“I ate bear on top of a mountain!” Something I never expected to come out of my mouth, and one of many pleasures Romania offered but, we had to get there first.
Bucharest. We stay in the center of the old city on our first night in Romania. The train station had restaurants. It was late and who knows if we’d find another open? Our train had rumbled through the food desert and so did our stomachs. I don’t know if the rest of the routes are the same or not and I’m a little spoiled. I like to eat. To prove it, I have the fluff. There’s a reason Maslow’s Hierarchy makes it one of our first basic needs. Cold I can take, safety can be questionable, food rises above it all.
No restaurants or even people inside the poorly lit stations tucked in beside the tracks. Behind the vending machine’s glass are empty spirals of wire or rails of plastic, although I did score two cups of machine-made muddy coffee and a bag of dried mini bagels they eat in Europe. I made it back on the train with thirty seconds to spare but, at least we ate something in the seventeen hours we were on trains.
We leave the next day just before ten. We hit the street in front of our hotel early and get our reservations at a window that was closed the previous night. Digitally attach them to our tickets with only mild cursing, and we are ready. Amazing! Getting better navigating the Eurail maze. Forced to get better rather, it’s swim or flounder. Either way, I won’t break my arm patting myself on the back. That bastard Murphy is waiting for me. (He catches me later. You’ll see)
Little shops line the train station. Arches dressed in glass sit above each track that end near their front doors. The clock above keeps time above it all. We find breakfast at one of them. The servers are cheerful in their jackets, breathing steam into the chilly morning. I find a glorious chicken cutlet sandwich. My wife disagrees with me, but I stick to my guns. One of the best sandwiches I’ve had. She says I was still hungry from the day before.
My beard catches crumbs and everything else like it has opposable thumbs. Trying to get them out by any means other than just slapping it with my hand just makes the crumbs burrow deeper, or broadcasts them wherever the wind blows. I slap them anyway. My wife loves to point it out and laugh. No help there.
No one ever told me beards were napkin-proof sponges of anything liquid, has flavor, a scent, or produces crumbs. Everything, and I mean everything, falls into these categories, by the way. If it’s sticky, forget it. I might as well get in the shower. I make it sound gross. It’s not (all the time). It’s really not and I refuse to shave it. Much to my mother’s dismay.
The train to Brasov is far from full. We get our own little enclosure of seats. And watch the flat grass and low trees turn to evergreens and hardwoods with fern covered feet as the train climbs. The grey, steep broken stone ledges and peaks of the Carpathian Mountains sweep by the windows. Mountain towns and villages line the narrow canyons and gorges dotting our passage along the way. The steep pitches of chalet roofs on the extreme slope can barely obstruct the view of the first-floor windows of the houses behind. In the winter, the roads must be a nightmare for cars.
The canyon walls give way and we’re in Brasov. I find a rental car that’s near the station. On GPS, it’s nowhere nearby. We walk, cases in tow and backpacks strapped. It’s warm for autumn and I’m sweating down my back when we get there. The rental agency isn’t there. I get a message on my phone and call back. It’s the agent. She’s on the beach, her daughter will handle our car rental. Where I’m standing is the old address. The correct one is, in fact, by the train station. We get a taxi. Alexandra is great and sees us through our rental. I shoe-horn myself in and we are off.
Through tangled streets, the GPS takes us to our temporary home. Overlooking a small mountain and nearby dam and reservoir, the apartment is on the fourth floor of a conglomeration of tenement blocks. I write and organize a rough wandering plan. Who doesn’t want to wander around Transylvania in October? Sigishora, is a village many have never heard of. It, Transylvanian villages, towns and cities look out from the top of hills and occupy the riverbanks and ravines at their feet. Many get cut into sections by the water and rejoined by bridges, some of these centuries old. This is the birthplace of Vlad Tepes. Known as Vlad the Impaler. The inspiring figure behind Stoker’s Dracula.
The house remains where he was born. Inside of a small hamlet-type village that covers the top of what is called a low mountain here. A square clock-tower dominates the small castle there but, he wasn’t born in a castle. It’s a small, unassuming rectangular building just outside what used to be the portcullis. Its plastered exterior is a cheerful yellow. A small plaque marks the location. A humble beginning you wouldn’t think associated with the grandeur that Hollywood and active imaginations of writers and storytellers would have you believe. Of course, most of what they have drilled into the heads of people is incorrect. I’m not here to dispute that, just to learn and see. Like any other gawky tourist. The story telling for me will come later. We look, take photos, check out a funky antiques store. Its front door seems to crawl out from under a building. It’s so unique I have to look.
It’s a tourist trap but, we walk through. I bought the tickets and put in extra for the “Chamber of Tortures.” People were much more gruesome, once upon a time. One of these I recognize, I’ve spent time in a version. If you’ve ever broken your ankle, you know exactly the form of torture called “The Boot” I’m referring to.
The next day we find our way to Bran Castle is a must if you ever find yourself in Romania. Marketed to be Stoker’s Dracula castle but, it only has loose ties to Vlad Tepes and this one is far from crumbling as it is in the story. The world of fiction is a wonderful thing. That must be where the confusion comes from. Fiction itself crossing that fabled fourth wall into the public perception through stories. For me, that makes fiction even more fun to read, experience, and write most of all.
A craft and maker’s village has sprung up around the entrance and we wander through. They all seem to tote the same ready-made crap and try to pass it off as “Hand Made”. Except one. Hand-carved faces and figures, flowers and vases. Carved from bone, antler and wood, and the man who’s talented hands creates it all is there.
Manole, (I apologize if my spelling is off) and his wife are running their booth. We talk for a while, other customers he helps come and go spending a bit of time with each. We talk about his work and what I’m doing, also what I’ve done in the past. He teaches me the art of slip knots for a necklace. My son will get a story about what it means to wear the Dacian wolf with his. I get another for myself, both carved from antler. I ask for a photo with him and he’s happy to oblige. If you find yourself in Romania, at Bran Castle, go see him. Talk for a while. You’ll be glad you did. He’s the type of human being you’ll be grateful to have met, just as I am, and he’s more than willing to give you a little of his life to take home with you. He’ll even teach you to tie the knots.
