My Polish friends thought I was mildly eccentric to ride to Istanbul but blatantly bonkers to cycle in Romania. They should know, Poles were the Warsaw Pact's pack rats and hawked wares from sea to shining sea- the Baltic to the Black. No Polish peddler encouraged pedaling a bicycle through Romania. "The gypsies will eat you alive" was a common refrain. One friend advised bringing 200 condoms to trade for food. The regime wanted more citizens so birth control was officially discouraged. "I saw used condoms hanging on clothes lines on balconies in Bucharest" he told me. Rent rubbers profile an ill-conceived birth control policy that gave birth to today's overflowing orphanages. A recent news report revealed that staff in Romanian foundling homes gave babies blood transfusions as a nutritional supplement because it's cheaper than food. Intrigued and a bit intimidated, I pointed my bike south and decided to take my chances. Cher's "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" was a tune that echoed through my head for the whole trip, persistent as a late night info-mercial trying to sell you all the music you hated from the seventies. Unfortunately my mental remote control just couldn't change the soundtrack until I hit Bulgaria.
In Hungary I stocked up with food and three cartons of the rumored favored brand of cigarettes, "Kent". I fancied a Kent smoker as a debauched Pat Boone, an aspiring member of an entry level country club, exclusive enough to keep out his immigrant parents but still an affordable place to show off his third place trophy wife. Debby Boone crooning, "you light up my life" would have been an appropriate jingle for the brand. This image clashed with my perception of Romania populated by plebian peasants. Years earlier the American Company had a joint venture in the country and it's marketing appeal lingered long after the venture itself went up in smoke.
The Romanian and Hungarian comrades' threats to close the "fraternal socialist border" for citizens of their neighboring countries created a queue of panicked travelers over three kilometers deep. Bucharest blamed Radio Budapest's broadcasts for inciting the Hungarian minority in Romania to demand more autonomy. Budapest resented Bucharest's attempts to shut down Hungarian cultural institutions in Transylvania that predated the foundation of the modern Romanian State. Many of the East German Trabants, Polish Fiats and Romanian Dacias had tents pitched next to them, not an encouraging sign for us "Bulgaria or Bust" in 72 hour types. I felt like I was on a rolling peep show while I meandered my way to the head of the line. Do you say "Good Morning" when you have eye contact with people in various states of undress and washing up at dawn? I tried to keep my eyes focused on the road and not steal glances at the exhibition of Central European lingerie, but many people were shouting and waving at me. I don't know if it was because I was sneaking to the crossing or if they were providing moral support. Perhaps it was a polyglot chorus of "lose faith all thee that enter here".
The Hungarian guard barely looked at my passport and wished me "gute fahrt", his tone and look of sympathy meant "good luck" more than "have a pleasant journey". The Romanians were a bit more formal and I was glad that I picked up three cartons of Kents as I lost the first one just getting into the country. A woman custom's agent insisted that I go to the back of the line, all three kilometers of it. That would have been a problem, as I would have to get another visa for Hungary! I don't know who told her I actually jumped the queue, in retrospect it was just a ploy for three packs of smokes. Then she ordered me to unpack my bike, every bag. I was lucky that I didn't bring the 200 condoms, as it would have been hard to declare them for personal use. I guess to prove that they were really required for the duration of my vacation I could have asked the officer for a date, and yes, bring all friends and relatives. I'm sure that this request from a guy in black spandex wouldn't have been too surprising. When she demanded that I remove the seat post, another three packs. I didn't want to eventually take out the stem, bottom bracket and perhaps dismantle the freewheel. With a rakish wag of a finger, she directed me to step inside the custom's office. Immediate thoughts of the rubber glove treatment made me wonder if I should take my film canister full of Phil Wood grease. I brought it for emergencies but I thought it would be my hubs that would require the lube. I was willing to bribe big bucks to save my butt. The comic in me was dying to shout "hey, why don't you check up the old prostate while you're at it, I'll throw in some more Kents", but borders and airline security checks are bad time for jokes. Fortunately, my shorts stayed up and I was only requested to lay money down and do the mandatory exchange of hard currency.
While trading a short stack of Hamiltons for a large pile of lei, I noticed a commercial sized refrigerator in the office. When a guard came in and crammed in a smoked ham, I saw that the fridge was stuffed with international delicacies. The stock of Hungarian salami, Swiss chocolates and branded booze would do an uptown Manhattan food emporium proud. The portrait of Ceausescu smiled and benevolently blessed all these transactions. With a satin robe draped majestically over his shoulders and a staff that looked suspiciously like a scepter, the leader of the Romanian Proletariat appeared more regal than red. Indeed, he was grooming his son to inherit the state, the first communist dynasty. While daddy lost his head before he could crown that of his Bolshevik boy, I am positive that it's business as usual at this frontier. While the flag has changed, I bet the fridge is as packed as ever, the wait is nearly as long and the rubber glove poised for action.
