Saxon Land, or Germans in Romanian Mud

An excursion to Biertan, which was one of the more fascinating Saxon towns. Here we found what we found at all the Saxon Land villages we raided: another locked, gorgeous Lutheran church we couldn’t get inside to see, more mud pits, a dilapidated, abandoned winery, and another restaurant closed because of a private party,

Apparently, Biertan is home to a odd reunion every September: the German-Saxon diaspora gathers here for drunken revelry and cursing at what the Communists did to this country.

These Saxon towns are spectacular in their way: the road through each town is lined on both sides with what appear to be barns, each one connected to the next, all of them painted another bright pastel color. The inhabitants, unlike their abodes, were all rather dreary figures—dressed in the colors of mud, mainly, and violently sullen.

After Biertan, we returned to Sighisoara.

Defeated by meatballs and tuna mash, we picnicked on salami, bread, cheese, and chocolate and watched a very obscure version of MacBeth filmed in the late 70s (the heavy metal mullet on MacBeth gave that away). The intimidating visage of "Grossmutter" watched over us while we supped.

C & K

Sighisoara & Kid-un-friendly dining

We finally arrived in Sighisoara, and to “Grandma’s House”—our 15th century Medieval cluster of rooms in the upper citadel. A strange mural greeted us on the living room wall: a grandmother who, upon first glimpse seemed to be clutching two small pineapples, but was, on second glance, grasping a book. On the opposite wall, the inscription: “Grossmutter’s Hause.” (Speaking of odd phrases, we kept seeing signs that read: “Drum Bun!” alone the highway. No idea yet what that might mean but we patted our fannies accordingly.) In the large bedroom hung a very lascivious portrait of a tiny, waisted, wide-hipped blonde who on first glance seemed to be clutching pineapples, but on second glance….
Sighiosoara is birthplace to Vlad Tepes (the Count). So we had to (at 50% off for residents of Grandma’s House) eat at Vlad’s home, which was decorated in medieval bloodsucking kitsch. Thankfully, there were enough dragons to keep the kids entertained (dragons even on the plates), while we all stumbled our way through a dreadful meal.

We keep expecting some version of Greek peasant food here—but what I keep reading on the menu (and what indeed shows up), are things like: “mush” (polenta mash), meatball-like sausages that resemble, well, lopped off appendages (though the kids shovel these balls into their mouths with abandon), chicken soup (real broth but Liptonesque noodles), and at Restaurant Vlad-Dracula, a tuna salad that was a lump of tuna mash surrounded by canned corn, chopped pickled cucumbers and peppers, and undressed cabbage slaw.
The effects? Both Christopher and I have sludge in the guts (though this may be the result of very sweet red wine we’ve been drinking to keep our sense of humor as our children shred napkins and bread, leaving a wide trail through all these restaurants).

We are discovering Romania is not built for children—most restaurants are ill-equipped and keep insisting on giving the Bakken bambina tall wine glasses and fancy china. While our kids have stepped up as best as they know how, stemware is just too tempting.

Bran Castle

We left Brasov for Sighisoara, intent on improving our understanding of what a medieval Saxon city might look like. On the way, we stopped off at Bran castle, the ex-home of a Romanian king and queen, and now sold as a Draculaian outpost. The various hawkers were selling mugs and tee-shirts and masks all with the hyperbolic visage of Vlad Tepes, the original Count Dracula.

In truth, the castle was beautiful—massive beams and white washed walls and Spartan/Medieval L.L. Bean in decoration. More Greek island home than Transylvanian Alp fortification, in other words. Sophia spied every dragon motif (Dracula was a Son of the Order of the Dragon) and at the castle gates she convinced us to buy her a vaguely Peruvian bird flute (which we gladly bought over the weird sheep-skinned/bladder bagpipes the woman was trying to sell her). For the Bakken seniors? A hunk of smoked sheep’s milk cheese and a giant nut-crusted kutosh.

Kerry

Train to Brasov

Weekend in Transylvania

In part because our recent weather in Bucharest had been spectacular (brilliantly sunny days with the temperatures pushing seventy Farenheit), and in part because I’d not actually stepped foot outside of Bucharest, we decided to take a kind of little spring break in Transylvania with the kids. Our plans involved a lovely journey by train through Wallachia, into the Transylvanian Alps, then several days wandering colorful Saxon towns, raiding castles (in search of dragon paraphernalia, on behalf of our dragon-crazed kids), and weaving our rental car down rustic detours whenever we felt the whim.

The reality has been profoundly and hilariously different. First of all, just about the moment we boarded the first class train to Brasov, winter returned and we had the pleasure of speeding through an absolutely grey and snowy rural Romanian landscape, which looked suspiciously like Meadville, Pennsylvania in early March (e.g. dark and probably about to snow). The outskirts of Bucharest are as filthy and depressing as anything we've ever seen.

By the time we entered the Alps, all the windows in our cabin were entirely steamed over and we huddled in our seats wondering when they would turn on the heat. The kids watched an episode or two of Clifford the Big Red Dog on their tiny DVD player, much to the amusement of every passenger who passed their way on the way to the bathrooms.

Along the way, the rugged landscape would break and we’d clatter past a tiny cluster of lean-to shacks propped in mud. There would be parked the iconic massive wooden wagons tethered to depressed looking draft horses, the occasional bundled figure hanging laundry, and endless fields of garbage. It was almost a relief to see a tidy looking nuclear power plant loom up over the horizon, and much more of a relief to enter the narrow mountain passes of the Alps proper, where we knew huge numbers of black bears and wolves still lived.

