Ed and Millie take a Vacation

When one is settled into a day-to-day existence that involves the pressures of teaching school, being domestic in a new apartment, going to the gym to “work out” (thanks to Millie’s enthusiasm for such torture) and swim there (nice touch), and various and sundry activities that arise when you try to fit into a new lifestyle, then one begins to feel the need for a vacation from all of the above, especially if unexplored places beckon with potential adventures and revelations. And here, there’s a whole country waiting for us to flounder about in, and seeing what can be discovered.

Friday afternoon found us braving rush hour traffic north of Bucharest. A road work site had snarled exit-bound vehicles so badly, that it took about 45 minutes to travel 10 km to a north-bound artery. But patience is a virtue, and we were virtuous, perhaps more so than the many queue-jumpers who were in more of a hurry than we as they passed us in the face of impending death in the oncoming lane or schtuckered along over what might be called a shoulder, before squeezing back in to their lane of jammed cars and exhaust-belching ancient behemoth trucks. Romanian patience was tested occasionally and we did hear the odd blast of a waddayathinky’rdoing car horn. But I did read in a visitor’s guide this weekend that queue jumping is a part of the Romanian psyche. Good to know. When we finally got to see what was slowing us all down so massively, it was not a typical Canadian 2:1 highway repair site but rather, about a 6:1 situation. (The ratio stands for the number of men leaning on shovels to the number actually working.) An hour and a half we arrived in Sinaia (“sin-eye-a”), a ski town at the southern edge of the Carpathian Mountains. I had booked a room online in what turned out to be a lovely late 19th Century hotel, still trying with some success to hold onto its former glory. Brief confusion at the reception desk was soon resolved. The booking showed up reading September 8, 2002! But the typically very nice fellow at the desk didn’t make any cruel jokes about us being "late" and found us a room.

Sinaia boasts the location of the Peles Castle (that’s “Pellesh” to you), a structure built in the late 19th Century, to the discriminating tastes of King Carol. Locals insist that it’s the finest castle in all of Europe, and now that we’ve visited it, we might agree. It was the summer residence of this seemingly well-loved monarch of Romania. This must have been a prosperous period for Romanians in general, because all buildings from this period, from simple peasant hovels to fine city edifices to the said Peles Castle, show attention to spectacular and fascinating architectural detail. Did this ability to invest countless human hours into craftsmanship for art’s sake and not for practical reasons bespeak of a prosperity that allowed the citizenry to value an aesthetic like this? Hmm. The castle’s interior walls and ceilings, along with furnishing details, took European wood-working skills to a new high, as far as this tourist can vouch for. And all SO tasteful. We are talking about marquetry, end-grain inlays, spectacular veneer effects, exotic woods, wow. We were handed notes to read and the “do-not-touch” guards were extremely helpful and ready to chat as they overheard our musings and questionings. On our trek down and back to the hotel, we encountered the stalls of countless hawkers and hucksters vending their various wares. Assured by the young lady vendor that these genuine Romanian dinnerware plates were the real McCoy and not kitch, we bought 6 of them! How can you resist a guarantee like that? No, we really do like them. They are of the loudest flowery and birdy patterns imaginable, but again, tasteful, I promise. As well, it was time to think about brightening up the apartment with floor accoutrements, so an equally loud carpet hand-made in traditional Transylvania patterns was soon in hand, with anticipation beating in the heart as to where it would look best in the Bucharest apartment.

Later in the afternoon, we took a cable gondola ride to the top of the mountain, way past the tree line. We had been warned how cold it would be, so we dressed for it. We crawled about on the bald peak, watched a shepherd moving his sheep, and walked far too far down to make it easy to get back up to the cable car again. The evening ended eventfully in a restaurant proclaiming “Best food in the Balkans”, where we were joined by two teachers from our school who had also chosen this town as a vacation spot. Romanians really do know how to roast a pig!!

Sunday noon we rented a couple of bikes. In this country, the entrepreneurial spirit has not yet progressed to the point where one would keep all one’s rental equipment in top nick for your discerning customers from “yant sied”! But then, a quick return to the vendor who handles the bikes garnered a steed much more mechanically sound, and off we went, into the crazy downtown tourist traffic. This was much too insane for our skills level, so we turned to the upper high streets that climbed about on the mountain side, Millie insisting all the while that she would NEVER master the physics concepts of mechanical advantage, and WHICH of her 18 gears should she be in ANYway, and it’s faster to walk ANYway, and whose idea was this ANYway, but we soon found some shopping that could relieve her frustrations, after which we got back onto the bikes in high spirits. Then we blundered into the railway station, and found a most unRomanian sight: A spectacularly clean station, and a gleaming passenger train at rest. The cars were all Pullman-style cars, of 1920s design, letterings of gold, whitewall wheels and suspensions, table lamps in the windows, porters in uniform bustling about. We soon learned that we were in the presence of the famous Orient Express. No kidding! It had been in station about half an hour, and all the idle rich had been whisked off to Peles Caste for lunch. They would be back for afternoon tea in several hours, with dinner to follow a later time. But in the meantime, a very friendly Scot, who loved his job as a porter, agreed to give us a tour. As Peles is to castles, this train was to its kind. It had been a labour of love for its owner. Cars had been found rotting in fields and junk yards, and he had spent millions to return this train to its former and legendary splendour. Opulence! Satins and silks and finest woods and carpets. Awesome.

We returned the bikes and headed back in good time to avoid the home-coming traffic of weekenders from their mountain getaways. A confusing sign pointed us off the highway. But all roads lead to Bucharest, and our pleasant detour went through village after village where the economy was subsistence farming. The few places that boasted tractors displayed them prominently in place of honour just outside the door of the house. Most families, clearly, were still fixed to the old ways of farming—one or two horses, a cow or two, a strip of land. A contraption, with an engine like the ones that Uncle John Sawatsky was fond of restoring, loudly chugged along one of village roads. At first I thought it was a “homemade” car but on closer inspection saw it to be a mobile sawmill. All the farm folk, especially old bubbas in their black dresses and socks, were taking their Sunday afternoon leisure, sitting on benches just outside the fences and walls around their houses, watching their friends, and perhaps the odd yellow VW, go by. It was a delightful side trip and a charming weekend. - Ed