With a wad of worn lei in my wallet and the bike haphazardly repacked, I
finally got back on the road, the crossing lasted only 90 minutes. I knew
that some of the cars I passed in line would only catch up with me in a
couple of days.
The road followed a river that was very scenic. I was relieved to see that
I could at least understand some of the traffic signs. I was hopeless in
Hungarian, a language that shares its Turkish roots with Estonian and
Finnish. Romanians are proud that they are heirs to the Romans and their
language is the closest to Latin being spoken. In their cultural awakening,
after centuries of domination by the Turks and other foreigners, they
imported many words directly from the French. This said, I noticed a sign
proclaiming "Drum Bun", meaning good road. The broken rhythm of the rough
road certainly drummed my buns as I bounced on my brooks.
I paused several times to readjust my bags from the slap and dash packing on the border. Every time I stopped on the international thoroughfare, dirty, begging children surrounded my bike shouting "gumi gumi gumi". Their insistence quickly eroded whatever sympathy I had for them. I promised myself that the next time I ride through the country, I'd bring massive quantities of Ex-Lax gum. That should get these begging buggers running for home and off the streets for a while. As soon as I got off the main road, the children became shy, as travelers were far too infrequent to create a mooching mentality. Most of these beggars were gypsies, but it is grossly unfair to say all gypsies beg. They live, for lack of a better word, in clans, each with its own inherited profession. Some clans are settled and others, while nomadic, perform tasks like knife sharpening, tinsmithing and like work. The clans that practice beggary are a rather vocal minority. Of course, economics dictate what the clans can do. The "invisible hand of the marketplace" forces many traditionally working gypsies to, at best, beg for handouts, or at worse, stick their fingers in your personal belongings. You do have to be careful not to become "wheeless in Wallachia".
After leaving the frontier, the landscape gradually changed from the flat Hungarian plain back to the Carpathian Mountains, part of the same range that starts in southern Poland extends throughout the Balkans. After 30 km I felt the pressure of the frontier behind me and wanted to stop, meet the locals and attempt to grab something to eat and drink. I realized that this might have been wishful thinking. Even Poles told me how poor Romania was, and Poland in '86 was hardly a consumer paradise. Most of the regimes east of the Elbe maintained power through a Machiavellian mixture of nationalism and repression mixed with a heavy dose of classic Roman bread and circus. I thought that Ceausescu must throw his 22 million subject/comrades an occasional crust while diverting resentment against the regime through public pageants. Certainly, there was no lack of communist capers in ringmaster Ceausescu's circus. He played God by diverting the ancient course of the Danube. Acting as a Maoist maverick he rebuffed Moscow's orders to recall his ambassador to China. He scored ultimate entertainment value and points with the west by breaking ranks with the Soviet Block's boycott of the LA Olympics. Romania is in Europe and I was confident that I wouldn't starve. Plus I had hard currency and a stash bag of cigarettes, coffee, and chocolate to barter for bed and breakfast. I thought it due time to put my conviction to the test and make the first foray for vittles.
Almost on cue, I saw three men of undetermined age talking loudly and walking with what appeared to be beers. Other travelers warned me that if a local spoke with a foreigner they would have to report the content of the conversation to the local People's Militia. While I found many people to be rather taciturn, these three members of beer drinking before noon brotherhood were very boisterous. As I fumbled through my phase book, one asked in formal German what I wanted. Bier hier. After furiously consulting with each other for several minutes the German speaker urged me to follow him, his friends reluctantly took up the rear. I was starting to get worried when we entered a barn and wound our way through a maze of doors in several buildings. After living in both Poland and East Germany I developed a casual sense of security. Normally, only Cops are criminals in a Police state and they are readily recognizable by their uniforms. Right when apprehension almost overpowered my thirst we broke into a courtyard. It was an opening surrounded by agricultural outbuildings, at one end was a makeshift bar, a rough plank precociously supported by two uneven barrels. Unmatched, chipped glasses and a tub of once clean water completed the décor. What the place lacked in ambiance, it made up in convenience as I brought my bike with me and parked it next to a hay-laden cart outfitted with iron wheels. The lone woman in the open-air establishment served me a beer courtesy of the German speaker. His generosity robbed me of the opportunity to sing "lei lady lei", a ditty I had running through my head since I changed money. After the delights of Bohemian brew, the taste left a lot to be desired but I felt lucky the drink was wet and hey, it was free. I opened a pack of Kents and passed them to men who all looked like could grace the cover of National Geographic. The mountain of a barmaid demurely hesitated but then deftly placed a lone smoke in her makeshift moneybox. Although I never received a butt in change, I later discovered that cigarettes were more tradable than Romanian currency. The man who stood me the beer took two, put one behind his ear and fired the other one up. I asked him where he learned such perfect German, he countered by asking me where I learned mine because he could easily detect my accent. He was a "volksdeutsche" who could trace his ancestry to the "Siebenbürgen Deutsche", the "seven castle Germans". After avoiding all conversation that could get my new found friends in trouble, I passed out more smokes and hit the road. Getting out of the Romanian speakeasy was easier than getting in, I just followed my bicycle tracks in the dust.
