Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Český Krumlov

I've discovered that I have a strong preference for traveling in places where I know the local language. Hence, Romania has been top on my list of favorites for this trip. Still, Český Krumlov defies this trend, instead rivalling the best Romania has to offer.

Český Krumlov [pronounced Chesky Crumlow] is a small Czech (as the name suggests) town near the Austrian border. Its character is based on a swiftly snaking river, a charming town of red roofed houses, and an old castle resting upon the tops of sharply cut cliffs. The town lies on a narrow strip of land bounded on three sides by the Vltava river. This river very nearly takes a shortcut through town, at one point, but is instead carefully controlled and preserved on its winding course by a series of spillways and small dams.

Incidentally, the Vltava river is sometimes referred to by another name, the Moldau. In and around the area, a rare-ish gem takes its name from the river (or perhaps the river from the gem): Moldavite. The gem is not particularly valuable to mainstream jewelers, but it has a rich green color and is quite appealing regardless of whether it has been intricately faceted or left uncut. In most of the town's stores, especially in the town center, the amount of silver or gold used in the setting will determine 90% of the price. Information on this stone can be found, like most other information, in the Hitch-Hiker's Guide.

As far as sights go, there are few extraordinary guide book stops in town. Most guide books will point visitors to such riveting destinations as the wax museum or the castle grounds, the latter of which actually is rather beautiful. If visitors to Český Krumlov are expecting Prague- or Paris-style attractions, I recommend Prague. Or Paris. Český Krumlov is, instead, for those seeking a more relaxed and quiet place to rest their heads or to sip the local brews. The area surrounding this small town is remarkable in a very Wordsworthian sense, and could easily occupy days or weeks on an itinerary.

There is little more to say about this small town. It was difficult to leave, especially knowing that the remainder of the trip would be in a country altogether more familiar than prior whistle stops. To be fair, Germany would surprise us in many ways, but it always felt rather like home.

Coming soon: Germany (one BIG post for the whole week).

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Prague

Though I've tried to neglect mention of it so far, most stops on our Whistlestop Wanderjahr have greeted us with some form of precipitation -- at some times a mere drizzle, at others a sheer downpour. Prague didn't disappoint this trend, but it did ease up a bit. The Czech Republic's proud capital was cloudy but dry for most of our stay. The resultant broken blue sky provided the ideal climate and lighting for wandering the old nooks and crannies of a city untouched by the most recent and more destructive of our world wars.

We arrived early in the morning, following a comfortable night train from Krakow, Poland. Guidebooks will recommend avoiding such trains in Poland, for reasons of theft, but we slept soundly and safely in our room, waking only as the train pulled slowly up to Prague's platform.

After checking into the aptly-named Hotel Central, we set off for breakfast at one of Prague's many delightfully tasty culinary establishments. Details of what we ate in Prague are not important; suffice it to say that it was all excellent. After breakfast, excursions into the city would begin.

Tour guides to the city can be found aplenty both in Prague's central square and in any half-decent information bureau. However, the free walking tours are, hands down, the way to go. Led by enthusiastic, young-ish kids trying to fill time in the summers, these tours provide ample information on the antique areas of Prague, served with light-hearted and friendly humor from the guides. Salaries are tip-based, and can be paid at the end according to how well the guide performed. Or so I'm told. I didn't actually go on the free tour. My spirit for city tours taxed beyond the limit, I cringed at the thought of wasting two more hours behind another boring guide. My loss, in this case. I went for a spiffy haircut, instead, so not a complete loss, I guess. Later that evening, I would follow the same group of tour guides on a slightly more intoxicating tour of the city, via their not-so-free Bar Crawl. Unfortunately, the meat market on this latter tour would be the cause of me calling it a night before midnight, and WALKING (not staggering or crawling) back to the hotel for a too-short night's sleep.

