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.

Vacation from Moldova

Bucareşti, the biggest city and capital of Romania, has been a blast. I have found the architecture and parks to be altogether satisfying, and the people to be hospitable and (of course) beautiful. With blue skies and mild temperatures, my friend and I have explored the city on foot, with little incident and much success. Having only a day and a half is about perfect, although we have found it to be a bit too short a trip for visiting museums and such. Still, it has been more than sufficient to wander the winding city streets, taste some local food, and tour the second largest building in the world -- which may be smaller than the Pentagon, but certainly blows it out of the water in terms of aesthetics.

Bucareşti (known to the English-speaking world as Bucharest) shares several cultural undertones with my current country of residence, Moldova, but stands on a whole different level of development and culture. Indeed, while the Romanian language may be pretty much the same, people in Bucareşti speak with different accent and pronunciation, in such a way that I feel almost as though I were in France or Italy -- even though I've never been to either of those countries. People here seem to have difficulty understanding me, and I am becoming increasingly more aware of the subtle and not-so-subtle discrepancies between the Romanian of Bucareşti and that of Moldova.

Having a vacation from Moldova and my Peace Corps service has come not a moment too soon, and I can't wait for the next stop on the trip. So, where to next? Wait and see...

The Final Stretch

School in Moldova officially ends on the final weekday of May. This means that students unofficially checked out around the beginning of May. More so, in my case, as certain students harbor almost no respect for me, the foreign teacher, which leads to completely unproductive classes. As a result, I have little choice but to check out, as well.

In the States, summer vacation persists as an archaic tradition wrought by the agrarian demand for child labor during the peak growing and harvesting season. Many would argue that because that demand no longer exists* in any real form, the three-month break from school serves only educationally detrimental purposes. Summer vacation sees unbelievable mental attrition in students. The first one to three months of any school year are consumed by "reviewing" or relearning what the students failed to retain during three months of TV, video games, and internet, to say nothing of their other, more nefarious pursuits.

However, this first year of teaching in Moldova have made clear to me the true purpose of summer vacation: teachers would go completely insane if continually and unceasingly exposed to the stresses of the classroom -- namely, the students. Teaching is a tough job, and like most tough jobs it is vastly under-rewarded. Low salaries and long work hours are common for teachers around the world. And while the "joys of teaching" are myriad, so are the stressors.

For the past several weeks, school has gradually been losing touch with that primary quality: education. The first real indicator is the kids, who grow louder and more restless as the days tick on. The teachers have to spend more and more energy just keeping the kids in their seats. After about a week of this, the teachers begin to show signs of resignation: yelling turns into disenthused pleading; lessons plans are replaced with "activities" (read: games); classes occasionally change venues, to greener pastures. In the end, we teachers are so shaken from our groove, our rhythm, that we are finally in a position to realize how tired teaching makes us. The days get warmer, and fruit starts appearing on the trees outside, and suddenly we begin to think of days without classes. Ah... Summer is almost here.

Indeed, by the time summer arrives, I can't say for sure who wants it more: the students, or the teachers?

*In Moldova, this demand most certainly does exist, at present. Thus, summer vacation has real and apparent purpose, and most of the next paragraph or two don't actually apply to it.