We fled Bucharest and Bush and the NATO Summit and its attendant anti-terrorism/biological warfare units. A ten-hour overnight train ride with our very own romantic “couchette”—2 narrow beds, bunked, nary a space to sit down except on the bottom bunk. But we felt like a family of throwback travelers—after all, the Orient Express’s final destination used to be Bucharest. We delighted in the fact that our little, narrow couchette had a call button that pictured an attendant carrying a tray of drinks. We never bothered to buzz this illusionary help, mind you, which we assumed to be pure fantasy.
Instead, we packed our own hastily, haphazardly thrown together snacks—candy and chocolate, bread and cheese (the remainders of our pepperoncini-inflected scamorza from Italy), potato-cheese pastries, vino, etc., etc. It carried us all the way to Baia Mare, the gateway to “Wooden Maramures.”
The train pulled in at 5:30 am—we all staggered to our rental car and proceeded to drive outside Baia Mare to Motel Lostrita—a trout farm many miles beyond anything. What is Lostrita? A cross between a large, pastel-painted motel (bad carpeting, cheap envelopes of shampoo) and agritourism—definitely NOT Italian style. There is, sadly, a youngish mule buck kept in a pen on the edge of the grounds which Sophia and Alexander are, of course, obsessed with. His nubbin antlers are covered over in velvet. He is not afraid of our kids though he is afraid of the very husky peasant-chef woman who stomps back and forth between the trout pools and the restaurant kitchen. We were told, on Lostrita’s website, that we would have the “pleasure” of watching the “many trout dance and splash playfully while we ate.” This has not yet happened. The trout seem content to hide beneath the bridges in the dark, murky waters. There is also a bizarre “duck pond” area filled with decoys—Sophia is not yet convinced that they are fakes and demands we watch them to hear when the quack. We've spent two full days driving through several mountain ranges, several climates (including snow), and through hundreds of entirely fascinating, entirely unsettling peasant gatherings (where they decorate trees with pots and pans, among other wild customs).
We’ll send a full report upon our return. Believe us, there is a lot to tell!
Instead, we packed our own hastily, haphazardly thrown together snacks—candy and chocolate, bread and cheese (the remainders of our pepperoncini-inflected scamorza from Italy), potato-cheese pastries, vino, etc., etc. It carried us all the way to Baia Mare, the gateway to “Wooden Maramures.”
The train pulled in at 5:30 am—we all staggered to our rental car and proceeded to drive outside Baia Mare to Motel Lostrita—a trout farm many miles beyond anything. What is Lostrita? A cross between a large, pastel-painted motel (bad carpeting, cheap envelopes of shampoo) and agritourism—definitely NOT Italian style. There is, sadly, a youngish mule buck kept in a pen on the edge of the grounds which Sophia and Alexander are, of course, obsessed with. His nubbin antlers are covered over in velvet. He is not afraid of our kids though he is afraid of the very husky peasant-chef woman who stomps back and forth between the trout pools and the restaurant kitchen. We were told, on Lostrita’s website, that we would have the “pleasure” of watching the “many trout dance and splash playfully while we ate.” This has not yet happened. The trout seem content to hide beneath the bridges in the dark, murky waters. There is also a bizarre “duck pond” area filled with decoys—Sophia is not yet convinced that they are fakes and demands we watch them to hear when the quack. We've spent two full days driving through several mountain ranges, several climates (including snow), and through hundreds of entirely fascinating, entirely unsettling peasant gatherings (where they decorate trees with pots and pans, among other wild customs).
We’ll send a full report upon our return. Believe us, there is a lot to tell!
C & K
No comments:
Post a Comment