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1999 Biking East Europe

Saturday, September 11 – Roman, Romania – pvt room 260 000l

We have had the best morning, an unwelcome adrenaline boost, and are currently on the train to Brasov (again). Travelling 2nd class on a Personal (slow) train. Not too uncomfortable, more full than others we have travelled, but not overcrowded.

We arose early (especially by Romanian standards), showered cold and quick, and walked into the old city for our first real look at Sighisoara. What a fantastic little town. Which we had almost entirely to ourselves until about 09h30. Varicoloured homes built right next to each other and fronting directly onto the road, mustard and green and tan, with tiled roofs and shuttered windows and sometimes a small balcony, all skewed by age. Cobbled streets twisting and turning up the hill linking two piatas – one new and flower-bedecked (Piata Hermann Oberth); Piata Muzeului right in the centre of the old walled town bordered by church and clock tower; both with benches for the sitting on. All at that hour of the day shrouded in mist with oddly-shaped towers and spires and roofs temptingly visible though slightly obscured.

Sighisoara is the birthplace of Vlad Tepes (1431), son of Vlad Dracul, and a “perfectly preserved medieval town in beautiful hilly countryside”. Vlad Tepes, known as the Impaler, became a legendary figure during resistance to Ottoman expansion in the 15th century and later was the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula – Dracula meaning ‘Son of the Dragon’, from his father’s association with the Order of the Dragon.

This morning we visited the home in which Vlad Tepes was born on the cobblestone piata formed by a church, clocktower and a variety of houses. His home is now a restaurant – unfortunately closed. The clocktower dates from the 14th century; the 1648 clock still keeps time. We managed to hear it chime the hour both at 09h00 and at 10h00 – and even to record it on my Psion! Only one of the figures beside the clock still operates, a manikin who tolls the hour on a metal bell – tink tunk, tink tunk.

We climbed the 172 steps of the 1642 covered wooden staircase up the hill to the 14th century schoolhouse, the Gothic Bergkirche (1345), and the German cemetery. The kirche is currently undergoing a DM5 million restoration paid for by Munich. Outside the church we encountered a man sitting on a bench, his three dogs at his feet. We greeted him as we passed and went to peer through the closed gates. He came to join us, turned out to be in charge of the renovations, and gave us a tour of the church – in German. What luck. This is what little we could interpret from our guide. A chapel was erected here in 1200. There are 60 catacombs below the church. The windows date from 1682. The frescoes undergoing restoration are the originals – one showed a 3-faced god, an unusual depiction of the Trinity; one a damsel in distress and a knight slaying a dragon! The organ dates from 200 years ago. The wiring is new as is the alarm – installed in 1999.

We said our thanks and left the grounds and passed a Japanese couple heading for the church as we were about to re-enter the stairway. We looked back to see our guide once again seated on his bench. He did not accord the couple the same privilege he had deemed fit to share with us – and they only got to peek disconsolate through the gates, therefore!

Back in the lower part of town we shopped in a small store shared by four storekeepers for a picnic lunch to take on our long journey north to Roman – having to select and pay separately at each section. Then to the station to await our 11h06 train to Brasov – secure in the knowledge that this time our bikes were entirely legal. We collected our bags en route and said our goodbyes and arrived on our platform with plenty of time to spare. We did not want to bug the people who had helped us yesterday and did not begin to worry about the bikes until about 15 minutes before the train was due and no-one had yet come out of the office to release them from the secure room in which they had been locked. Charl went to make enquiries while I watched the bags – only to be told that the office was closed on Saturdays and that nothing could be released from storage over the weekends! Almost impossible to believe that our helpful officials of the day before could have overlooked this detail without malice aforethought! Panic. Charl began a wild search for someone who could help, anyone who understood English. While I stood by our bags with vastly increased heart rate – unable to assist as several gypsy children were hovering in the vicinity and I simply could not afford to risk leaving our goods unattended. The train pulled in. The official woman to whom Charl had shown the room in which our bikes were locked merely shook her head. Charl came running back to me – both of us now desperate; me threatening to lie down on the tracks in front of the train, he at his wits end. And it was only at this critical point that either of us remembered the receipt we had been given for the bikes. When Charl showed this to the woman official she simply produced a key to the door she had previously refused to open and released our bikes in time to get them onto the train! God – the joys of travelling in a bureaucratic world, and a non-English speaking world at that!

In Brasov we were met by overactive Maria who directed us onto our platform and told us she would come and see us off and would speak to the conductor about our bikes on our behalf. This she did, negotiating the bribe of 150 000l up front. It’s an interesting phenomenon that once the bribe is paid the conductors seem to go out of their way to be helpful – in other words, once the deal is struck they do not renege on it.

The train journey to Roman was comfortable enough, just rather long as the train had to travel south first – passing the quite spectacular Mount Bucegi – before curving round and up to our destination. It left Brasov just after 15h00 and arrived in Roman at 23h00 – during which time we had our picnic lunch and slept a little. And during which we had only one brief anxiety about the bikes which we had tied at the end of the train – and that when someone at a station had thrown a stone through a window and at the next station we were boarded by investigating officials who asked some questions about the bikes.

We were collected at Roman station by Iosif Besleaga (Maria’s brother-in-law) and his English-speaking daughter Dimi, and driven through the dark to their home where we were fed delicious chicken and chips and bottled water for a somewhat belated and sleepy dinner. And put to bed in a room that divided the kitchen from the lounge and off which the bathroom we shared with their diffident Japanese guest necessitated her passing through our room. She seemed incredibly uncomfortable, but brightened considerably when I said goodnight in Japanese – konbanwa.

A long day. And expensive. Including as it did the train journeys, a bribe, accommodation at 260 000l, dinner at 60 000l each, and breakfast (to come) at 25 000l each. But we’re here.

Sighisoara
Sighisoara
Sighisoara
Sighisoara
Sighisoara
Sighisoara
Sighisoara
Sighisoara
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