The next day, after wandering the city with the parents a bit and ingesting more great food, we met up for a not-at-all-free guided tour -- this time of Prague's impressive castle. I'll refrain from any long, poetic descriptions of this castle, and instead just recommend that you get on a plane or train and visit the place yourself. While I haven't seen the palace at Versailles, yet my parents remarked that Prague's castle (at least the exterior structure) reminded them of the French wonder... minus the marble, excess, and insane power-grubbing. Our tour guide, a cute gal by the name of Sarah, led us through the fortifications and courtyards with expertly delivered story-telling. Her friend and moral support, Sofie, happened to be the lively, informative (and also cute, ) tour guide for my parents' free walking tour, the previous day.

After the castle tour, we made our way for the hotel, where we grabbed our bags and made a dash for the distant and confusing bus station, from which we would depart for our next destination: Český Krumlov.

Before we move on from this place, though, let me add: Prague is a great city, and a recommended stop for any- and everybody. However, keep in mind that people in Prague are starting to catch on to the attraction of their city, and prices clearly reflect this. By this I mean that the people of Prague have long ago lost any naivety regarding how much tourists are actually willing to pay for pretty much anything. According to more worldly people, the city feels a lot like a small, quaint Paris -- absent the French (love 'em or hate 'em) and the Eiffel Tour, of course. I don't usually enjoy large cities, but Prague doesn't feel like large, at all, and the people are usually quite friendly, when even a little modesty and humility are shown on the part of the traveler.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Krakow

Moving from Hungary's humid, busy Budapest to Poland's cool, relaxed Krakow was an easy one. Perhaps a traveler more enticed by shopping, guided tours, scams, and prostitution would have found the parting with Budapest more painful. I was ready for something else.

As I understand, Krakow was once the small capital of Poland, and holds certain historical significance. Part of this history must have been filled with wealth and enlightenment, as the Old Town is richly populated with beautiful houses, quite respectable municipal buildings, and (of course) several not entirely humble churches. With a short walk from the train station through a delightfully welcoming greenbelt, we easily found the old Royal Hotel, situated just outside the fortifications of the old city. As hotels go, the Royal Hotel is about as good (amenities, location, price) as I would ever expect, short of traveling on an absurdly large budget.

After dropping our bags, we again stepped out into the Polish morning, and began our exploration of the town. I'm sure food was first on the list, but it must not have left a lasting impression. Krakovians certainly can cook up a decent dish, but I was much more entranced by the city itself than by its culinary accomplishments. At Krakow's heart, the old town square offers an old town hall tower, the Cloth Hall, and the imposing St. Mary's Basilica, which impressed even me. The square is lined with well-preserved buildings, most of which house cafes, restaurants, hostels/hotels, or boutiques.

First: the tower. Although it is all that remains of an old town hall, it offers the imagination a spectacular, proud social center. While the doors of the tower are closed until about 10:00am, it's worth the wait. Once inside, tower attendants seem to expect some sort of fee to climb the steep stairs to admire their city. Luckily, I only found out about this expectation later, by word of mouth. Somehow, I slipped by their rules and met blue skies and red rooftops at the tower's top. If you visit Krakow, stop by this quick visual fix. The challenging step height and low arches left my thighs thicker and my back crooked, but I'll do it again on my next visit.

The Cloth Hall occupies the very center of the square, and claimed to house a museum. I gave the museum an easy miss and wandered into the highly-arched corridors, instead. The Cloth Hall gets its name from its original purpose. Today, however, the large central vault which comprises the majority of the building lends its floors to vendors of souvenirs. Many of the stalls feature one of Krakow's specialties: amber. While amber is nothing new to me, apparently Krakow has access to extraordinary amber, and gladly offers it polished and set in silver and gold for excited tourists to buy. Beyond the amber, souvenirs, vaulted corridor, and the museum, the Cloth Hall is an excellent landmark, and would effectively serve as "center of the city" for our entire stay.