While I was riding in a People's Republic, the ethnic compensation of western Romania and the state of technology as evident in the makeshift bar made me feel like I was travelling in the Austrian Empire in the heyday of Franz Joseph's' reign. For centuries both Hungarian Kings and Austrian Emperors encouraged the settlement of hard working Germans to populate an area decimated by plagues and Mongol massacres. While always present, Romanians became dominant only after the First World War when Hungary lost (or Romania regained, take your pick) more than half its territory, including Transylvania. Ran down churches and roadside way stations illustrated the migrations of people. For every Orthodox Basilica I discovered that there was two Catholic Churches and even more Protestant chapels. A synagogue turned into a feed depot was a poignant reminder of the absence of recent residents. While forced to live in supposed socialist brotherhood, the region seethed with historical resentments. Ethnic Hungarian protests eventually heralded the annulment of Ceausescu the Second's coronation. It was an inspiring sight to see dissidents waving the Romanian flag in cities with large ethnic Hungarian populations during Romania's revolution. The flag featured a large hole in place of the hated Socialist State Seal. Thus the citizens of Romania were finally united under a ventilated banner. While the political landscape of this contested land boasts tidal wave ebbs and flows, the ancient course of the river , the mountains and the perseverance of the population served as reminders of the region's ultimate timelessness.
The Carpathian Mountains have lost little of the wildness that inspired so many Gothic horror novels. Here the so-called "Seven Castle Germans" built fortress villages in a strategy similar to the American pioneers circling of the wagons during an Indian attack. The German settlers joined their houses together in a continuous ring as defense against bandits and marauders in an area where imperial power was weak during the day and all but disappeared at night. In the heat of the afternoon, I completed a rather stiff climb from the river and pulled into the Market "Square" of one such round village. I saw a ghost town. The town pump was rusted and there was a dearth of activity. A third of the houses had broken windows and weeds grew between the flagstones. The inhabited homes had the look of genteel poverty. While the paint was faded, it was not chipped. The abandoned houses had wind swept debris on the doorsteps whereas handmade brooms leaning on tidy porches signaled occupancy. Either windows were broken or squeaky clean. The only sound that signaled human habitation was a rhythmic thump that ricocheted off the walls of the enclosed plaza. I spied a solidarity girl simply clad in a schoolgirl's frock jumping rope. With each thump of the rope a small pile of dust rose about her ankles. She was well into puberty and I hoped no one thought me indecent as I watched her skip. She shyly, yet purposely, established eye contact that I interpreted as an invitation to strike up a conversation. An old woman peeked between simple white curtains and warily chaperoned us with a suspicious gaze. Risking appearing like a character created by Nabokov, I dug in my panniers and pulled out a chocolate bar that the girl gracefully accepted. Even though she was still engaged in childish games, I felt that in a matter of 24 months a Kent would be as eagerly welcomed.
Despite her flawless German accent, it was obvious that she was linguistically wired for Romanian. When I asked her age she answered, "I have fifteen years" and not the Germanic "I am 15 years old". Only logical, my Slavic friends could never understand why we ask how old a baby is as an infant is not old at all. I asked her where the villagers went. Many migrated to the larger towns, like her father and mother. Perhaps this village was one of the thousands that the regime sought to liquidate in a bizarre attempt to create a new class of "proletarian peasants" by forcing thousands of rural Romanians to move to semi-urban apartment blocks. She politely informed me that she was just visiting her grandmother for part of her summer vacation. She missed her cousins. Her uncle, like many others, took advantage of Germany's feudal citizenship law to return to a Homeland their great grandfathers never knew. The Federal Republic recognizes anyone that can prove they have sufficient German blood as Germans with full rights of resettlement. In the heat of the cold war so called "volksdeutsche" ranked among the region's largest exports. West Germany would actually pay communist governments a bounty per head. Poles labeled their self-professed Teutonic minority as "Volkswagen Deutsche". Potential Polish immigrants endeavored to enter the prosperous west by claiming German citizenship based on the possession of a dachshund two generations back. Even in '86, it was apparent that Romania's German community, with it's rich folk traditions, unique dialect and remarkable history would irrevocably fade from the "the land beyond the forests", Transylvania. The girl told me that her family was going to join Onkle und Tante very soon and she was actually staying in the ancestral abode for the last time. With this child goes the future and a distinctive part of Romania. What remains is Grandma sitting in an immaculately clean house while the village crumbles around her.
