It was a dark and stormy evening as we approached Brasov. Our cramped car twisted around shadowy bends, wedged on each side by thickets of trees. Heavy droplets of rain, moments away from transforming to snow, plopped on our windshield. I was hypnotized by the wipers’ whine as we all stared out of the car, scrutinizing the road and watching fast moving clouds scurry across the moon, just shy of being full. Each of us hoped to spot the next human or stray dog that was prone to jump into the middle of the streets or, more likely, another horse-drawn carriage that tromped down the side of the road, bearing no lights to notify us of their presence.
That drive was the stuff of haunted tales, or at the very least, the beginning of a predictable horror movie where dusk spells doom. But it was the perfect setting for autumnal visitors to Transylvania, home to Dracula legends, to let our imaginations run wild until we reached the safe haven of our next accommodation.
I just returned from a weekend-road trip to Transylvania. Eight of us, mostly comprised of Mike, his coworkers and their significant others, one mascot – an oversized zucchini named Zoli, and later a cello that Bijal bought, squeezed into two diminutive European cars. Before this trip, I had no clue how large the Romanian region Transylvania was – we spent the majority of the three days in the car, but I was happy to drive because we got to see so much gorgeous scenery. It is full of rolling hills (complete with sheep and shepards), mountains with thick forests with fall leaves and even snow in higher elevations.
Just one year ago, I was in Dallas with Mike at a Vincent VanGogh exhibit called “Sheaves of Wheat,” a collection of his paintings of wheat fields in Europe. I never imagined that one year later, I would be in Romania, seeing these scenes that Vincent captured so skillfully in person.
Transylvania used to be part of Hungary, or “Greater Hungary” as it is referred. Before I left for the trip, when I told my students that I was going to the region all the Hungarians reminded me of its former owner – now after visiting it and seeing how beautiful it is, I understand their attachment to the region. Lucky for us, the people there still speak Hungarian, so since we had four native speakers in tow, it made communication easy.
The first night, we stayed at an adorable B&B, the “Tulipan” in a tiny town close to the border. For only 17 euro, we were served a delicious, traditional 3-course dinner, had wonderful accommodations in folksy-decorated rooms and had breakfast. Amazing deal. The next morning, we even woke up to a rooster crowing – not an experience I get in Budapest. The next night, we stayed in a town where Mike’s colleague, Doru is from called Tg-Mures. Doru’s mother cooked us dinner. She was really sweet and hospitable. It was a much-more developed cities than the others we stayed in, so we walked around the downtown and went to a restaurant there. The final night, we stayed in Brasov at a great house. There were 6 or 7 rooms, and only two other people staying there besides us. So, we took the place over. Having such nice, inexpensive accommodations makes it a great place to visit and makes tackling the roads worth it.
As we drove from town to town, we passed many provincial towns. We’d be driving quickly down a road and abruptly hit our breaks as we barreled into a town that had set up its market in the middle of the road. Here, locals could buy a few choices of clothing (which explained why there seemed to be a uniformity to the villagers dressing (women still wear traditional sweaters, long, brightly patterned skirts, and scarves over their hair, secured under their chins with a tight knot). People walked and led horses through the center of streets, impervious to the dangers of oncoming cars. I am very thankful I did not have to drive on this trip. Instead, I enjoyed watching everything unfold.
Driving through the little villages was a really important realization that people still live without many modern conveniences. Usually, I take it for granted that people can afford cars instead of horses or can afford to pave roads. But, driving through Romania was a good reminder of how easy I have it. I also loved driving through the mountains – they were snowy and beautiful. We even passed a few ski resorts, which left Mike drooling and wishing for his skis. At one point, we had a roadside picnic, and went for a small wintry hike – it was perfect.
Besides the car, we stopped at the Bear Cave – an impressive cave discovered in the 1970s. It is named this because the cave used to be home to a species of bears that is now extinct. Their bones are all over the cave, and one skeleton is dated over 25,000 years old. 
We also walked around Tg-Mures where I saw one of the most impressive churches yet in Europe. It was an Orthodox church with an amazing wall of Icons.
And of course, our last stop on our trip was Bran – where “Dracula’s Castle” resides. The story of Dracula was written by an Irishman who actually never visited Romania, but he based his book off this castle. So, even though there is no real castle, Transylvanians are not the least bit hesitant about exploiting the tale for commercial gain. I eavesdropped on an English tour in the castle, and the self-deprecating tour guide kept making fun of this fact. Even if there wasn’t a real vampire there, if I was a vampire, I’d probably hang out there. The castle is situated on a hill, which overlooks the whole town. The morning we were there, it was raining and misty, which made it seem authentic.
One of my favorite stops was in the castle district of Sighisoara. We arrived right before dusk, and it was by far the spookiest stop. We parked on a windy cobblestone road and set out for the castle. On the way, we stopped in a Palinka cellar to sample and buy some of the potent booze of the region. To get up to the castle, which was basically a fortress, you had to walk up steps with a black, wooden tunnel built over them. Little slivers of light shone through the structure, making it a murky climb to the top. By the time we got there the church was closed – so much for a safe haven. But, there was a spooky graveyard we visited. Both Mike and Bijal took pictures of some of the headstones. One of them said 194-1918. My response, along with other non-Hungarian speaker with us, was how cemetery pictures creep me out, especially for 4 year old grave. That’s when we were informed that it was a WWI memorial – then it was pretty funny that many of us were thinking the wrong thing.
On our late drive back to Hungary, the four of us in Ballazs’ car were stopped by border control twice, which was nerve-racking, considering Mike and I’s status and the new cello Bijal bought, for which she didn’t pay VAT. But, luckily, we got in. The border guards did ask Ballasz where he was “taking the women.” We laughed it off, but I guess it’s not that funny of question, because there is a lot of sex-trafficking in Eastern Europe.
You can see a lot more of our pictures via the link in my previous posting.