About St. Mary's Basilica, I have little to offer except observations about the exterior. By this point, my interest in church interiors was low enough to merit a cup of coffee while my more interested mother explored beyond its doors. Allegedly, this was a mistake, as the interior was relatively unique. This is not just any old church, but rather a church of the Cult of Mary. My mother's prying eyes detected only a single crucifix in the entire place. Where Jesus normally features in most Catholic churches, Mary stood instead. Thankfully, the churches wonders also spilled out into the square: each hour, a bugler appears in one of the towers and plays a spiffy little tune for adoring tourists below. Most churches settle for bells, and clock towers usually feature slightly dynamic figurines, but this church employed a person to play his horn on the hour, every hour. Go Krakow!

Unlike many people who pass through Krakow, we opted not to visit the former concentration camp at Auschwitz. Instead, we made for the nearby (and altogether less depressing and less impressively historical) salt mines. Back in the day, salt was difficult to come by, and usually had to be mined from the earth in much the same manner as coal. But while coal mines usually leave workers with black lungs and a wide variety of other diseases, salt mines tended to cure ailments and leave workers in much better states of health. In all, our tour through the mines took us about 130 meters below ground, through countless chambers and caves, and past many impressive statues -- all excavated and intricately carved by the Medieval miners. Among the chambers were several chapels and churches, one of which might rival many cathedrals in Western Europe and easily outdoes most in terms of originality. Being carved from veins of salt, all of the walls and statues are translucent, and seem to glow with even the slightest amount illumination.

Anybody planning a trip to this part of the world would be wise to make Krakow a major destination. It has a small town feel without lacking entertainment and amenities, and feels only modestly touristy. On our departure from Krakow, my parents and I swore to return for a much longer stay, when next we are able. Luckily, our next destination would be a pleasant one as well.

Coming soon: Prague.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Budapest

Budapest pulls off a much better attempt at this whole tourism bit. It's still a bit much for my tastes, but I can interest myself in several days of this richly historical crossroads of culture. It feels calm and quiet compared to the early-June crush of Istanbul. I can even spot authentic (read: genuine) Magyars, here and there.

The language barrier is unusually large, as Hungarian falls into a language group entirely separate from our loving Indo-European family of languages. This language barrier caused me no little grief, especially as regards my seventh favorite pastime: striking up conversations with interesting-looking random people.

(As and aside, this pastime sometimes bites me in the ass, metaphorically speaking. See penultimate paragraph.)

Arriving in Budapest after our flight from Sighişoara, my parents and I had a short wait at the still smallish airport for the hotel shuttle. We had reservations at what guidebooks bluntly referred to as the centrally located but uncharming Hotel Charles. Compared to the warmth and readily helpful staff of our series of hotels in Romania, the lack of charm at Hotel Charles felt more like icy disregard for standards in the business of hospitality. Or it would have felt chilly, if the air conditioning had extended beyond the reception and the halls.

As it turns out, Hotel Charles also lacks centrality. While its distance from the center is not large, it certainly is on the margin of Budapest's touristy area. As such, the decision was easily made to spend as little time as possible at the hotel. Our first evening in town, my parents and I spent gaining as sense of the city center. In this effort, we explored the area of Pest near the heavily swollen waters of the Danube. Our arrival in Budapest happily coincided with some festival, which had turned the beautiful Chain Bridge into a pedestrian-only path of street performers and trinket vendors, bounded on each end with stages for live music. With a wide selection of beer, wine, and snacks, we enjoyed the music and energetic crowd.

In the following days, my parents cleverly taxed my endurance for guided tours and sightseeing excursions, to the limit. They did this via a "Hop On, Hop Off" package, which involved sitting in an uncovered bus under searing heat, watching fascinating sights pass by as a recorded voice casually outlined all of the places we would not be going inside as long as we stayed on the bus. At the end of the bus tour, we ate lunch and caught an altogether uninspired sightseeing boat which carried us up and down the river, with suspiciously similar prerecorded explanations of passing points of interest.

