought should know. Tara was my first thought. Thankfully she was available to call heather, Kirk’s girlfriend, whose number no-one I had talked to had had. She called and immediately went over to heather’s place and hung out with heather as much as possible.

As many faults as my sister has (and lord know I’d be the first to point them out) she went above and beyond the call of duty of this one. Last I spoke to her, she had been by heather’s side for three days straight. Exactly what heather needs, someone to be there, hang out, not even say anything, just to be around.

After this news, I sat a while, thoughts racing. I felt dull and fatalistic, as usual. Things happen, people die. We are remarkably insulated by death these days, what with modern medicine, warning on coffee cups, the, the proliferation of cops, etc. And thus, when someone does die, we all freak out. In the old days, people would die all the time, and those left were de-sensitized, de-sensationalized. Tragic non-the-less.
The rest of my day was spend thinking about this, talking with my half-sister Jessica about it, and imagining how it had happened, how everyone was feeling.

The next day I met up with my friend Emmie, whom I’d met at the warehouse party in SF a few months earlier. She lives upstate a little, but stays in the city all the time, and was selling all her things in preparation to live in LA for the summer. We met up at her friend’s house, and headed out to Brooklyn, in an attempt to sell some clothes to vintage shops in that area. The main place we tried was Beacon’s Closet, the trendiest, hippest hipster shop in town. They took our bag of clothes and told us to come back in three hours. At this news, we decided to head over to her friend’s house with a six-pack. Brooklyn Summer Ale was the obvious choice for the day as it was rather nice out. We walked to his place (even though we were told it was much too far) got the beer and drank in his yard. Eventually, we headed back to discover that the store had selected to buy only one of her things, and she had a measly $5. Bummer. Anyhow, she was hosting a little party that night, and we had to get back to procure some booze. It was her half-birthday, and the party would be a half themed party. Everyone had to be half dressed, we would drink white Russians with half and half, and the plan was rather half-baked. We went on a wild goose chase to get the damn booze, which was amazing to me, as liquor is everywhere in SF, but in NY, there are grocery stores, beer stores, and liquor store, and the three must not be mixed. Weird. The party was hosted in the apartment of her friend who was the son of a NYU professor, who lived on the 24th floor of a NYU faculty building. With a Picasso statue in the courtyard no less. We got vodka, Kaluha, half and half, and big ol’ box of beers. The party went, we all got drunk, and I ended up outside, admiring the Picasso before deciding to WALK home, from 5th and Bleecher to 119th and Lenox. A long, long way. I had music, and I was rocking out the whole way. I stumbled through part of central park, before realizing that some would say it is a bad idea to walk drunk, at 2:30am, through central park, but I just felt like walking, so my trip home took around 2 hours.

At some point, after stumbling upon the "lower east side festival" or somesuch, i walked past a pretty mirror lined booth just of the street, with music wafting out the doors. Inside all sorts of DJ equipment, records, computers, a dj, his homie, and his guest lay scattered around. This was "east Village Radio". I stood in the open doorway for a while listening, and getting up the courage to ask for a song dedicated to kirk. The DJ shifts changed. and i asked the new guy. He played some dark, synthy thing in kirk' honour, and made and announcement on the radio. I was hoping that just maybe, someone who knew him was listening in NY at the time.

Also while in New York, I managed to see a friend that I hadn’t talked to in around 5 years. I emailed Marian a while before getting into New York, but had not heard anything back from her, so assumed that I wouldn’t get to see her. But half way through my stay, we managed to meet up, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, hang out in Dumbo, wave at people in England through a huge underground “Telescope”. Drink more beers, eat great hamburgers at Fives guy’s, drink margaritas, hit up their local “bodega” (read sketchy corner store) and … Play Rockband. Marian’s boyfriend peter had a sweet pad in downtown Brooklyn, with the full setup; Big TV, PS3, and Rockband. I tried singing first, was demoted to drums, and further demoted to Bass Guitar. On guitar, I managed to hold it together, and actually ended up getting pretty decent for someone as musically un-inclined as myself. The sun came up, and we all went to bed. I dragged myself up of the couch that next morning with some difficulty. Peter (Marian’s boyfriend) and I went out to Junior's for breakfast and hypothetical conversations. Junior's was pretty crazy. I didn’t visit the bathrooms there myself, but was impressed to hear, that although it was an average, perhaps slightly upscale diner, there was a Bathroom Attendant, who would soap your hands for you, apply cologne, and such like, in the hopes of getting a tip. Pretty cool.


I left, and hopped on the Q train to Coney Island, where I met up with Jessica. We went on the Cyclone, which was surprisingly good, whiplash inducing, but, you know, what self-respecting, 80 year old fair ground ride doesn’t give you whiplash. Next it was bumper cars. With tongues dyed blue from the cotton candy, we laughed. We hung out on the beach, got more junk food, and finally came back in, via, (predictably for Jessica) a great Vietnamese restaurant.

My Last day in New York was me exploring central park, hanging out, listening to music, and for the last hour before I had to leave for the airport, hanging out with Marian and peter again.

There were, of course lots of other adventures and weird sightings, but for the moment, those can’t be recalled, or won’t be told.

Peter