Looking back, I was smitten from the beginning. Intoxicated, even by the gray sky and the cool morning mist on my skin as we walked through the arching door of the train station.
A drizzly winter morning in Transylvania is not a sight you'll find on any tourism leaflets or postcards - but it is what you would see if you could glimpse into my minds eye's view of beautiful. It was the perfect, stark and chilly gray morning that changed my life.
We drove through winding cobblestones streets at full speed, herking and jerking (and gasping and clutching our backpacks to our chests) in the back of a cramped diesel van circa 1970. When we finally lurched to a stop we were divided up into twosomes and threesomes - and me. I was put in a host home, alone.
It suited me just fine. I sat for hours in the kitchen of that tiny apartment, my elbows propped on a shiny white tablecloth, peering through thin red curtains to the narrow street below. Donkey's and carts plodded past. A notebook of Romanian slang and scribbles of poetry sat in front of me and a mug of Nescafe warmed my soft palms. I stirred heaps of sugar and dark cacao into the cup - it had become my makeshift mocha in a city of powder-packet cappuccinos.
I wandered the medieval city on my own. I got to know her. Early in the morning farmers unpacked their sacks of herbs and vegetables on the concrete slabs in the market – the scent of dirt and onions in the air. In the afternoon, her skies are filled with the chatter and laughter of children wandering the square - or tugging my arms and shirt, asking with dirtsmudged smiles for bread or salami. After dark, my footsteps were the only sound echoing against her medieval walls and clapping into the black night.
I found that she is beautiful at any time of day, in any light and through the veil of any storm. (Even when the storm knocks out the power and I'm bathed in candlelight doing laundry by hand.)
A drizzly winter morning in Transylvania is not a sight you'll find on any tourism leaflets or postcards - but it is what you would see if you could glimpse into my minds eye's view of beautiful. It was the perfect, stark and chilly gray morning that changed my life.
We drove through winding cobblestones streets at full speed, herking and jerking (and gasping and clutching our backpacks to our chests) in the back of a cramped diesel van circa 1970. When we finally lurched to a stop we were divided up into twosomes and threesomes - and me. I was put in a host home, alone.
It suited me just fine. I sat for hours in the kitchen of that tiny apartment, my elbows propped on a shiny white tablecloth, peering through thin red curtains to the narrow street below. Donkey's and carts plodded past. A notebook of Romanian slang and scribbles of poetry sat in front of me and a mug of Nescafe warmed my soft palms. I stirred heaps of sugar and dark cacao into the cup - it had become my makeshift mocha in a city of powder-packet cappuccinos.
I wandered the medieval city on my own. I got to know her. Early in the morning farmers unpacked their sacks of herbs and vegetables on the concrete slabs in the market – the scent of dirt and onions in the air. In the afternoon, her skies are filled with the chatter and laughter of children wandering the square - or tugging my arms and shirt, asking with dirtsmudged smiles for bread or salami. After dark, my footsteps were the only sound echoing against her medieval walls and clapping into the black night.
I found that she is beautiful at any time of day, in any light and through the veil of any storm. (Even when the storm knocks out the power and I'm bathed in candlelight doing laundry by hand.)
Labels: Reflections, Romania
3 Comments:
I think if I was more awake I could formulate a more artistic response to your post today. Instead, I think I'll just raise my glass and say. Good Job!
:)
Actually, i'm still not awake. But I updated this morning. I'm hearing from my doctor that I might be awake sometime in the next week.
I'll keep ya posted.
nice pic.
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