Among these points of interest, the Parliament building and the Matthias Church complex were the most captivating. It would be a vast understatement to say that Pest's riverside palace which houses Hungary's parliament is ornate. Covered in spires, gargoyles, intricate carvings, and vast arrays of arched windows, the building would be hard to resist, no matter what angle one comes from. If that weren't enough, though, the building was constructed after winning an architectural bidding contest around 1880. However, the government was so impressed by the second- and third-place runners-up that it had them built adjacent to the magnificent first-place winner. Tour guides say (with some pride noticeable in their voices) that it is the only place in the world to have simultaneously built three parliament buildings, side by side.

The Matthias Church complex is also a grand imposition, though this time sitting not on Pest's shore of the Danube. The church overlooks the city from Buda's primary hilltop. While the church was (of course) covered in scaffolding and largely obstructed, pictures suggest a stunning structure. However, the church does not stand alone. Surrounding the church is a series of unscathed, white stone walls and towers. The area was entirely overrun by busloads of tourists while I was there, but the beauty of the place still pushed through. The church was the coronation site for many important rulers of Hungarian history. Such coronation ceremonies would begin at the church and then wind down the hill to cross the chain bridge, directly below. Now, Buda's pricey but classic-looking funicular provides a more kingly (and quick) descent. We kindly passed on the funicular, opting instead to explore the ancient streets in the quarter adjacent to the church. This was a great option, as the old streets were quaint and slightly more quiet. The only significant marring of this old castle-church complex is the ugly, tinted glass Marriott hotel, which alternately casts a shadow or reflects a brownish tint on the historical church. I hope the shameless guests at this hotel saw nothing but the church scaffolding from their 1970s-style windows. Heh heh...

Budapest was a bust, as far as I am concerned. The sights mentioned above were great, and the lively violinist at our dinner was brightening. But the crowds and huge sprawl of the city, compounded by scam artists and bold prostitutes, made my memories of Budapest less than gleeful. Maybe if I had been staying in hostels, wandering the city under the setting sun and moonlight, propelled along by coffee and great beer, I would have had a more pleasant experience. Then again, maybe Budapest's enormous size (by my standards) made it less than ideal for me, by default. Indeed, my favorite stops on this trip have been the tiny towns and villages. In any case, despite their wearing effect on the soles of my feet, my company was still great, and the journey continued. On that note...

We eventually concluded our days in Budapest with a relaxed stroll near Buda's newer citadel. After happily checking out of the drab Hotel Charles, we hailed a cab to the train station. Our next stop would turn out to be one of the best on the trip: Krakow, Poland.

Lag

Some words seem to hold inherent meaning. The mere sound of the word implies its definition, its signification. As the word rolls of the tongue and flows dramatically into a listener's ear, the sense of the word registers before the word itself.

Lag. This is the word I would choose to describe my performance in posting the continuance of the Whistlestop Wanderjahr series. Thanks to one perceptive reader, in particular, for calling me out on my neglect.

And now, with a slight burst of productivity, I give you the remainder of the journey, now out of Romania, through Hungary, Poland, and the Czech Republic. The conclusion, in Germany, shall be made available in the next couple days (read: whenever I get to it).

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Sighişoara

We opted for the train from Sibiu to Sighişoara. I recommend against the train. This is highly unusual, as I generally much prefer train over bus, plane, or car. However, the train between Sibiu and Sighişoara was privately run, and included a transfer approximately halfway, at Mediaş. The first leg was a success, despite clearly inferior train cars and slightly sketchy conductors. The second leg, however, masterfully exemplified train system failures with which we Americans (with our fairly pathetic publicly-run Amtrak) are all to familiar -- the delay was long enough to effectively qualify as a no-show. With precious, whistlestop daylight burning away, my parents and I quickly decided on an alternative: a taxi which would cost about 65 lei (~ $20 US). Our driver drove like a pro, too. Not "rally car" pro, luckily, but definitely a seasoned chauffeur.