If we wiped the window with our sleeves, we'd get a momentary glimpse of the density and beauty of these forests, which spur the imagination in the direction of the Medieval almost immediately--I wouldn't have been much surpsised to see a line of figures on horseback, in full armor and animal furs, plodding toward one of the hundreds of castles in the area. Then the window would fog back over and we'd be listening to Clifford on the DVD player again.

Brasov is surely a lovely town, unless you end up walking the wrong way "toward the historic center" and end up in the industrial nastiness, with one crabby kid in a stroller and another begging to be held. Unless, that is, you then take a cab into the heart of said "historic district" and tumble, starving, into the first restaurant you see.... a four star joint where we are the only customers, ordering at random nearly every dish on the menu to placate our little beasts.

Once fed, the kids settled into their swanky surroundings nicely: to the horror of our two rather stuffy waitresses, over dessert we made farm animal noises and Sophia (wired on a rare glass of Pepsi) made up long narrative songs about her stuffed animals back in Pennsylvania. The kids passed out about the moment the lights went out back at Hotel Ambient and I'm not sure we remained conscious much longer.

Christopher

Root Vegetable Centerfold

Fans of celeriac and parsnips, this is paradise!

Morning Meatballs and Bistros

I am quickly learning that while this is a city designed for women in stiletto boots (the female Bucharestians are dressed up, up, up even at 8am when Sophia and I take our walk to school), this is not a city designed for the stroller set. All escalators down and up from the Metro are out of order (and look to have been that way for several decades), and most Bucharestians seem unwilling to make way for our umbrella stroller and Alexander’s flailing feet. On our way to Obor market today, we had to carry Alexander, in his stroller, down, then up, several long flights of stairs, and then hoisted him, god-like, over the turnstile. As a result, Alexander now flaps his arms the moment he is held aloft, pretending to be an airplane.

Sophia dutifully trudges along for our walks. Of course, the deal is sweetened by these little stalls that are on most street corners and sell odd trinkets (puffy hearts, chicks in a nest, plastic music boxes). She calls them “the little desk-stores that don’t have any walls.” She has corned us into giving her 1 lei a day to spend at the stalls (the equivalent of 50 cents) and now has a wide assortment of miniature junk. Today was a 3 lei day, so she came home with a fish keychain and a small cutout dog. We’re hoping most of this evaporates before we have to pack for home in a few months.

It is always a delight, however, traveling alongside Sophia as she narrates her way through the maze of streets and stalls. At the “Nursery” stand at Obor market, where they were selling saplings, Sophia pointed to the apple and pear trees wrapped in burlap and said, in her now street-savvy outrage, “What! Are those people crazy? Why would they try to sell people sticks?” The trees did in fact look like someone’s burn pile. And she is too smart to swap her leis on bundles of twigs.

The Bakkenaki do seem adept in conniving their way into free cookies. At Obor, Sophia flashed her smile at one of the vegetable vendors who remarked on our kids’ charm (though helped by Christopher who snapped the vendor’s photo beside her carrots and then called her Angelina Jolie). Outside our apartment, the kids got a bag of cookies from the Sex Shop bouncer who explained he didn’t need them because beer was his breakfast. (For reference: Christopher and I refer to our apartment as “next to the Sex Shop.” Sophia was delighted find that on the other side of our entrance is the London Snooker and Billiard hall which has a dragon as a logo. Sophia says we live “under the dragon.” Better than her saying, “next to the Sex Shop,” we’ve agreed.)

I am amazed by both the number of places and the times that one can buy sausages and beer. Even the littlest Bakkens were devouring sausage-balls at 10:30 this morning at Obor. I passed on the grilled meats and ate one of those kurtos pastries Christopher has praised. (And this city certainly knows how to do its pastries! All over are tiny windows out of which friendly women sell pastries and cookies. I recently had a walnut and apple strudel; Christopher had one filled with chicken liver). And on the subject of food, already I’ve had a wonderful meal at a French Bistro and had my first sample of Romania sarmale (minced meat wrapped with fermented cabbage--one of our Romanian pals mistakenly called it "rotten cabbage"--on an island of polenta).

Finally, while I seem to have come down with a nasty sinus cold, I am thoroughly enjoying what appears to be Spring in Bucharest. Every day since my arrival, there has been sun and temperatures in the upper 50’s.

Pa,
Kerry

In Praise of Kǖrtӧs Kalácsa

In Praise of
Kǖrtӧs Kalácsa

To understand any culture's cuisine, as far as I am concerned, ignore the fancy restaurants boasting "regional specialties" and head straight for the seediest looking street food you can find. It's worth the potential risk to one's g.i. system, this eating "what the people eat." When in Bucharest, etc....

Thus, wandering through the Obor market for the first time last Saturday, just one espresso into the morning (and therefore susceptible to impulse eating), I stumbled upon a bizarre looking pastry: something like a honey-colored construction cone, cut into spiraling ribbons, and rolled in a kind of crunchy sugar crumble.

And, yes, I tried one. And I nearly had to sit down right there in the street (where gypsy women were hawking kitchen towels and men were trying to sell cell phones, and others were just walking by without knowing that they were marching past a holy Romanian donut stand…) and cry. Since I didn't have the guts for that, I just stood there in reverential silence and smiled stupidly, covered in sugar.

Obviously, I had to investigate how such a sacred snack is concocted. First a loose pastry dough is wrapped around a kind of spindle on the end of a long wooden pole, which is then spun over hot coals until it toasts a dark brown color. Then the screaming hot dough is showered in the crunchy bits, which adhere immediately. From there they are moved to cooling racks until they are bagged for the pleasure of public consumption.

Today, I marched the remainder of the Bacchae toward the kǖrtӧs at Obor and from that moment on we attempted to concentrate on buying produce, when really we were completely lost in Romanian donut reveries for which there is only one known cure: more kǖrtӧs.

Smittenly,

Christopher