The first day was drawing to a close and I still did not know where I was going to lay my head. I continued following the river and put my trust in a map that denoted a "modern recreational facility" in about 40-km. The scenery was striking. The small hills were refreshing after the flat, straight roads of Hungary. The river villages differed greatly from their counterparts on hilltops. Instead of being round, they snuggled between the hills and riverbanks. Most were only two or three streets deep. Party slogans greeted me as I entered and left every town. While most villages were ran down, I did not witness the pollution that has earned Romania condemnation not only from Green Peace but also from the country's neighbors and the World Health organization as well. In larger towns I was amazed to see huge bladders on top of the busses, they were full of clean natural gas. This was a pleasant surprise. All the other public transportation I dodged on the trip spewed diesel soot on my face. One Slovakian bus actually blackened my visage and nearly forced me to my knees looking like Al Jolson, with my lungs wailing mammy.
After 160 km I was ready for a rest and finally spotted the long awaited road sign, boasting food, shower, bed, and swimming pool in only five km. The map, guidebook and the sign were blatantly guilty of false advertising. Fronting the road was a restaurant / reception center. Two rickety tables with a hodgepodge set of chairs placed at random on dirt gave an appearance more befitting a child's lemonade stand than the promised "modern recreational center". Keeping my bike in sight, I tried to enter the building only to be repulsed by a burly man pushing me back out the door. I dug in my cleats and tried to explain that I wanted to camp. I pointed to the sign and to the information in the guidebook and he led me to the least dirty of the tables to fill out the required documents. It appeared that the restaurant was not opened and he was living in the building. A pile of toys by the front door proved that it was a family affair.
I first had to tackle filling in the "temporary residence permit", including my mother's maiden name complete with the date and location of her birth. Orphans would have some trouble camping here I thought. To discover if anyone reads these thing, I was tempted to claim Ion Antonescu as my dearly departed daddy. He was Romania's fascist leader during World War II and a popular icon of the bad old days. Cowardly, I decided that a midnight interrogation by the Securitate, while interesting, could be rather unpleasant and may cut into my next day's mileage. Now the tricky questions: first citizenship, that's easy, whatever the passport says, then, the hard part for us mutts of Americans, "nationality". Usually I always wrote the nationality of the country that the locals are most friendly with. In Poland it was Hungarian and vice versa. I couldn't think of any countries that Romanians would automatically like. They have fought with all their neighbors at one time or another. To claim I am an American does not suffice as they can see by my sunburn that I am not an Indian. I drank green beer once, so I just wrote Irish. These permits are serious matters because you have to prove where you slept and how much money you paid for the privilege. All of this has to tally up at the end of the trip or they will know that you black marketed currency. While completing the section "occupation and educational level," I noticed several cars with foreign plates pull in, stick heads out the window, sniff about, turn up their noses and then speed off. If I didn't have a 100 miles in my legs I would have tried to draft them to a better location. But the sun was setting, the legs were fried and there I was. Like it or not, this was home sweet home for the night.
After paying in advance, he led me to a cabin. Out of the 20 or more vacancies, I was the only guest. The bathhouse was boarded shut and odors coming from a smaller building told me its function, of course bring your own paper. The cabin's beds, without sheets or blankets, were damp and reeked of mold. My intrusion bugged the resident insects and they loudly protested. Using pantomime, I asked him if I could camp, yes I could but I would still have to pay for the cabin. No problem, I quickly pitched my tent and parked my bike in the hovel with the bugs as guards. I showered under a hose with cold water in the open. Since I was the sole visitor, I did not blush as I bared myself to this water torture. Now clean, I was feeling rather lean and looking forward to a culinary experience. I sat myself at the table and waited, and waited and waited. After 20 minutes, the out-of-it innkeeper stalked out of the house and asked me what I wanted. I pointed to all the food in my phase book to see what he had. Now he knew that I was crazy. He hadn't served food here for months. With a knowing glance I smugly offered him a pact of Kents anticipating a smile and a snack. What I got was a scowl and a request for a match. His wife, perhaps feeling a little sorry for me, came out of the house with fresh homemade bread and a drink of fermented dairy product from a mystery mammal. I was very grateful and attempted to pay her for this kindness but she refused money for my repast. I gave her a chocolate for the couple's unseen, but readily heard children. I retreated to my tent and was surprised at the ravages inflicted on my hoard. And I still had several days and hundreds of kilometers to reach the bounty of Bulgaria.