Sighişoara is a beautiful, quaint town in the Mureş raion of Romania's Transylvania region. Most of the town lies at the foot of a smallish hill, spilling gracefully out into the endearing valleys which typify this part of Romania. Some active hotels and nightlife can be found in this newer part of town, but the citadel on the hill is definitely the destination for most passers-through. The citadel features fully intact fortifications, including a remarkable clock tower and defensive structures belonging to each of the major, medieval guilds of the town. Inside the walls, all of the buildings have been preserved as much as possible, to the extent that even the colors painted on exterior walls are required to be the same as they were some hundreds of years ago. There are also, of course, several non-Orthodox churches to remind visitors that they are leaving the territory of the Eastern Orthodox majority. (The modern town does, actually, have a large, new and/or well-maintained Orthodox church.)

On arrival, much to our dismay, we found the streets of the citadel utterly in pieces. Apparently, somebody made the decision to renew the cobblestone of the entire old city, but instead of repairing one section of road at a time, every walkable or drivable centimeter of the citadel had been torn up, and workers were slowly setting the new granite blocks. Street vendors and business owners in the citadel were openly upset and confused at this, and would say, "Come back in a year, and you'll see what our old town normally looks like." Ultimately, the lack of cobblestones was a minor practical inconvenience, despite its major aesthetic failing. That is to say: we easily checked into our hotel (Casa Wagner, as in Braşov), but none of our photos were nearly as romantic as the watercolor street art for sale.

At this stage of the trip, my enthusiasm for churches and castle turrets was noticeably in decline. Still, I casually followed my party up to the large church, at the very height of the citadel, as well as around the walls and through the winding streets of the well-preserved city. While my enthusiasm for the structures was smaller, my enjoyment of photography remained unshaken. Thus, I'm sure I appeared to have an intense interest in blurry architectural features and piles of cobblestones.

Our time in Sighişoara passed more quickly than I might have liked, and before we knew it we were in another taxi, headed for the inaptly-named "Târga Mureş" airport. Our young, timid taxi driver had no idea where this small, international runway-with-a-security-checkpoint actually was, and his (allegedly more experienced) dispatcher was little aid. Unexpectedly, and entirely unhelpfully, it turned out that the Târga Mureş airport is actually quite a lot closer to Cluj than its namesake. Maps of the area are altogether vague, with respect to this airport, and the only noticeable signage is, literally, within stone's throw of the airport entrance. A large, heavy, mostly unthrowable stone, that is. Suffice it to say that this airport did little to improve my opinion of air travel. I'll say no more.

That's right, we flew out of Romania. Why? Good question, noble reader. Our next destination was Buda, and the nearby Pest (hereafter referred to as Budapest). Overnight train tickets were, so I'm told, substantially more expensive than air travel via WizzAir. I'd like to clarify, though, that I in no way recommend travel out of the unwisely named Târga Mureş airport, even if the cost of the equivalent night train is more expensive. Night trains rock, people. You can't double-fist 2 liters of cheap, Romanian beer on an airplane, these days. And the people who tend to chose airplanes are usually boring and asocial, anyway. Vote Night Trains!

I'll close with that little endorsement. Next stop, Budapest: the city of the (not so) blue Danube.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Sibiu

Wow, do I need to write these posts more quickly! Sibiu seems a long distant memory, and recalling the events is going to take some serious contemplation.

It was a quick train ride from Braşov to Sibiu -- only a matter of a couple hours. Disembarking from the train, my parents and I glanced at our map and quickly concluded that walking from train station to hotel was entirely within the realm of possibility. In fact, it turned out to be possible, probable, and pleasant. Sibiu's cobblestoned roads and old, beautifully maintained houses made the short walk toward Piaţa Mica entirely worth it. As we approached the old tower that opens into the piaţa, our curiosity and impatience got the better of us, and we darted through a tiny passage into the square. The name belies Piaţa Mica's true nature; it is actually impressively sizable. It features myriad alleys and passages between the surrounding buildings, long lines of highly social cafes and restaurants, towers, churches, a sunken roadway, and (last but certainly not least) the affectionately named Liar's Bridge. We easily located our hotel, Casa Luxembourg, just across the bridge, checked in, and dropped the luggage.