After a fitful nights sleep I woke up and immediately packed my bike. I didn't even dream about breakfasting at this place so I just rode off into the sunrise, hoping that I had all the official stamps that proved that I paid, I laid and I left. Ten miles later I found a scenic spot by the river and opened a tin of Hungarian peaches. After I greedily emptied the can, I filled it with water and drank the contents so I could eke out every drop of nutrient possible. Instead of flattening the container, I put it on a fence post, knowing that someone would recycle it. A few peasants in traditional billowing while blouses floated passed me without pausing to talk.
I had to rejoin the main road for 80 km. At a major junction I pulled into a gas station hoping to fuel up with some java. More than a dozen semis, all with foreign plates, were parked on the periphery. Where there are truckers there must be coffee I blearily reasoned. I walked into the grubby shop and was taken aback. My eyes feasted on single packages of coffee, candy, and cigarettes randomly jumbled up on a solitary shelf. My mouth watered at seeing my favorite German cookies "Prince". Feeling like a king, I bought the snacks and ordered two coffees, saves time in getting the required refill. Despite the meager fare, the price was several times more than what I paid for the cabin. Of course I had to add the compulsory pack of Kents that the clerk immediately tossed up on the shelf. I had to lay off the leis or I wouldn't have enough cash to officially pay for my accommodations. Since no one as yet approached me to black market currency, this could have been a problem.
Ignoring the dust caused by trucks coming and going I chose to enjoy my unexpected treats outside. Two tables away sat a young girl of around 10 or 11, accompanied with, I guessed, her older sister. The elder girl's make up, henna hued hair and the way she crossed her eyes and sucked in her cheeks when she took a deep drag of a smoke made her look 16 going on 60. Under the table were several worn plastic shopping bags from Germany's leading department stores. Suddenly, another painted girl clutching fruits and other foodstuffs jumped out of a truck with Greek registration. She ran to the table and the youngest girl with a practiced hand quickly opened a plastic sack and stuffed the cache in. The second girl grudgingly gave up her chair to the new arrival and got up and started sultrily slinking around the trucks. I didn't know if she had more years than the semis had wheels. With a lower lip set in a pubescence pout she stood on tiptoes and knocked on doors. The third time's a charm and a German rig rolled down a window and a hasty deal was stuck. I watched her shimmy in, pulled by a disembodied and furry arm. Before the door slammed shut, she kicked her skinny legs for momentum and displayed the color of her panties, triggering juvenile guffaws and dirty snickers by several middle-aged truckers. Before I finished with my first cup of coffee, the girl hopped out of the truck with a pair of cheap plastic sandals and some groceries. The ten-year-old apprentice knew her job as she expertly opened a bag ironically labeled "Kaufthaus des Westens" and squeezed in the footwear. The older girl took part of the groceries into the office and handed them over to the clerk, who minutes before sold me the cookies. The pandering Police ignored this for tidbits and I wondered how many people got an economic leg up by these girls being on their backs. The recuperating member of the tag-team-tarts fixed a weary but inquisitive gaze at me. Too quickly, I averted my eyes compelled to by a strange combination of feeling guilty for voyeurism and worried of her erroneously thinking that I was sitting in judgement or that I was going to offer her some half-eaten sweets in exchange for her faded treats. Flustered, she blushed and became childlike when she realized I was up on her tricks but not one of them. The cookies nearly choked me when I discovered their real price and I washed them down with coffee that suddenly acquired a bitter flavor. With a bad taste in my mouth, I returned to the ride. The image of girlish legs dangling out of the truck, like limbs in the maw of a beast devouring someone headfirst, haunted me for miles.
I was on the Romanian roller coaster, both in hills and in moods. So far it was 50/50. Half the time I was up and incredibly impressed with the beauty of the country and the resourcefulness and dignity of a people who could endure a painful history and such conditions. The other half of the time I was down, appalled by grime, the threats of poverty-bred crime and the total lack of privacy. Every time I stopped in a village, a crowd would encircle me. Everyone shoved handfuls of lei in my face. Dirty hands tugged my faded and sweaty tee shirt while shouts of "wie viel and "how many" assaulted my ears. It was apparent that there was no shortage of money, just nothing to buy.
The tranquillity and the timelessness of the countryside inspired and reinvigorate me. On a rather stiff climb I drafted a wagon driven by an old man and doggedly pulled by a swayback that could have been a colt during World War II. Neither the man nor the wagon made any concessions to the twentieth century. He was costumed in traditional peasant garb, not the colorful feast day attire touted in tourist brochures, but an everyday plain white blouse with baggy blue pants tucked into high black boots. Horse drawn wagons are not a novelty in Eastern Europe, but this was the first one I saw that did not patch and attach pneumatic tires to smooth out the ride. This mobile museum rolled on wooden wheels shod with strips of iron. Two fresh-faced children made faces at me behind their granddad's back. Perhaps they were just mimicking my grimace as I tackled the hill. When the boy acted too rudely, his sister slapped him along side the head and in a gesture shared by big sisters everywhere rolled her eyes in mock embarrassment and shrugged shoulders as in apology.
I successfully skirted urban areas but both curiosity plus the need to cross a river led me to one of Transylvania's largest and most admired cities. Traffic picked up considerably but was still sparse for a regional capital. While in need of repair, the historical part of city was clean and the attractions rivaled those I've seen in the West. The bike limited my mobility, as I didn't dream of leaving it unattended. After a quick tour of the Town Square, I saw a hotel that looked like a refuge for westerners. I noticed a cloakroom near the entrance so waving a pack of Kents, I asked the attendant if he could check my bike while I dined. No problem. I thought it a bit gauche if I took off the pump and computer in front of him. In a flash, I got the idea of taking a picture of the attendant and my bike together. This would serve as evidence if I returned to find the steel steed stripped. Looking like a camera crazed Japanese tourist, I asked him to say cheese, the closest I came to fromage during the whole trip.
The restaurant oozed pretension thinly disguised as Old World charm. The establishment came complete with once white table clothes and snotty waiters nattily dressed in patched coats and clip on bow ties. My cleats and shorts did little to make me look like a big tipper and I was treated accordingly. The headwaiter ceremoniously opened a thick menu with all but two items crossed out. Overwhelmed by the selection, I decided to order both dishes. With a flourish, he whipped out a pen and indicated that he was going to cross out the remaining entrees. His pen retreated elegantly back to his pocket after I put two packs of Kents on the table. The first course was a rather tasty soup and the second was chicken. I was hoping for a wine, but was glad to get a mineral water. It seemed that the fowl flew over Chernobyl or was starved during a 400-km chicken drive from the Black Sea and over the Transylvanian Alps, get along little pullet. Perhaps it was a pigeon, range fed on the Market Square, that the chef netted and pulverized into pseudo poultry for the pleasure of my palate. Even with the cigarettes, I still had to pay the price on the menu. I tipped the busboy with some smokes and decided to see what was for sale on the newsstand.
The hotel's kiosk featured all the news that was fit to print, as deemed by the Romania authorities. I bought a local paper and glanced at it like a comic book by just looking at the pictures. The typical tableau of tractors riding into the sunset and the social life of higher-ranking comrades made for lack luster reading, even if I could decipher the text. Still, it wasn't a complete waste of time looking for a Newsweek as I discovered a "dollar store" in the lobby.
Greedy to transfer hard currency from under citizens' mattresses into the
national bank, most communist countries set up capitalist shops. For marks,
pounds, francs and dollars, citizens could gratify their yen for imported
luxury products. In Poland the stores featured everything from fancy
foodstuffs to stereos, at prices cheaper than in the West. I knew that
Romania had these stores and I counted on them to replenish my stock of
provisions in order to survive. A haze of white powder engulfed me when I
entered the den of western materialism. I watched as a whitewashed clerk
attempted to refill a broken a bag of flour. With a makeshift ladle of
paper and his hand, he shoveled the meal up from a grimy counter and poured
it into a plastic bag. With each scoop, he created a cloud that dusted him
and his client. The shop sold only basic Romanian goods for hard currency.
Now I was totally convinced of the near total breakdown of the nation's
economy, as domestic flour was considered a luxury worthy of dollars. Not
being a baker, there was little for me to buy so left empty-handed and
dishearten. I redeemed by bike with the promised pack of smokes. The cloak
room attendant kindly filled my bottles with mineral water without being
asked or paid. The extravagant meal with valet parking forced me to break
into my final carton of Kents. The inability to replenish my depleted
stores motivated me to forsake Bucharest and make a beeline for the
Bulgarian border.
I pulled out of town and had to stop to inspect my tires because I heard a
hissing. Strange, tires seem fine. During a wild descent from one of
Romanian's highest mountain passes, I heard a loud pop and went immediately
into the "I've blown a tire at 70 km and I am about to crash and burn"
mode. Tires were fine but my legs were wet. The gassed water blew off the
bottle top.
After several hours of steady riding I was out of Transylvania and entered
the historic and ethnic heartland of Romania. The contrast was startling.