The hotel room offered perfect views over the square, while being elevated enough to escape the prying eyes of passers-by. With live music pouring through large windows from the restaurant terraces below, I quickly succumbed to the urge to wander around Piaţa Mica and the adjacent squares with my camera, perhaps stopping here and there for a mouthful of drink and an earful of jazz. My mother was easily persuaded, and we left my father to doze comfortably on the large bed.

Outside, the night greeted us with eye-catching 16th-century edifices posing gracefully in cleverly placed floodlights. After a long, hot day, the evening air cooly persuaded us in a meandering path from corner to nook to cranny. As we finally made our way back toward the hotel, we passed some low windows of a cellar bar, from which a pianist's craft could be heard spilling out onto the street. Myself immediately swayed, I suggested that we stop in for a short while to enjoy the music. After teaching the bartender how to make a Tom Collins (for me) and a Lemon Drop (for my mother), we sat down at a piano-side table and listened to a wide variety of well executed songs. On the walls, a projector flipped through stills of old, classic movies -- Cassablanca, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Buch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and plenty with which I wasn't quite familiar. After finishing our drinks and paying the quite reasonably priced bill, we completed the previously postponed venture of retiring for the night.

The next day, we set off early (after a delicious in-hotel breakfast, of course) to wander around old city fortifications, churches, and museums. Sibiu has a great wealth of history, and proudly displays such through its low, multicolored houses and park-encompassed old town. But, with only an evening and a day to explore the city before again heading out, we really only just tasted the endearing city. Such is what leads to return trips, though.

The walk back to the train station seemed slightly longer, at least to me. But eventually we reached it, bought our tickets to Sighişoara, and set out to the next destination before the sun grew too low in the sky. Lucky, this, as the trip to Sighişoara would not be so seamless.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Braşov

Let's not mince words: the train ride from Suceava to Braşov was long. Unfortunately, there were no overnight alternatives, or I might have suggested that. I'm a huge fan of overnight train travel... but more on that later.

As we enthusiastically snapped photo after photo of the picturesque countryside between Suceava and Braşov, my parents and I were approached by several friendly domestic travelers. One was a retired conductor of the very train we were on. Although he had worked the line for years, he had never stopped in Sibiu long enough to see what it was like. He was happy to have somebody with whom to converse, and cheerfully shared with us the old photos of his life (his time in the military in 1955, his first days as a train conductor, he and his wife when they were young and vibrant, and the more recent photos of them with their grandchildren), which he apparently carries with him everywhere. We also spoke briefly with a cute young couple going home to Braşov. As always, I quite enjoyed the casual and pleasant interactions with these random Romanians.

Arriving in Braşov, the young couple approached us and informed us that the taxis would try to cheat us, and offered to set the price for us. While this wasn't really necessary (as I'm used to haggling with taxi drivers, albeit in Moldova), I accepted and we soon found ourselves in the Piaţa Sfatului, checking into the wonderful Casa Wagner hotel. Aside from the charming rooms and entirely hospitable staff, the location of this establishment sets it apart from other options. With a view overlooking the square and the Black Church, it would be a serious challenge to top this hotel. After dropping our bags at the hotel, we wandered out into the beautiful old part of the city, eventually setting our sights on the Bristo de l'Arte restaurant for pleasantly tasty birthday dinner. That's right, as of 1 July, I am officially 26. Cheers to everybody back home, and to those waiting for me in Moldova to celebrate properly.

The next morning, we rose early (ish) and, after the excellent in-hotel mic dejun, we set out to explore the city. All of the sights in Braşov are worth checking out, but for those of you considering the trip, I recommend just wandering. There are two hills with constrain the town on each side, one of which has a tram (cablecar) that isn't quite worth it, and the other of which has two old towers, also not quite worth it. The view from the smaller of the two hills is wonderful, fără turnul, and everything in between is fascinating to behold, whether it be a row of old houses, a series of 16th century fortifications, or majestic old churches.