Instead of the high plateau and hills, I was on a plain that rivaled the
flatness of Nebraska. Folk artists painted polychromatic icons on the
buildings that sheltered the town wells. Orthodox churches dominated and
the people even dressed differently. No matter where I stopped, a crowd of
eager traders would gather, wanting to sell or barter berries and other
produce. The spontaneous materialization of crowds in a previously empty
field or woods caused major bladder problems. While I wasn't worried that
the locals would think that I was putting the family jewels on the open
market, a sense of modesty constrained me. Fortunately when I finally
abandoned propriety for relief privacy prevailed.
Nearing the end of the day I stopped at a junction to consult my map and
tourist guide regarding my lodgings. I was worried that my official
guidebook was written in newspeak, instead of "war is peace" I had "food is
starvation" and "modern recreational facility is sleep on dirt without a
shower while going hungry". My Orwellian guidebook promised that just over
the next hill I would find myself in the lap of luxury. My stomach growled
in a Pavlovian reaction when I read the dreaded words "modern recreational
facility". The second was a "Health Spa" with mineral baths that was 10
miles to the left and a distance I would have to backtrack the next day.
Although I already had 100 miles in the legs and was tired after conquering
the Transylvanian Alps, I decided to take the waters. After the night
before, I was expecting little but got a lot.
The road to the spa wound through a forest and I didn't regret that I would ride it again the next morning. The lane ended at a large complex of solid prewar brick buildings with 20 rickety wooden cabins arranged in a semi-circle tacked on as a post-war after thought. The manager of the spa was an energetic young woman who welcomed me enthusiastically and in perfect BBC English.
After getting me settled in a Spartan but clean cabin, she formally invited me to join her family for dinner. The tepid water in the sanitary communal shower was a pleasant surprise after the chilling rubber hose treatment in the mud the day before. Putting on my best, meaning the least smelly, I knocked at her door and was cordially invited in. Dinner was a simple affair, scrambled eggs with fatty bacon and fresh bread. I noticed that she gave me more bacon than her husband and child. I felt a little guilty, but even a vehement vegan would think twice before refusing the honor, even if it originated on a hoof. She opened a bottle of hoarded Bulgarian wine and again lavished upon me more than my fair share. She informed me that I had to work for my dinner and insisted that I teach her five-year-old an American folk song. Thinking my favorite "This Land is your Land" sounded too socialist for the present company, I settled on "old Macdonald had a farm". The family enjoyed the "with a kulak here, a kulak there" improvisation.
The bottle of "Bull Blood" wine encouraged conversation. My hostess previously taught English at the University level. Avoiding details, she related that she lost her coveted and prestigious teaching position and found herself, with husband and son in the hinterland. I only guessed that it was because of political reasons, or maybe tenure troubles are an international phenomenon. She told me I was the first American she met outside of the University. She was more starved for conversation than I was for bananas and spoke in staccato outbursts on a bewildering range of topics. The only time she paused is when she took a puff of her smoke. I noticed that she pulled cheap Romanian cigarettes out of a worn western wrapper, one must keep up appearances. Her husband couldn't get a word in edge wise, even if he could speak English. He was tongue-tied not only because he was a former lecturer of French, but anytime he tried to join in, his wife shot him a sour look, raised her voice and continued. He beseechingly held out his simple mug for a refill while his wife poured the rest of the wine into her and my fancy goblets. I felt awkward and wished to convey a sense of male solidarity, but he was resigned to his fate and started reading a well thumb through book. After an hour of one-sided conversation I was convinced that only her energy and determination to make the best of her internal exile prevented the Spa from suffering the same fate of the dilapidated "modern recreational facility" of the night before.
I asked her how she could maintain such a large operation in a country of chronic shortages. The answer translated as simple word of mouth marketing. The resort was a well-known refuge for safe and clean accommodations, with emphasis on safe. The Spa was strategically located on the modern trading route from the socialist countries to the knock-off bazaars of Istanbul. Mobile merchants plied the route in cars laden with cheap, east European household goods to barter for counterfeit Levis and sniff out the best deals in bogus brand name perfumes. The Spa extracted tribute on the flourishing trade of goods flowing both ways. She then swapped the booty with the locals for necessities to keep the doors opened. Workers were easy to find, as everyone wanted to skim part of the loot. Even trained physical therapists and doctors preferred to clean rooms so that they could quadruple their official incomes with grams of coffee, flakes of soap and pieces of chocolate. Her dependence on petty peddlers reinforced the ingrained disdain towards trade shared by many members of Europe's intelligentsia. She lamented that the majority of her guests didn't even look at the baths and that their interest in Romania was limited to corrupting her employees with trivial gifts at best or belittling her country at worse. Her ceaseless tirade at the exploitation of the spa as a mere pit stop motivated me to hide a bar of chocolate, a present for her child, under the tablecloth. She was glad to meet me not only because I was an American, but a real tourist. "You will take the baths tomorrow, I will send someone to you early" she ordered. There was no way out of it. I felt it a desecration to the memories of the time spent in the wild Hot Springs of Yellowstone and in the Bitterroots to take the waters in a domesticated European spa. The canon of European classics reinforced my view of such baths as haunts of consumptive counts attempting the cure but still dying by chapter three. Even Germans call them Bad! Since I was not coughing up blood or suffering from gout, sitting in a dirty pool of allegedly beneficial water had limited appeal.
I was relieved when she called it a night because I was slightly
embarrassed for the husband. He nodded good bye as his wife escorted me
back to my cabin. The Spa's occupancy rate looked like the Hilton at
convention time. I noticed that all the huts were full, with a mix bag of
nationalities with Poles predominating. I said good night to my hostess. I
noticed her dismay with just a hint of alarm when I spoke Polish with my
neighbor. She dominated the conversation so much that she did not learn
that I was studying in Poland. The Poles were partying down and were glad
to share a warm beer. My newfound friends threw their sleeping bag under
their trailers and passed out. I took this as my cue and retired after a
rather eventful day.
Remembering the warning that I was to take the cure, I got up early and
started packing. A stout and mannish matron uniformed in a wrinkle free
sack of a dress and a crisp hankie on her head forcefully rapped on the
door. I accurately interpreted the knock not as a polite request for
entrance but as a declaration of an immediate incursion. In a martial
manner she determinedly placed a ration of wind-fallen fruit on my table
and indicated that breakfast could be ordered for a price. The nearness of
the Bulgarian border encouraged generosity and I gave her one of my
remaining packs of cigarettes. I got the butt end of the deal. Out of a
burlap bag emerged several chunks of stale bread and a cracked crock of
schmaltz. This flesh speckled lard is the rendered residue of putting a pig
in a pot, turning the heat on high and forgetting about it for several
weeks. She signaled that she would return in exactly ten minutes to convoy
me to my baptism in the miraculous minerals. With a soldierly about-face,
she marched to the next cabin. I was anxious to get on the road as I
already packed and paid. I was not eager to take the cure, but I was
reluctant to offend my hostess. Plus, the martial demeanor of the bath
house adjutant made me fear a court-martialed for desertion. Leery of
corporeal punishment, I decided to complete my indoctrination in submersion
and waited for the drill sergeant in mufti.
Punctually at eight hundred hours, the spa attendant returned and commanded me to move out. The public baths reminded me of a barracks for hussars' horses. Inside a dim, barn like hall, individual stalls stood in formation. Half doors on each stable hid the torso while exposing head and feet. From a distance the tub looked like a basin carved out a solid piece of fissured jade, but close up it was only a painted and cracked concrete trough. Rusted and leaky pipes hung from the ceiling like stalactites, dripping bath water that stained and corroded the enamel tiles on the floor. I stripped and jumped in the chemical solution, wary of water's renown as the universal solvent. I planned on splashing around just enough to fulfill my social obligations without giving up too much epidermis and get back on the bike. I tried lathering up, but the water was so laden with minerals that the bar of soap acted like a glue stick and stuck on my limps in streaks, pasting at random floating chips of paint.
Without warning, the half door flew open and my militant matron in a muumuu was transformed into a Dominatrix. She was rigged in thigh high rubber boots and armed with an implement that looked like a scourge but was a well-worn brush. I didn't expect callers so I was buck-naked. The cold water and the threat of being chastised by a masochistic matriarch coerced my manhood into beating a hasty retreat, dragging my adult voice with it. I tried to raise a virile protest but only managed a prepubescent yelp. The preposterous predicament of grinning and baring it in a watery dungeon forced me to muzzle a gallows's humor giggle. What if I discovered that I actually like being held captive by a grim granny with a thin moustache and a thick accent who mortifies the flesh? Yes, travels are supposed to be journeys of self-discovery, but I never envisioned limiting future voyages to cruising nursing homes in tenderloin districts. After a strenuous scrub she left and didn't leave a towel. Certain that my sexual appetite did not require a daily diet of hoary headmistresses and fearful she was getting a friend and maybe some handcuffs, I pulled up my shorts and made my escape. The soap and green flakes of paint splotching my legs make me look leprous as I leaped on my bike. As I ventured out of the Spa on the peaceful, forested road, I didn't suspect that my remaining hours in Romania were going to be fit only for a cyclo-masochist.
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