After getting our fill of Braşov for the day, we hired a taxi (100 RON) to take us to the Râşnov citadel and back. Râşnov is a small town, less than 15 km from Braşov. The citadel dates back to at least the 13th century, and is amazingly built upon the craggy, wooded peak which looms over the town. The citadel was built to repel Turks, and I have to imagine the Turks to be insane to want to scale those walls. Still, like most structures built to oppose the Ottoman Turks, much of the citadel now lies in ruins -- spectacular ruins, but ruins nonetheless.

Giving Bran castle a miss (on a tip from a trustworthy local that it is a tourist trap with little accurate historical value), we returned to Braşov with time to spare to catch the train to our next destination: Sibiu. With only a two-hour train ride between us and Sibiu, we said good-bye to Braşov and settled into the pleasantly new-ish seats of the passenger car.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Moldova

After an unusually busy summer week, including some excellent meeting and greeting with the new group of volunteers, I finally made my way to the Chisinau airport to pick up my parents. This was the the zero hour of a 3+ week trip from the Republic of Moldova to Germany. In this trip, I am the guide (at least for the Romanian-speaking areas) and the passenger, as my parents (read: mom) have designed the overall itinerary. It's a great plan, of course, although its pitfall thus far appears to be the inordinately short amount of time we plan to spend in each town. With an average of one day at each place, this trip will feel more like a series of whistle-stop blitzes than the plodding, meandering wanderjahrs to which I am more accustomed. Still, the company is great, and I certainly can't complain about the amazing places I'll get to see.

Stop one: Moldova. This includes the Republic of Moldova as well as the Moldova regions of Romania -- primarily Suceava. At the airport in Chisinau, my parents and I are met by our driver for the next few days: Boris, one essential part of a family business run primarily by a Moldovan woman, named Marisha. Although I had never heard of Marisha before, my parents seems sold on her, and her successful little tourism business happily led my parents and I on walking tours of Chisinau and Orheiul Veche. Boris served as our driver for the whole bit, and our lovely and knowledgeable guide, Elena, made my parents feel very comfortable and well-attended.

After our time with Marisha's tours had concluded, we made our way to my work site. My parents seemed thrilled to see the town in which I work and live, as well as to meet so many of the people with whom I interact, daily. The highlights of our time in my town were the piaţa, the city hall (with a special sit-down with the mayor), visits to my school and an NGO in town, and of course my former host family. I made sure to give them a thorough tour of the town, despite its hills and stray dogs, as it is part of a culture that is completely new to them. The only person I regrettably was not able to introduce to them was the priest with whom I am acquainted. Next time...

Following our time in my town, we made the slightly troublesome journey to Suceava, Romania. I had been to Suceava the previous winter, but I was excited to see the area and its famous, painted monasteries without all the snow. Thanks to that brilliant aforementioned planning, our entire stay in Suceava was in the Dragomirna monastery. This is an old, walled convent in perfect condition, entirely populated by kind, warm-hearted nun who gladly conversed with us and welcomed us into their home. We would find out later that staying at this monastery is really only possible due to a woman (Monika) who personally knows many of the nuns and happens to run tourism services out of her High Class Hostel in Suceava. While the church at the monastery was absent any external paint, we got our fill from Monika's driving tour of the painted monasteries, including those at Humor, Voroneţ, Moldoviţa, and Suceviţa. Each of these featured some special characteristic, all of which Monika was more than qualified to explain. The only monastery in the area that we passed up, but which fully deserves a future visit, is that at which Ştefan cel Mare's mother was a nun (featured in a common bit of history for the area), and where that same great leader is buried -- Putna monastery.

We spent a fulfilling two days in Suceava, which is more than we will stay in any other stop on the trip, from there on. Even still, two days was far too few to explore all that we wanted before making our way to our next destination -- Braşov. And while we were anxious to see the so-called home of Vlad "Ţepeş" Drăculea (better known to those in the west as Dracula, or Vlad III the Impaler), we were also sad to have to leave the beautiful scenery and friendly people of Suceava.

Then again, having not seen any real mountains for over a year, I was more than ready to board that train and make our way into the Carpathians. We left Braşov, today, so check back later for the synopsis in a day or two.